TheBreeder

Why not in me??

I have to say I quite liked it, Hotload!

I appreciate it, breedme420!

Glad you approve.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Behind my bed, eight to ten inches higher than the mattress, is a shelf. It’s the center section of the large, ancient built-in bookshelves that line one end of the bedroom, left over from the days when the two-flat house used to be a one-family home, and this room acted as someone’s study. We keep a couple of clock radios on that shelf. A lamp with a metal base. My eyeglasses, for when I’m not wearing contact lenses. The TV’s remote control. And a bottle of lotion I have handy for late-night itchy skin. Right now, in the sleepy false twilight of the drawn shades, I’m kneeling at the head of the bed, facing that shelf with my palms flat against its surface. I’m shaking. Every muscle in my body is vibrating so strongly that the clocks are shuddering across the paint. The lamp dances up and down, teetering forward then rocking back again. The remote bounces off the edge, hits the pillow next to my right knee, and clatters down behind the platform. The lotion tips over. The shelf rattles so loudly with the thrum of my body that it sounds like an old airplane being battered midair by high turbulence. The crown of my head bangs against the plaster wall. It’s hard as fuck, and every time I strike, I’m seeing stars. I don’t care. I just want this man’s monster cock deeper inside me. I feel his beard tickling my shoulders as from behind me he whispers, “Arch your spine.” I obey, pressing down with my abdomen so that my buttocks open wider. My face is mashed against the semi-gloss paint, now. I don’t even notice his thrusts. My own body is shaking like a mountain set to erupt at any moment. “Fuck me,” I pant out. I feel his hands stroking my sides. His palms pass over my ribcage, down to my hips, across the ass splayed open over his thick meat. “I’m not just fucking you,” he reminds me, in the softest voice possible. “I’m inside you. Filling you with myself.” I started talking to this guy months ago online. We’d made a date to meet back in the autumn, but I’d had to cancel because I was just starting to come down with the illness that laid me low for much of October and November. By the time I was feeling better, he’d been stricken with flu. But he thought I was attractive, and told me so in mysterious prose. The photos I saw of him were of a scruffy geek fifteen years my junior, a neo-hippie with a big dick. Oh my god, that dick. It was one of those dicks that makes mine look toy-sized. It easily had to be a good nine and a half inches of hooded uncut meat. It was so thick and fat that even when soft, my hole could identify it as a deadly weapon. In the photos in which it was hard, I’d stare at that fat and meaty thing was a little bit like I was watching some IMAX footage of deep-sea marine life. You might know it exists, but you’ve sure as hell never seen anything like it up close. Sometimes—rarely—you see a guy and you know—just know—that it’s going to be good. I knew it with this one. There was something about his quiet confidence, the glint of humor in his eye, those laid-back good looks and the lean and muscular body, that told me we were going to hit it off. Even with three months of delays from the first canceled appointment I’d made with him, I knew it wasn’t so much a question of if we were going to reschedule, but when. Finally the opportunity arose last week, and we both penned it in our calendars. After that, it was simply a question of waiting for the day. And then, though I hesitate to admit it, there was the question of exactly what we were going to do with each other, when we finally got naked. Because to be totally honest, when we exchanged emails and texts, I never, ever completely understood anything the guy wrote. I’d ask a straightforward question, like, So, what kinds of things do you enjoy in bed? As a reply, I’d get something like, We are two such birds chirping from the same nest, spreading our wings to take first flights. I’m just curious about what two tops can do with each other, I’d say, pushing a little harder. And I’d get back something like, Tomorrow we will share the light of day and the sweetness of first dark as we swim in each other. It was all rather sweet, but a little bit like receiving obscene come-ons from a writer of coy haiku. Honestly, I just wanted to know whether or not I needed to douche. Are you a poet? I am no poet but my aim is to inspire. Tomorrow I will inspire you with my life force injection. Hot damn. Now we were talking. I thought. Maybe. I mean, when guys talk about injection they mean . . . right? I spent the afternoon with some warm water and the enema bulb. Just in case. When he shows up, he carries a dozen roses in his arm. They now lay on the dresser next to the bed where he’s been inside me for the last half hour. It’s been a year since I was fucked last. The Russian was big; this guy is bigger. And thicker. My god, that dick is a marvel. Up close, it’s one of the seven wonders; it’s enormous enough to have its own zip code. It deserves worship, and I give it to him. I suck it, I chew on the foreskin. I prise the rigid head from the tight covering and allow him to spear it so deeply in my throat that I can still feel the ache of it. I can still taste the pre-cum he dripped directly down my gullet. Then, staring into my eyes, he spits in his hand, lowers it between my legs, and spreads it all over my hole. We try a number of different positions. He places a pillow under my hips, turns me on my stomach, and inserts himself from behind. I place my legs over his shoulders while he fucks me on my back. “You are so tight,” he huffs, as he tries to slide inside. It’s painful. He’s big. Oh god, is he big. But it’s not that awful, wish-I-would-die pain that I associate with fucking. It’s more like an endurable ache, something I’m not exactly enjoying, but that I could put up with for the sake of his pleasure. Maybe, I’m thinking to myself, that’s the most I can ever expect from my hole. Then he puts me on my back again. He tips me up. My ankles are over my head, hanging over the shelf behind me. My knees are pressed tightly to my shoulders. He slides his sloppy cock into me. And something begins to stir. “Oh,” I breathe, in surprise. He looks at me with his blue eyes, and smiles. It’s not a cocky smile, the smile of the conqueror. It’s sweet and sincere, like a boy unwrapping the present he craved on Christmas morning. Even he can tell the difference this position is making. He’s sliding into me with barely any resistance until he’s got that entire fat hog inside. I feel like I’m compressed into a tight little ball beneath his weight, but damn. He’s starting to feel good. Then he puts me on my knees. I’ve got my arms bracing me on the shelf over the bed. My ass is out. I’m almost upright, but not quite. He’s sitting behind me on his haunches, his knees on the outsides of my ankles. Then he whispers, “Arch your spine,” and pulls me down onto his waiting dick. It’s like a switch has flipped. I squat straight down on his cock and take it to the base. There’s no pain. No urge to resist, to back off. He hits a spot deep inside me and I’m not even thinking about the years I went without this, or the old worries I’ve always had about bottoming. I’m not remembering the bad stuff. All I’m thinking about is how much deeper I can get that monster into me, and how fucking hard I want it. Then the all-over shaking begins. Everything on that shelf is rattling and jumping from that hard, inexorable convulsing of my entire body as I raise and lower myself onto him. I’m coming apart. My invisible seams must be showing; they’re bursting and stretching as I shake loose my stitching. My skin is on fire. Fuck, my hole is on fire. All I can think about is how amazing he feels inside me. I start to clutch onto him with my ass muscles. “You are going to make me come,” he warns, as he sits there. I’m torn. I want this sensation to last forever, but at the same time, I’m absurdly proud. He’s just sitting there, letting my hole pleasure him; I’m bringing him so close simply by impaling myself on that enormous penis. My pride in performance and my curiosity win out; I reach up and grab hold of the window sill, then greedily slam down on his cock, over and over again. He gasps, then closes his eyes. His jaw drops. His big hands grab my hips and yank them down onto him; he holds me there while his dick pulses and throbs. He’s so quiet that I only know he’s shooting when the stuff starts to drip down out of my hole and paint the skin that connects us. It’s not the only load we exchange, as the light of day fades into the sweetness of first dark. I eat him out and enter him slowly, and fuck him very softly while I cradle my his head in my arms. Then I go down and suck him off, where I’m rewarded with him grabbing my neck and shoving me down on his meat while he lets loose a spray of semen in my throat. But afterward, even now, that first fuck is all I can think about—the pleasure of it, the fullness I felt inside. Mostly though, I think about the shaking, and of how my body reacted to his expert penetration, as he overloaded every nerve ending by forcing me to love the way his dick felt in me as he fucked me. No, not fucked. Worked inside me, to fill me with himself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Damn, it’s cold out!” My entrance into the twenty-fifth-story apartment is as vigorous as the blustery wind outside. “Hey dad,” I say, giving the older man standing there in his underpants a quick hug. I shut the door and toss my backpack onto the dining room chair nearby. I use the tips of my toes to pry loose the heels, then kick my sneakers off so that they fly up in the air and land in a haphazard mess in the middle of the hallway. “Man, it’s good to see you. How’s mom?” The man stares at me as I make myself right at home. I’ve never been there before, but it’s easy enough to find the kitchen. “She’s good, son,” he says to my back. I’ve been bending over in the fridge, and emerge with a bottle of beer. I don’t like beer. I don’t intend to drink much of it. But I pop the top and take a chug, for show. “Awesome.” I’m taking another chug as I walk to the living room. I’ve got on a sweater, but it comes off before I put the beer down on the coffee table. I use a coaster. I’m not a savage. The man has followed me over, somewhat dazed at the way I’ve treated his apartment as my own. He’s a good looking man—probably quite a looker when he was younger. He’s in his sixties now, though. Still distinguished. Still has a head of gray hair that’s cut expensively and styled well. At the moment he’s wearing a tank top that reveals a thatch of chest hair, dark at the edges and silver in the middle, and a pair of designer jeans. I look him dead in the eyes. “Fuck,” I say in a low voice. “It sure is good to see you, dad.” Then I lean down, entwine my fingers in his hair, and pull his face to mine. My lips surround his in a deep, wet kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss most sons have for their dads. I pull away, and smile at him. He’s breathing heavily. Beneath that expensive denim, he’s rock hard. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted. I flop down on the sofa, legs wide apart. Then I take another swig from the beer—my last, because that’s about as much of the stuff as I can stand. I wriggle my toes. “So what’s my dad up to tonight?” He’s staring at me, entranced. The heel of his hand rubs against the front of his trousers. “I’m here for you, son,” he says, his voice husky. “I’m here for you,” I softly correct him. He falls to one knee, then the other, in front of me. His throat is still choked with emotion as he says, “Let me give you a foot rub, son.” I let my calf rest on the coffee table. “Oh man, that’d be great, dad. It’s been a long time since you gave me one of your foot rubs.” Slowly, reverently, he takes my foot into his hands. I feel the warmth of his flesh against its top and its sole. He leans forward, close enough that I can feel heat from his breath on my toes. Then he places them against his cheek, and holds them tight. I lean back, smile, and allow him the liberty. I’m a good boy to my dad. He’s a client. I’ve never seen this guy in the flesh before, never been in his apartment. He reached out to me online just the night before to say that if I was willing to indulge him in a very specific fantasy, he’d be more than willing to pay for a couple of hours of my time. He’s a married man, with a ‘secret apartment’ in one of the city’s more desirable neighborhoods. I don’t know how anyone manages to have a ‘secret apartment’ in this day and age, but hey. More power to him. It’s a nice apartment—not large, but gracious. Elaborate moldings. High ceilings. A modern, renovated kitchen. The furniture is clean and tasteful without being fussy. I look around and take in the books, the CDs, the collection of porn DVDs near the flatscreen. All the while, he continues to worship and rub my feet. He’s removed the socks. Sometimes he kisses them as well. “I shouldn’t have drunk that beer,” I say in a murmur. “Maybe I better lie down a little bit.” Without waiting for permission, I rise and make my way to the bedroom. The bed is neatly made. I flop down on it. “Let me make you more comfortable, son,” he says, as he unbuttons my shirt. Then his hands fumble with my pants. I allow him to undress me as if I’m his child, until he’s down to my shorts. I stick my hands inside, and rub my cock. “Wow,” he says, looking at me. “Wow, son.” “You’re so good to me, dad,” I tell him. I reach around to the back of his neck, and pull him down to me again. Our bodies press together as we kiss. He’s a good kisser. I could make out with him for as long as he wanted. He presses into the hardness between my legs. I make it swell, so he can feel it against his flesh. “Please let me suck your cock,” he begs, when he comes up for air. “Let me suck my boy’s cock.” I look at him with wide eyes, “Fuck, dad, really?” Then, more conspiratorially, “I don’t know what my girlfriend would say. Would it be just between us?” I pull down my shorts so he can see the goods. His eyes are even bigger than mine. “Fuck,” he whispers. “It’ll be just between you and me, right? Right, dad? No one else has to know?” I’m pushing every single one of his buttons. No. I’m mashing those buttons with the heels of both hands and my jack-booted foot, hard. He’s breathing so hard I’m actually almost worried about a heart attack. “Just between a dad and his boy,” he rasps. “Well . . . okay, I guess. . . .” As if there were any doubt. He’s completely lost in the fantasy as he lies between my legs and lets his mouth travel up and down on my meat. The sounds of enjoyment I make are completely genuine. He’s good at what he does. I’m enjoying the fuck out of this guy, and his excitement feeds mine. When I reach between his legs, his cock is dripping wet. I thought I pumped out the precut—I’m a dry spigot compared to Dad. He starts to moan when I rub his hole. “Have you ever been fucked, dad?” I ask, in the softest of whisper. “Yes, son,” he says, looking up at me from beneath my rigid erection. “Your dad loves to be fucked.” “Wow,” I say. “You mean, my own dad lets guys fuck his ass like pussy?” He moans and his eyes half-close. I’m stomping on those buttons again. “Can I try?” At my question, he looks at me helplessly. “Is that okay? Can I put it in you, dad?” “Please,” he begs. “Please, son. Please fuck me.” I’m already reaching for the bottle of lube by the bedside. It’s on plain display. I’m rubbing some into my meat and some onto his hole. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, dad. I bet it’s sweet. I bet it’s soft and warm and—fuck.” I’ve navigated behind him, and gently positioned him onto his knees. He’s groaning and moaning loudly and rubbing his forehead against the pillow. “Fuck, it’s just like pussy, dad. Just like pussy.” He does feel good. Easy to penetrate, slick and warm. I’m as hard as cement as I start to fuck his hole. “I need this so badly,” he confesses to me. “I needed my son inside me.” “I told you I was here for you tonight,” I sat to him, right into his ear. And I am there for him. For the next hour I fuck him in every position. From behind, where I plunge in and out the entire length of my cock. On his back, where I kiss him sweetly and grind in deep. On his side, so I can hold him tight and tell him how proud I am to have him as my dad. I even get him to slide head-first off the bed, so I can fuck his hole as he props his butt in the air against the mattress. He loves every fucking minute of it. Whenever he opens his eyes wide enough to meet mine, they’re flooded with adoration. This is for him. Completely for him, just between a dad and a son. “You’re making me so fucking hot, sir,” I tell him, as I get too close to turn back. “Tell me where to cum.” He wrestles with the decision for a moment. “Pull out and cum on my dick and nuts,” he says. I’m fucking him on his back again at that point. I pull out, shuffle back on my knees, stand at the bed’s foot, and yank him down. My hips are jutting forward as I use the lube and juice I’ve already been pumping out to slick up my cock. Obscenely I masturbate for him, making as much noise with my fist as possible. “You are so fucking hot, Dad,” I whisper. “Maybe sometime you’d let me cum inside you.” “Yes,” he says, playing with his own dick. “Please, son. Please cum inside me next time.” “Yeah?” I ask. “You want your son’s sperm in you? Fuck, that’d be hot. I want it, dad. Next time I’m breeding your hole. Breeding my dad’s hot hole.” I’m pushing myself over the edge now. Cum sprays out of my dick and paints his junk. After he feels the first jet, he’s rubbing it into his skin. I shoot more liquid over his cock. Immediately he uses it as lube, and jacks himself into a frenzy. I let the head of my throbbing, still-hard cock nudge against his hole. Rub it around. Let it dip in and out as he continues to jack. Then he’s climaxing. His body contracts and writhes as his short, fat cock unleashes an even bigger load than I’ve produced. It seems to go on for minutes. He gasps and chokes for air, then shudders once, twice, three times, four times, as the sensations wrack his body. I collapse on the bed beside him. “Thank you, sir,” I say, as he rests his cheek on my chest. It’s a couple of minutes later when his head is clear and he comes to. He looks at the clock. “You still have a few minutes left,” he says. “Please let me wash you off.” “I’d like that a lot,” I say, as I kiss his forehead. He warms up the shower for me, and joins me inside it. Once we’re both under the prickly jets he uses his hands to wipe the semen from my body. He soaps me all over, and rinses me off. I let him do what he wants, as I enjoy the sensations of skin and soap and slippery flesh. Then we’re back to the living room, where he helps me dress as tenderly as he undressed me. I’m putting on my own shoes when he grabs my wallet out of my pants. I don’t mind that he checks out my drivers’ license. He already knows my name and age. “Looking a little empty here,” he murmurs, which is accurate, since besides my license the only thing I’m carrying is a Visa and a MetroCard. “Let me make sure you have some spending money,” he says, as he slips several large bills inside. I don’t even count to see that it’s the amount we agreed upon for the two hours I’ve been there. I know he’s good for it. “Don’t take the subway back to the Terminal,” he says, slipping a twenty into my jeans pocket. “It’s late and rough out there. Dad wants you to take a cab.” “Yes sir,” I say. I let him zip up my jacket before I lean in for a final kiss. He puts his hand on top of mine, stopping me before I go. “I’m going to want you to come back again,” he says in a whisper. I nod, then take my leave. I’ll be back again all right, to that secret apartment high in the city, where everything that happens is just between my dad and myself. More...

Thanks for sharing your experience, Jack. I agree that there are a lot of men out there who indulge in sex and feel guilty about it for years and years. My point to the reader is that he'd enjoy his life more if he either found a way to reduce the guilt either by adjusting the way he plays, or rearranging his life so that he's in a position to play more freely. You did the latter when you came out; I've done it in my own way; other men lead lives where guilt isn't an issue as well. Guys will be guys, but we all have the capability of directing our lives so that we can live them in the ways we want. This reader would be better off doing the same instead of going through the same cycles of pleasure, guilt, and regret.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don’t know if it’s just me, or whether it’s a phenomenon a lot of tops experience . . . or whether it’s so general that anyone with the minimal thimbleful of good looks that I’ve managed to cobble together gets hit on in the same way. But I get a lot of offers for ‘free massages’ from guys on the internet. Free massages!, you’re saying to yourselves. Wow! That sounds great! What could be better? Well, my friends, if that’s your reaction, I’ve got a Nigerian associate—he’s just a prince fleeing from the cruel armed forces who have taken over his homeland—who would like to deposit $500,000 to your bank account. Eventually. After you send him a few checks to prove your seriousness. I’ve always assumed these ‘free massages’ come with strings attached. Specifically, I always envisioned that the guys who offered them are the trolliest of the old trolls, the kind of moss and slime-covered creatures who emerge from under bridges only in the dark of night to disembowel billy goats gruff and eat small children. I picture them as the unattractive men who lurk in the shadows of adult bookstores and cruising areas, hoping to get some action by sheer proximity, and desperate to get a free touch of something they’d ordinarily never score. Actually, there used to be a man at one of the baths I frequented back in Michigan. He had Ben Franklin hair—long and wispy on the sides, non-existent on top. He had the general silhouette of a much-used upholstered armchair, with a shelf of a forty-five-inch waist where the seat would be. Even in the parts of the bathhouse were other people were shivering from the air conditioning, he perspired like he’d just run a marathon. To top it off, the man’s face was covered in warts. Not just one or two well-placed bumps. Big, honkin’, full-fledged Witchiepoo warts. Dozens of them. He was the living incarnation of troll-like behavior as well. If two men were playing with each other, he’d step right up and attempt to insert himself between them. If he spied someone he liked, he’d follow them around from room to room. If they said no, politely (as I did, many a time), he’d attempt to wheedle and ingratiate himself in. As with a forest fire in a national park, you could basically tell he was on his way when the bathhouse fauna started stampeding, en masse and clutching their towels, in your direction. Whenever I’ve gotten an offer for a ‘free massage’ from some schmoe without photos, I’ve pictured the warty bathhouse guy and politely declined. Last summer, though, I had an offer for a free massage from a fellow on one of the sex sites who actually had photos that were pretty recent. He was a professional massage therapist. He liked my body, for some reason. He thought I was attractive, and offered to give me a rubdown if I’d only drive to his place in the back country. I was alone that week and he was difficult to resist; I ended up making the trip and getting the most amazing deep tissue massage from the guy. He made the experience special—candles, scented oils. For approximately three hours I was putty in his hands as he worked every muscle, every joint, and every inch of my body from the soles of my feet to the very top of my scalp. Sure, he got to play with my hard cock and my hole from time to time—but he could’ve had almost any cock he wanted. The guy was pretty fucking amazing. So when this week another local offered me the services of his hands, gratis, I hesitated before chucking the note in the trash bin. Sure, his profile was indistinct enough that it could’ve been anyone’s. Yeah, he didn’t have a face pic. But he offered to get on camera and show himself, and although he didn’t have enough light to really give me a distinct sense of what he looked like, he didn’t seem too bad. So I invited him over. Readers. Do not make the same mistake as I. While it’s true that the free massage guy who trotted into my home at eleven-thirty at night did not have actual warts covering his face, he was not an attractive man. He was quite obviously older than he was claiming by a good twenty years; the hair that had been tidy on cam had somehow blown out to all points of the compass and made him resemble a troll doll; he was five feet and maybe two inches, instead of the six feet he’d claimed; and he talked and giggled and hiccuped like Liza Minnelli at her most intoxicated and hyper. It was not attractive. Now ordinarily I would have zero problem gently telling someone that they weren’t quite what I expected, and suggesting that nothing’s going to happen. There’s kind of a point at which doing so is nearly impossible, however. And that point, for future reference, is at the threshold. Like vampires, if you don’t want the troll to stay, don’t let them over the threshold. But the troll doll flounced by and let himself in my front door while I stood there with my jaw scraping the ground, and after I finished blinking, I shrugged and grinned to myself and figured that at least I’d have a story to tell. So I went through with the ‘massage’ for the sake of my readers. YOU ARE WELCOME, READERS. Friends, did you ever see that episode of Friends in which for some reason Ross was pretending to be a massage therapist with one of Phoebe’s clients? I think he was so afraid of touching a hairy back that he massaged the guy with wooden spoons. Something like that. Let’s just say that was probably still more pleasurable than the ‘massage’ I received from troll doll. He dabbed here. He dabbed there. He ran a finger down my shoulder blade. He poked a little bit at my sacroiliac. He giggled and gulped like Liza talking about Mama and asked me if I was feeling relaxed. I lay there and tried not to snicker audibly and made the occasional grunt. Then, after a few minutes of what felt like being prodded at with a pair of chopsticks, he started to kiss my shoulders. “It’s almost midnight,” he said in what I think was supposed to be an alluring tone. “YEP. SORRY YOU HAVE TO GO. BYE!” I yelled, as I hustled him the hell out. The things I do for you guys. Let’s get to some questions from readers. Some time ago (10.23.10), replying to a comment of Anonymous, you wrote: “Point me in the direction of an aggressive top man who isn't fond of attention! I've never seen such a beast”. Do you have any thought about why these two traits (being an aggressive top and “an attention whore”) tend to coincide in the same person? Let me state first that I do not think think that aggressive tops are always attention whores. When I talked about tops being fond of attention, I meant in a sexual sense. Tops like to have their dicks stimulated. They enjoy a man servicing them. They like the sensations of fucking. That’s the kind of attention I meant. Some tops are proud of their equipment. I certainly like showing off mine. Hell, I write an entire blog about what I do with it. I’m an exhibitionist. I know I didn't earn my dick in any way except through the luck of genetics. Still, I like the heads it turns, the desire it arouses, and the opportunities it gets me. At the same time, I wouldn't call myself an 'attention whore,’ even in bed. I give as much as I get. And in public situations, I'm not the loudest or most outgoing. Quite the opposite. However, I’ve encountered many men I would label as greedy for any kind of attention, yet who have no intention of returning any of it—both in and out of bed. In fact, it seems to me that of those men, there's a lot of excessive machismo bravado going on in their personalities to cover up some flaw they perceive in themselves. They might have been told they weren’t 'real men' by their mommies and daddies, or they were so afraid of being found out as gay, growing up, that they learned to overcompensate with loudness and brusqueness. Or they might have formed their entire concept of how men interact with each other during sex from porn, where tops are supposed to be mean and masculine and never to say thank you. Imitating that kind of personality doesn't appeal to me. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not, as a top. I've got my own style, and I haven't heard any complaints about it. It seems to me that there are a lot of men out there who are hurting very deeply, and who use sex as a way to erase past or present hurts, to fill voids, or to fix what's broken in their lives. Men want sex, but fear it, and tremble before its pull. If I flatter myself to have any kind of sexual talent at all, it’s been to sometimes intuit what an individual man really needs, and through sex, to give them the permission and the freedom to express what often he can’t put into mere words. It doesn’t make me less aggressive, or less fond of sexual attention. It just exempts me—sometimes—from being a total asshole. I only recently started playing with guys in earnest. I've fucked three guys now, all bareback. Now I am getting worried and even panicked. Worried about disease and bringing it home to my significant other. I'm also worried that I'm not living an honest, admirable life. What do I do? It will not be easy for me to deny my attraction to men, but I feel like I'm living two lives. If there's any advice you can give me, I'd appreciate it. I always advise guys that it's best to have some quiet moments and think about where you draw the line when it comes to risk—whether it's risking your marriage or relationship by fucking around, or whether you're risking an STD by fucking bareback. You know yourself better than anyone; if you're the kind of guy who has sex and then feels like beating himself up for a week after you've had it because you’ve played outside your relationship, or because you fucked raw, then you probably shouldn't be doing either. Do only the stuff for which you're willing to accept the consequences. If you know your partner would leave you because of fucking around, then don't be shocked and surprised when something happens and he or she abandons you. If you're fucking raw, do so knowing that you risk picking up HIV or other STDs, and that you'll have to do the big boy thing and accept responsibility for it. If those prospects scare you too much, stick to less risky activities. Get guys to suck you off, which is lower-risk than anal. Fuck guys with a rubber. If the idea itself of cheating throws you into a panic, masturbate at home and don't fool around with other men—or work with your partner so that sex outside the relationship is acceptable and therefore not ‘cheating.’ You've got to live with the choices you make. I want you to be happy. Sex adds to your personal quality of life (and in my case, makes me an all-around nicer mate to have at home). However, being miserable and scared and freaked out all the time will diminish your quality of life far more than the few minutes of sex will add to it. Decide what acts and limits do not exceed your level of comfort, then stick to them. The old Formspring site has changed its format in a way I don’t like, so that non-registered members can’t leave anonymous questions any longer. So let’s do this: if you have questions for me, please email them to the address on the sidebar. I will keep your identity anonymous, of course, and add them to the queue to address in future Sunday morning editions. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The Runt is shooting like a fucking geyser today. Like Old Faithful, he’s spouting off at regular intervals. Big huge jets of the stuff. Every time, spouts erupt out of his rigid dick as his body shakes and quivers. He’s spunked all over the blanket, baptized the pillows and headboard, smacked me in the chest and face with his essence. Every time, he looks at me afterward in panic and near distress. I can’t fathom what frightens him. He could be afraid I’ll assume he’s done, and cease the relentless grinding of my cock into his puffy red hole. Maybe he thinks his cries are loud enough to be heard by the neighbor upstairs. But I think secretly he fears he’s showing too much. The Runt plays his emotional cards close to his chest. Around his friends, his family, he’s pretending—pretending to be normal, pretending not to be gay, pretending to be a good and obedient boy who marches lockstep with the plans others have made for him. The only time he’s anything close to being himself is when he’s naked and with me. In the dark, when I’m holding him so tightly by his trim waist that I’m leaving red marks on that smooth skin, when I’m shoving my obscenely enlarged fuckmeat into his soft, sweet guts, he’s free. He’s getting what he needs. He’s living the life about which he can only fantasize in the harsh light of day. I think that realization takes him aback. He’s unused to expressing the liberty he feels when he’s astride a man’s cock. So when he comes, it’s loudly. Not like when he’s at home after the lights are out, fumbling himself under the covers. His narrow chest billows and dwindles, his breathing quickens and becomes harsh, his little dime-sized nipples shrink and pucker. His ass cheeks dimple and contract around my dick as he straddles it and rides. His lids open as if they’re revealing the world around him, and not merely hiding his beautiful brown eyes. He shudders and yells and then, right on schedule, his dick jerks back and forth. At each apex, it unleashes a stream of gooey white sperm. The first launch smacks me on the shoulder and flies off and over the bottom of the bed. The second lands at the bed’s foot. The third puddles on the blanket and begins to seep in. His hair covers his forehead, falls in his eyes. It’s a wavy mess. Kids these days, right? His body rises and falls with every thrust of my hips. The Runt comes whenever I force my dick inside him. It’s the first penetration that triggers his spastic response, so I’ve been fucking him, left his hole rest and close, and then forcing it back inside. I’m cruel that way. Yeah, I’m a real bastard, all right, giving him climax after climax and then stretching his hole with my monster cock while he’s trying to recuperate. Sadistic fucker. So I’m lying there sneering and being cocky about my prowess, and I don’t even notice at first he’s lowered himself on his hands. He’s looking at me. “Can I ask you something?” he says. I rest my hips. I don’t tense up, exactly, but I’m on edge. The Runt doesn’t ask me things. We don’t talk. We pass comments back and forth sometimes. The last talk we had was when he broke down to tell me his dad had called him a worthless faggot. Even when I’ve asked how things are at home, since then, the most communicative he’s been has been to shrug his shoulders and pretend he hasn’t heard. “Anything,” I say, wondering if I can communicate supportiveness, neutrality, and encouragement all in one word. My dick’s still hard and inside him. He settles down on it, as if to sit for a while. His mouth works with difficulty. I breathe in and out, but don’t prod. I wait for his words to come. At last he says, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.” I’m surprised he remembers. The only time we’d discussed it was when I’d asked about his, months ago. “I do indeed.” “It’s a big one.” I don’t really need to be reminded of this fact. I’ve already got my dad saying Hey, you’re going to be really really OLD! I woke up the other morning and realized how OLD you’ve gotten and I was thinking to myself, ‘how do I have a son who’s that OLD?’ every time I talk to him on the phone. But you know, to someone with the Runt’s youth, I’m sure I seem like a creaky old antiquity. “It is.” The Runt has sleepy eyes. They’re big baby-doll eyes—round and fringed by thick eyelashes. They’ll be devastating when he learns how deliberately to use them on a guy. His lids are heavy again now, though. He gazes at me as if he’s afraid of being hurt. “Can I be the last?” I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s talking about. The bemusement must be plain on my face. “I want to be the last one you fuck. In your forties,” he explains. His voice is soft. “Would that be all right?” Oh. My lips part, as I consider his words. It’s not the actual offer of sex that pleases me. I know he’s exposing a vulnerable side of himself. And that, coming from anyone, is a gift in itself. Much better than anything wrapped in paper. “You don’t have to.” “It would be very all right,” I say, not letting him take the offer back. “But why?” Those heavy lids close again. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be kind of cool, is all.” That’s not what he thought at all. I just hoped you think I’m special enough, is what he’s telling me. I hope you remember me. He doesn’t need to speak the words. “I’d love it if you were the last fuck of my forties,” I say to him. Then, formally, holding his hands, I make him look at me. “Will you, Runt, be the last ass I fuck in my forties?” Now I’ve made him shy. “Come on,” he says, urging me to stop. “No, seriously.” I shake his hands a little. “Say you will. I’d not considered it at all until now. But will you?” His lips work a little into one of his rare smiles. His eyes rest on mine for a second, then flit away. “Okay.” I’ve pleased him. It makes my heart warm, and my dick swell. “What about me?” I ask. He flips away the hair from his eyes with a quick bob of his head. “Do I get to be the last man of your teens?” That milestone is approaching quickly. He chuckles. His hands lift to the leather dog collar around his skinny neck. “How many dudes do you think I see?” “How about the first man of your twenties?” I say. “Would you remember that?” He nods. “I would definitely remember that. Both those.” He looks over at the clock. It’s a nervous tic for him. He’s so used to having his schedule regulated by the needs of others that he’s unused to having any for himself. “Do we have to go?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “Then get your ass off my cock and get your mouth on it, son,” I whisper. “Make this old man feel good.” I’ll let him gnaw on my bone for a bit. Then, when his ass muscles are relaxed, I’ll split him open again and force out another of his copious loads. Old Geyser’s gotta blow, after all. The Runt rearranges himself between my legs. He looks up at me and dutifully says,“You’re not old.” He could give my dad some lessons in tact. More...

Thanks, daddy!

Sex has a way of breaking down those shields, don't you think? Good sex, anyway.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “‘Sup,” is all he says as he pours himself into my car’s front passenger seat. That’s all. ‘Sup. Our eyes connect for a moment. His flick away. They’re black and shiny, like obsidian. Then he stares at the road ahead and bobs his neck back and forth, as if listening to beats from an invisible source. I nod and make a U-turn. ‘Sup, indeed. I can see right through him. He’s all swagger and defenses, this one. He’s a little Latin boy wearing a baseball cap, big baggy sweats, and a hoodie two sizes too large. Beneath all that excess of jersey I can discern the outline of his shoulders—narrow and lean, like the hips that barely keep those jeans from falling to the floor. His knees are thin poles making his pant legs into tents. He’s looking out the window like all’s cool with the world, but those knees are scissoring together, then apart. He might be living in his first rented room after flying out of his mommy’s nest. He might like thinking of himself as bad. He might try to appear tough and impervious. But I know he’s a nervous little boy of twenty, behind that slick facade. The drive to my place is short. He doesn’t speak again until I’ve pulled up in front of my home. “This is it, huh,” he comments. He oozes out of the car and tugs at the imaginary lapels of his hoodie like he’s casing the joint. I lead him up the porch and inside. He’s silent as he follows me to the bedroom. I’ve already turned on the light. Before he plunges his hands in his pockets, he takes time to adjust that oversized Yankees cap he’s wearing. It’s set at a forty-five degree angle between forehead and ear, and another forty-five degrees up from the horizontal plane. It’s such a specific angle that I suspect he’s spent hours and hours testing it in the mirror. “So what now, boss?” he asks, when I stand in front of him. He chuckles at himself, as if he’s a regular wit. I haven’t said a word this entire time. There’s no need for me to compensate for his tough-guy act. I’m not trying to impress the little shit. I’m not trying to get a second date. I know exactly what I want from him. I’m pretty confident I’ll get it. My lips part to say, “Strip.” Then I fold my arms, and wait. He pauses for a moment like he’s caught in the headlights. I watch him make the choice to brazen it out. “Aiiiight,” he says, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. He’s a handsome kid, I’ll give him that. He’s got beautiful eyes, a pretty face. There’s a tiny little fringe of hair at the very base of his lip that’s supposed to pass for a mustache, and a similar trace of the stuff around his jaw. It’s cute. But it’s a boy’s facial hair. He shimmies out of the hoodie and the aqua tank top he’s wearing underneath. His nipples are brown candies, round and tiny. There’s a tiny trace of fur leading from his navel down the flatness of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. He tugs at the elastic and pulls them down to his ankles. He’s wearing basketball shorts beneath, and beneath those, briefs of neon yellow mesh. His uncut dick flops around, mostly hard, as he steps out of the three layers. He stands before me almost defiantly, hat still on. I study his body, with the skin the cover of creamy coffee. It’s flat in all the right places, firm in others. Save for the thatch of dark pubes above his swinging meat, he’s almost totally smooth. “Now you,” he says. His jaw grinds with challenge. I shake my head. “No?” he says, surprised. “You ain’t gonna get naked?” “I’ll get naked,” I tell him, keeping my tone level, “when I get naked. Get on the bed.” Those black eyes regard me with something approaching hostility. “You act like you’re the boss or something.” At least the kid is picking up on that fact. I let my eyebrows rise, incline my head toward him. “Listen,” I say in a low voice. “I know what you want.” “You do, huh.” “I know what you want.” He stares at me. Then I see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “What do I want?” His voice is husky. “Get on the damn bed,” I repeat. Our eyes are locked for a moment. Then his break away. I’ve won the battle. Slowly he climbs onto my mattress. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me some more. Then I watch as he spreads those bony knees across the mattress, puts his head down, and lifts his ass in the air. Good boy. He’s learning. I strip behind him, making sure he hears the sound of my belt buckle and my jeans hitting the floor. I’m naked when I slither between his legs with my body, and put my mouth on that hole. He hisses when I make contact. “Oh yesssss.” He’s got a beautiful butt, this boy. Round, worked out, smooth as a baby’s skin. Just as I knew he would, he responds passionately to my rimming. He’s moaning, and clutching his hands into fists as he grabs at the sheets and tries to hang onto them for dear life. I chew at the hole with my teeth, rake it with my beard. I slap his cheeks and grab his balls and tug, just to get the reactions I want. He’s not so tough now, this kid. That carefully-constructed front has tumbled as suddenly as if I’d blown all the trumpets of Jericho. He’s rolling his head on his neck and banging his forehead against the shelf over my pillows. That damned Yankees cap has fallen off his close-shorn head and onto the floor. He’s all reaction, now, that artificial personality drowned by tides of pleasure. Like I said, I’m not romancing this kid. He’s just here to be fucked. I’ve got a thumb up his hole before he realizes what’s happening. But once he recognizes the sensation, he lifts himself to his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder in my direction. Those black eyes are glazed and wet and angry. It’s the anger of someone who hates that someone sees right through him. I stare back, my face impassive as I squeeze a dollop of clear gel into my hands. I cover my dick with the stuff, then shove some up his little fuckhole. His mouth twitches. He’s trying to be tough again. When I force two fingers inside him, though, he gives up and hangs his head. He nods when I shove my wet, red cock head up against his pucker. When I shove in, he pushes back. He yells as it slides home. When I’m all the way in, he pants. Resists—like it isn’t too late, now. Then gives in. We sink together to the mattress. My weight is on him as I start to thrust in and out. “This is what you want,” I tell him. “Yes,” he agrees. His face is twisted in pain. I’m a big boy. “Say it.” He follows my order without challenge. “This is what I want.” “You love it.” “I do love it. Oh god, I love it. I love it, I love it.” I’m fucking him harder now, enjoying the sight of my cock stretching his brown hole. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs into the pillow. It’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said since we met. “You’re welcome,” I reply. I was raised to be polite. When I shoot, he’s on his back and I’m pounding the shit out of him. His eyes are still half-hooded like a snake’s, but they’re regarding me in a happy daze. He’s the kid who got everything he wanted for Christmas morning. “I need it so bad, daddy,” he’s begging. “Please knock up my pussy. Please.” Now he’s whining. There’s a thin edge to the plea that’s raw and cutting. “Please give me your babies, sir. Please.” We kiss for the first time when I shoot inside him. His mouth is open wide and hungry, taking my lips in his. His mouth is as open as his hole, at this point, and I’m in both of them, filling them. My load slides from my nuts to his insides, spraying his colon with my juice. His own cock is sticky against my belly. I push his hands away as he tries to jack it, while my thrusting subsides to a slight rotation of my hips. Maybe I’ll let him cum after my second fuck. If I decide he wants it, that is. One the ride back he sits low in the passenger seat, the Yankees cap brim pulled low over his eyes. There’s not a trace of his cockiness left when I pull in front of his house. After I shift into park, he sits there for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Thank you, daddy,” he says quietly. Then he pulls himself out, shuts the car, and shuffles to the side door. I guess he was raised to be polite, too. More...

My first bottoming experience wasn't much different, firefighter . . . right down to the vaseline. We didn't know any better back in '76.

Thanks, Mike. I appreciate it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The small of his back rests on my thigh, just above my knee. His head compresses the pillows. When I twist my fingers inside him—index and middle, plunged into his hole as deep as they can go—his shoulders dig into the mattress. He lets out a wail that’s half animal, half supernatural. But he’s not in pain. There’s a world of difference between agony and what this man is feeling. I stare him in the face as he writhes and moans and bucks his hips. He can’t see me. His face is screwed up too tight, his eyes clamped shut as he loses himself in the sensations my greased and twisted digits arouse. Once more I twist in the other direction. Like he’s pedaling some invisible bicycle, his hairy bend and paw toward the ceiling. “Am I hurting you?” I ask. He takes a moment to answer. “What? No.” He sighs the words so that they arrive with the scent of his breath, still faintly smelling of the cinnamon gum he’d chewed after dinner. “Please don’t stop.” “I have no intention of stopping,” I tell him. Truer words have never been spoken. I made a promise to this man, and I intend to keep it. I see tears in his eyes as he looks at me. He has to wipe them away with a free hand. Simultaneously, he starts to laugh at himself, as he pictures how he must look to me. “It doesn’t hurt,” he assures me. “I just didn’t know it could feel so good.” I receive the compliment with a curt nod. No words. But I take my ring finger and, when I withdraw the other two, add it to his hole. The extra girth causes him to squeeze shut his eyes again. His head presses back against the headboard, and his whole body shudders. “I know it feels good,” I tell him. “I know it’s all new and scary to you. But you wrote me for a reason. Remember?” “Yes,” he breathes. “What reason is that?” I can only see the bottom of his chin, his neck is extended so far back. “Because I want you.” “And why do you want me?” He’s struggling to make his higher functions work, when his body is wracked with thrill. “Because you’re hot.” “No.” Not it at all. “Because you trust—“ Now he remembers. “Because I trust you—“ “—to do it right. That’s what you said.” “Yes.” He nods his head. “Because I trust you to do it right. I want you because I know you’ll do it right.” He’s panting like he’s run a two hundred-meter race. “That’s right,” I say with approval. Gently I remove my knee from beneath him, and let him settle into the mattress. I shift myself so that I’m between his legs. My cock is rigid. If he looked down, he’d see how red and angry it is as I continue to deny it what it so badly wants. This isn’t about me, though. It’s about him. When a handsome man has read my blog for two years and gotten up the nerve not only to contact me, but to fly from the west coast to east specifically to visit me, I take my time with him. When he’s booked that long flight and a hotel room in the city for the night and has escorted me to dinner to prove himself a gentleman, he gets everything he wants. When he’s offering me his anal virginity, I don’t poke at him and go. I set the pace. I maximize his pleasure and erase his doubts and fears. I do it right. I aim to make him remember me. Like I tell guys, I want to fuck him so well that afterward he regrets any cock that’s not mine. What is he? I can’t remember from his profile. Thirty or thirty-one. Something like that. A professional man. Cool and confident on the exterior, but I know he’s been worried all night about this moment. “Now, I am going to hold your legs up,” I tell him, while still I manipulate the soft, wet flesh with my hand. I’ve spent the last hour and a half making love to this hole…touching it, kissing it, licking and eating and fucking it with my fingers. He’s ready for cock. He might not know it, and he might not believe it, but he’s ready. I know. “And you are going to look into my eyes . . . and you are going to relax . . . and you are going. . . .” “I’m going to get fucked.” His square-cut jaw trembles slightly. “You’re going to get fucked,” I agree, in a low and breathy voice. I’ve withdrawn my fingers. I’m pleased to see his hole retaining the gape. I position my cock head at the space I’ve left behind. “Oh god,” he whispers. His legs start to jerk when I push in. I hold them immobile. He’s whimpering the entire time my head stretches his hole. “You want this,” I remind him. “I do,” he says, suddenly worried I might change my mind. “Oh, I do. I do want this.” “You’ve got to be taught,” I say, “what your hole is for.” He repeats the words like a hypnotist’s subject. “I’ve got to be taught,” he says. He winces and breathes in a hiss, as I slide a little further in. “Tell me you want it,” I instruct him. “I want it so much. Please.” “You flew a long way for this,” I say. “You picked me out for this moment.” “I want it,” he says, still in a trance. “I want it to be you.” I keep him focused on the need. “Look at me,” I instruct. “Look at me.” He opens his eyes and stares into mine. Our faces aren’t too distant. I could lean forward and kiss him, if I wanted. “You feel good. Do you know how good you feel?” He shakes his head. “I am having to do everything in my power to keep from raping your tight little hole right now, because that’s how good it feels. I bet you didn’t know you were a hot little fuck.” When I crack a smile, he can’t help but return one in kind. “Really?” he asks, struck shy. “Really,” I tell him. “You are a hot . . . little . . . fuck.” I’ve been sliding in the entire time. My head nudges against something familiar. I’m in. “Now, did that hurt?” I ask him. “No,” he whispers. He’s in awe, like prophet receiving a revelation. “How . . . how much more is there?” I don’t answer him directly. Instead, I take his hand and pull it around his hips so that he can feel for himself. “Oh my god.” His eyes widen as he realizes. “You’re all the way in.” I nod, very slowly. I’m breathing through my mouth, heavy and slow. My heart is pounding like a timpani. “You’re all the way in,” he says, as his hole clamps down on me. “Sssssh,” I tell him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. “Relax.” “Am I doing okay? Do I feel all right? I want to be okay for—“ I shake my head. Kiss away the question. “You are wonderful,” I tell him. I burst into a little bit of laughter. “You really don’t know how wonderful you are at this, do you?” My words make him unclench again, enough that I can rock back and forth. I’m not thrusting—not yet. But I’m letting him feel the ebb and flow of my hips, getting him used to the rhythm that will build and grow and sweep us away as I take him to the place he wants to go. His eyes are very serious as first. Then, as he realizes he can trust me, he exhales a breathy little chuckle. His lips curl into a smile. I nod. Now that I’ve given him permission, he settles into the pillows. He relaxes—really relaxes. My cock can feel the difference. “I want this,” he tells me, meaning it. I nod with approval once more. “You want this.” “I’m being fucked,” he whispers. I can see the joy in his expression, when he realizes that the long-held fantasy has finally been made real. “I’m being fucked.” “Oh, you are definitely being fucked,” I say, rocking my hips in a longer arc. “It’s. . . .” As my rocking turns into small thrusts, and as the small thrusts broaden into my inches sliding in and out of his slick, hot chute, he struggles to find words. At last he sighs and regards me with the infatuation of the deeply happy. “Amazing.” I accept the compliment with a slight smile. “You’re a very, very good learner,” I tell him, as I lean in for a deep kiss. I slide my wet rod so deeply in his hole that his hips lift off the bed. He grunts and rises to meet me, as our tongues entwine. He doesn’t know it yet, but the man is in for a long night. I promised to teach him what his hole is for. And I’ve a lot of lessons to get through. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His neighborhood is dark—almost pitch black, in fact. The closest streetlight was at the intersection where I’d turned my car behind his, a full block behind me. He turns off his car’s lights, and I turn off mine. When he steps out and into the driveway of his house, he’s a shadow against shadows through my windshield. My dick is hard, though. My pulse quickens as I pocket my keys and follow him across concrete and brick to the front door of his split level. There’s no light above the door. No lamps aglow within. There’s just us, the cloudy night sky, and the streetlight obscured by trees, far away. “Do you know where you are?” he asks, pausing before he inserts the key. “No,” I tell him. “You mean, you don’t know where on the map you are?” I can’t see his expression. “No, not really,” I say. The route we’d taken when I’d followed his car hadn’t been long—no more than ten minutes of driving, really. But once off the main routes and onto residential side roads I’d never seen before, I’d quickly lost my bearings. I’d kept focused on the tail lights of his dark truck. “How will you find your way home if you’re lost?” “I’ll manage,” I tell him. Then while I’m standing there, I remembered something from college. It was one of the first weeks of the acting class I took, the first semester of my freshman year. We’d gone through several afternoons in which we’d laid on the floor and relaxed ourself into a boneless stupor, and exercises in which we’d pretended to be fish out of water, or seeds bursting into life, or animals in a zoo. Before we could be trusted with actual scripts by real playwrights, however, the professor gave us sheets of paper a two-person exchange of identical lines, for an in-class task. The lines were fairly mundane—something along the lines of “Hi.” “Hello.” “Nice weather, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t noticed.” Our assignment, however, was to pair off and present the script to the class while enacting one of several secret scenarios the professor had given us. The class would watch while we’d speak the lines and mime a little, and try to guess the subtext behind the words. I remember my partner and I were supposed to be a man and a woman in an elevator. I was supposed to be interested in her; she was supposed to react as if she thought I was hitting on her. Her Hi was neutral and cautious; mine was knowing. Her inquiry about the weather she made while stepping to the far end of the imaginary elevator; I said I hadn’t noticed while I tilted my head and stared at her backside as if I was too busy looking at her ass to notice anything else. I spoke one of my follow-up lines while reaching across her to push a floor button and moving too close; she replied with another of the bland sentences by flattening herself against an imaginary elevator wall. The class guessed what we were trying to convey almost immediately. Some of the other scenes were of young lovers enjoying a picnic, or of a student trying to butter up a professor, or of a young person caring for an elderly grandparent. We all had the exact same dialogue to work with, but what the professor aimed to show us was that even when given the same material and even with the same scenery and props (which is to say, none at all), we could convey an infinite variety of scenarios in a recognizable way. I’d met this guy only minutes before at the northbound cruisy car lot off the freeway, where after dark men looking for sex pull into empty parking spaces and wait for each other. The cold was biting, and I’d made a bargain with myself that if nothing happened within a half hour, I’d leave and warm myself at the nearest coffee shop. For twenty of those thirty minutes I’d sat fruitlessly in my driver’s seat, rubbing an erection through my jeans, while a bear in a pickup truck looked at his smartphone and snuck furtive looks my way. I’d given up on him and driven to the southbound lot, certain that he was just waiting to pick up a carpooling spouse, but he’d followed me there and then driven away almost instantly. With five minutes to go, I’d driven back to the northbound lot to see if he was there. He wasn’t. Then the black truck had pulled up next to me. I could see the man driving—an older guy with a military cut. He was easily in his sixties or maybe even more, but he was very plainly taking care of himself. Even on this cold night he was wearing a short-sleeved T that displayed his brawny, muscular forearms. His face was handsome. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He rolled down the passenger side window. I turned off my car, stepped out onto the gravel, leaned into the window, and nodded. “You’re hot,” he said, in a deep and masculine voice. “So are you,” I replied. “Follow me home?” I didn’t need a second invitation. But then I stood there on his front stoop, while he asked if I knew where we were. And those memories of that college acting exercise surfaced. It struck me that the innocuous exchange could be interpreted in any number of ways. How will you find your way home if you’re lost?—the question of a man concerned about his guest. Or, How will you find your way home . . . if you’re lost?—the question of an axe murderer. Read as a script, or narrated in a flat tone, it would be more than possible to find sinister overtones to the words he’d said. It would be equally possible to hear in mine the naive last words of a lamb led to slaughter. Or, as I’d assumed to that minute, he might just be that guy who didn’t want his trick banging at his door at midnight, complaining of not being able to find his way out of the cul-de-sac. The moment’s doubt gives me pause, however. When he pushes open the door and the warmth from within rushed out, I hesitate. There are some genuinely bad people out there. I could end up in the bottom of a home-dug pit, rubbing lotion on its skin. “Are you coming in, or what?” he says from the other side of the threshold. When I don’t answer right away, he reaches up with a hand, cups the back of my head, and pulls my mouth down to his. Our lips pressed tight together, with our tongues exploring the back recesses of each other’s mouths, I manage to stumble inside. He holds my head tight between his palms, as if afraid I’ll try to push him away. I don’t. I need those kisses too much, and he does it so well. He smells like the shaving soap they used to use at old barber shops—the kind of vanished storefront with a rotating red and white pole in front. “Get up to the bedroom,” he growls in my ear. I scamper up the stairs. From behind he guides me into the first door. There’s a large brass bed in the room’s center, a bedside table where a lamp burns low, and some drawn blinds. I can see now that the man is shorter than I could tell while he sat in his truck; he’s no more than five-four or five. He’s assertive enough, however, that when he shoves me back onto the mattress, I stay there. He regards me with glittering eyes as he steps back, puffs out his muscular chest, and removes his belt. I swallow as he pushes down his jeans. He’s wearing a worn-out jock with a full pouch. Already there’s a wet spot formed on the front. I can see the outline of his hard cock beneath the gray fabric. With both arms, he shimmies out of his T-shirt. He’s a robust old man beneath that cotton. He’s in better shape than most guys half his age, and his eraser-sized nipples are already as erect as his cock. “You want to suck it?” he asks. I look up into his face. He really is a handsome fucker, is all I can think. The man reminds me of a drill sergeant from an old army movie, all bark and needing to bite. “Oh yeah,” I tell him. I really want to suck it. He yanks me to my feet. Pushes off my jacket. Pulls off my shirt and undoes my pants like they’re the fly-away clothing strippers yank off with a single tug. I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of white sweat socks when he pushes me down to my knees, bashes his cock against my face, and shoves the fat monster between my hungry lips. He tastes good. Clean. Soapy, as if he’s rinsed off only a few minutes before hitting the car park. At first he holds my head still as he pistons in and out of my wet and sloppy mouth. Long, slow strokes, from tip to base. He’s only about six and a half fat inches, which isn’t that much to handle. But he’s determined to get deep in there, and he drives so far in that he’s hitting spots guys with more inches than him rarely touch. “I need this so bad, son,” he murmurs, as he strokes the underside of my beard. Being called son by a handsome older guy hits all my buttons. My cock is fully erect, but I don’t touch it. I can feel it leap and beg for release, but still I keep my hands off. I look up at him with adoration as he fucks my mouth and throat. I’d do anything for this man, after that. And he knows it. “You like it rough?” he asks. I nod, quick and hungry. “Nice,” he says, speculation making him drawl. “I wonder how rough you can take it.” “Whatever you want,” I say, when he gives me a chance. Before I know what’s happening, he’s manhandling me—a five-foot-four guy with twenty pounds and twenty years on me throwing my six-foot-three frame onto the bed. He grabs a couple of the pillows and shoves them beneath my neck and head, then straddles my shoulders. Then his dick is thrusting at my face. I know what to do. I open up and let him have the access his dick needs. “Good boy,” he whispers. When I look up, he’s playing with his nipples. I try to reach up to do that for him, but he stops me. “Let daddy do all the work,” he growls. “You just take that dick like you’re supposed to.” I want to be a good boy for him. I need to be a good boy. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be this stranger’s good boy, to give him exactly what he wants and needs. His meat seems to grow thicker in my gullet with every thrust. He’s pounding the back of my throat so savagely that it’s aching. I breathe when I can, trying to gasp in air in those brief fractions of seconds when he’s pulled out and before he rams back in. “Nice,” he keeps saying, over and over again. “Good boy. Take it. Take all of it.” My eyes begin to water. Tears are streaming down the sides of my face from the battering he’s giving me. I’m sure I’ve turned a deep red from both the cramped position I’ve had to maintain beneath his body, and from my lack of oxygen. He doesn’t seem to care, though. My mouth is just fuckmeat to him. He’s using a stranger to get his nut; he doesn’t really care about my comfort. He cares about how wet and warm my mouth is around his rigid dick, and that’s it. He cares about the tightness, the pliability. How willing I am. And I am one hundred percent fucking willing, for him. I can tell he’s close when he starts to grunt. His belly and chest curl around the top of my head; I can feel his arms cradling the back of my neck as he starts pumping even harder. I can’t breath at all, but I endure my airlessness for a half-minute while he finishes off with a series of animal noises. Like a feral beast, he drives to the back of my throat. He’s nearly crushing my skull. I don’t care. I want the load. When it comes, it gushes almost directly down my throat. I can feel the heat of it, taste a little of it when I start to gag. Though his grip lessens a little, he holds me down on his dick until I’ve taken care of every drop of that semen. Then, gradually, he releases his hold. When he finally straightens upright, cracks his knuckles, and stretches, I’m still nursing on his softening dick. He pulls it out with a plop. “Good boy,” he tells me. “Thank you,” I say to him. I’ve never been so grateful for dick as I am at that moment. “Thank you,” I say again, as I plant several soft kisses on his pubes. He’s done. He hands me my clothes. Dresses himself. Waits until I’m completely together before escorting me down to the front door. “So you really don’t know how to get home?” he asks. “I’ll manage,” I tell him. He nods. “Turn left at the light,” he growls, as he rubs my butt. “Take the road to the light after that. You’ll see where you are.” I thank him, and wave before he shuts the door. Sure enough, when I follow his directions I find myself on a section of the Post Road I’ve traveled many times before. Turns out he was the concerned partner and not the axe murderer, after all. But damn, I loved the way he used his weapon. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Most of my Manhattan adventures (of the clothed sort, that is) tend to take place in Starbucks. I was puzzling out the other day why that was, when I was fixing to type out another account of something odd that happened in a West Village branch of the franchise. What I realized is that I tend to use coffee shops in New York City as a hangout between appointments during cold weather months. In the spring and summer, if I have downtime, I can always relax on a park bench in Union Square Park or somewhere along the High Line; there are plenty of places to park my butt for a couple of hours and watch the people go by. In winter, though, I don’t want to sit outdoors. So I keep in my head a mental database of the larger, less populated Starbucks branches and other coffee shops near the places I need to go. If I need to get out of the cold for an hour or two, you’ll find me there, wedged in among the students and hipsters and food bloggers, catching up on my email or reading. That’s where I was last week, on a particularly cold Monday night. I’d had dinner with a friend and taken a downtown train to the general vicinity of my meeting. The brisk walk from the station to my destination’s neighborhood did nothing to warm me up, and I was early. So around the corner I went to buy myself a half-hour of warmth and a coffee-adjacent beverage. The Starbucks I chose was busy. A couple of people stood in line in front of me, so I breathed on my fingers and tried to coax them out of their popsicle-like state. While I was waiting, a gentleman came in from the wintry weather and stood behind me. He was on his phone. Speaking French. In a very deep and masculine voice. Naturally, I turned around to check him out. He was much shorter than I—everyone is shorter than I. Maybe five-seven. Dark-complexioned. His dark hair was buzzed down nearly to the scalp. His equally dark eyebrows were thick and even, like brushstrokes. And oh my god, was he ever handsome. Long-time readers know that I don’t usually buy into the nonsense in which guys automatically count themselves out of the running with Oh, that guy’s WAY out of my league!, but holy fuck, this guy was totally out of my league. His was the kind of masculine beauty that makes jaws drop. The fact he was wearing a heavy trench coat and business attire beneath only made him more compelling. I was trying to be casual about checking him out as he continued to parlez with his phone partner, but as he talked, our eyes met. Then the woman behind the register asked to take my order. Once I was done with the transaction and standing by the pickup counter, I took a deep breath and checked out the guy again. He was staring right at me. While part of my brain was very calm and matter-of-fact about his scrutiny, some high school girl inside my brain was jumping up and down and shrieking in panic. Oh my GOD he’s looking at me! Is he looking at me? Why is he looking at me? Is he? He IS? Oh my GOD! Yeah, I know. Not my proudest moment. But wait. It gets worse. So I collected my coffee-adjacent beverage and managed to navigate across the shop without tripping over myself or biting my lip with my braces or any of the other things Jan Brady might have done in such a situation, and found a seat on the cushioned bench that ran along the exterior plate glass. I was wearing a formal moleskin coat and a scarf of a length that makes Tom Baker’s neckwear look skimpy; it took me a while to untangle myself from it. By the time I had my coat open and my scarf untied and my gloves off, the person sitting immediately next to me had finished her coffee and left. Then I heard a very deep voice inflected with an unmistakable Gallic accent saying, “May I be cozy wiz you?” I looked up, and the French guy was smiling at me. I KNOW. It was like one of the best dreams I’ve ever had, come true in the fading light of day. I looked into those big brown eyes of his, admired the faintest trace of stubble adorning his sculpted cheeks, and said in sultry tones, “Get as cozy as you like.” Well. That’s what I wanted to say. When I thought of it a couple of minutes later. That’s what I should have said. What I actually said, as my suddenly useless tongue flopped out of my mouth like a particularly juicy St. Bernard’s, was this: “Hhhhnuuuuhh.” Then I moved over. Oh yeah. It was real classy. He seemed a little startled to be slavered at by a mental defective, but he sat down and immediately pulled out his phone. Then he made another call in French while I moaned softly to myself and beat myself up internally and tried to pretend I had super-hot Frenchmen getting cozy with me all the damned time. I didn’t say another word until I had to go, about ten minutes later. He and I had spent time checking each other out sideways in the meantime, as he conducted his call. He hung up just as I started collecting the three miles of my scarf. “Are you leaving so soon?” he purred. I’d kind of planned for this moment. I intended to say something clever. Something witty. Something European. Something that would convey my lusty good sense of humor and my intention to land him flat on his back on the bed of his designer-decorated apartment. So I opened my mouth and “Huhh-huuh-huh!” came splatting out. Then I tittered like a geisha and went running out of the coffee shop with a flaming face. Classy as shit, that’s what I am. Considering getting your favorite unpaid blogger a last-minute Christmas gift? You could always get one for me too, while you’re at it! Let’s get to some questions from readers. I haven’t done this in a while. You are so full of yourself. Wow. Ya think? No shit, Sherlock. I mean, I spend time writing about me, myself and I on a regular basis for total strangers on the internet. How many months of getting a monitor tan while jacking off while reading me did it take for you to come to that brilliant conclusion? Actually, you know who I find tends to tell someone else—anonymously, of course—that he’s full of himself? Someone who’s life is sad and extremely empty, that’s who. Truth. Is there a sexual experience you've had and, afterward thought, nope don't need to do that again? If so... what was it? Scat. I would like to make clear I was on the giving end, not the receiving side of that particular fetish. The other fellow was in hog heaven, so to speak; I kept thinking that despite being the dominant partner, how humiliated and vulnerable I felt in that position. So nope. Never again. How does someone get to meet the breeder? Proximity is a factor—it helps if you're in the metro NYC area. A willingness to work with me on finding a time and place is key. But hey, if you want to pay for a plane ticket and fly me to you and put me up for a couple of days, I'm game for that too! I've met, and consequently written about, quite a few of my readers at this point. I think they'll testify that I am real and that I give a guy a very good time. Have you ever misinterpreted someone's body language as sexual advances? Oh, absolutely. I started learning to read people in my early teens, when I was active at cruising spots like my local park and library. The ritual of sexual courtship in those places could be quite stylized, as men would pass each other multiple times, making eye contact and showing preference, through their body language and stance, for their intended mating partner. The strutting, the showing off, and then finally the consummation as the pair would wander off into the woods or down to the toilets, was like an episode of "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" that never made it to air. But there were quite a few times, especially when I was younger, that I misinterpreted a friendly posture, open legs, an inviting smile, or a dangling hand as an invitation, when it probably wasn't. I also learned to read, by the blank stares or puzzlement when I would come close to these guys and they wouldn't understand why, when I was just plain wrong. Nowadays I'm more apt to misread the kind of body language that's closed down or shut off or turned away as disinterest, when it's really the guy's lack of confidence to make known his desire for me. If they were filming the story of your life, what would it be called? Tales from the Slurp Ramp: The Peregrinations of a Sexual Adventurer, starring Bradley Cooper. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Ordinarily, when a guy throws enough red flags in my path, I slam on the brakes. I’m sleazy, but I’m not stupid. Tell me about your arrest record, brag about those multiple restraining orders against you, get clingy and declare you’re in love with me and want to relocate after we’ve only exchanged a few sentences . . . I’m out of there. Now, anyway. It took a lot of dumb decisions in my youth to figure out those super-obvious things. I had to get learn the hard way that ex-cons are often locked up for a reason, had to flop miserably at long-distance dating to realize it’s not for me, and as for the clingy stalkers . . . well, I’m still trying to figure out how to shake those. But I’m getting better. Nothing’s more effective as a learning technique than reaching into that fire and learning first-hand that it burns. That’s why, twenty years ago, I wasn’t smart enough to avoid people like Jay. When I think about Jay, I picture a short Polish guy with a pencil mustache built like a kid’s snowman. One round ball for his little head, one round ball for his chest, and one big round ball for his belly and legs. I’m definitely being unfair to the guy. He was more muscle than lard. It’s undeniable, however, that he was a squat little ball of a guy, no more than five-foot-three or four, sporting a military brush cut and a pencil baby fuzz mustache on his upper lip. I met him on AOL, back in the day when AOL was a happening place and if you were doing anything online, you and your 2400-baud modem were there. (That “You’ve got mail!” voice still haunts me.) He sent me a digital photograph of himself in his old Army uniform—which was an unusual thing to send, because this was before every cell phone had its own camera. If you had a cell phone, that is. Most people didn’t. This was a time even before cheap web cams; he’d scanned the shot using some kind of device attached to a dot matrix printer that read the photo line by line and saved it as a pixelated image. I was pretty impressed at his technical derring-do. Those primitive scanners took hours and hours to produce digital photos. There was very little one could do with one’s computer while it was chugging away . . . save for kick back and listen to the Victrola whilst looking at rotogravures of Teddy Roosevelt. Yes, I am old. You don’t have to tell me. Jay’s photo, in the end, resembled a mass of bleeding grays with a round little snowman in the foreground. It looked like a freshly-printed Victorian engraving left out in the rain. But I was young, and I was horny, and he didn’t live so far away, so I started seeing him. Jay was cheating on his partner. They were one of those annoying pairs who, in bars and public gatherings of the gays, would hold hands and talk about how wonderful their love was and how they believed in the sanctity of monogamy and how amazing it had been when they had been handfasted in a meadow by some kind of hippie-dippie minister. Yes, I actually saw the whole nauseating act in public several times, after I started fucking Jay. A friend of mine at the time was big into the gay country line dancing scene. I know, I know—about half of you are asking Why?! It was big in Detroit at the time. No, I don’t know how that happened, either. Anyway, I would accompany my friend to a bar called Diamond Jim’s about once a month so that he could spin around in his shiny cowboy boots to “Achey Breaky Heart” while I checked out the butts on the other guys. It was a win-win for everyone involved, basically. Eventually Jay and his partner would walk in. Diamond Jim’s was their hangout. Jay would avert his eyes at the sight of me, cling more tightly to his boyfriend’s hand, and lay his head on the boyfriend’s shoulder. They were happy. No, they were a picture of bliss. Contentment was their lot. They only had eyes for each other. Then Monday would roll around and I’d be fucking Jay all over the lovebirds’ nest, giving him the nasty sex he wasn’t getting from the boyfriend and making him squeal like a stuck pig. (Later on I fucked the boyfriend, too. But that was years after Jay. And it’s a whole ‘nudder story.) And hoo boy, the sex was naaaaasty. That alone was the reason I kept coming back, over and over, for about three years. I held a dual teaching and administrative position then, and had vague enough duties and little enough supervision that all I had to do on a day with no classes was mutter something along the lines of, “I have to go over to the medical campus for the morning,” and then basically take off a few hours to go fuck someone. I’d drive to Jay’s place in the suburbs, walk in his back door, and find him totally naked save for a harness, ass in the air, his greasy rosebud twitching around and clamping onto the handgrip of a cordless drill. Or I’d find that he’d stripped, blindfolded himself, tied his hands with a length of rope and thrown it around the clothes washer in a way that rendered him effectively helpless. Sometimes I’d find him on the kitchen floor, round little legs up in the air and face contorted as he forced giant cukes and even eggplants up his hole. A couple of times I discovered him in his dog’s cage, wearing a collar and lapping water out of a bowl. Didn’t matter how I found him. Every single time I made damned sure that he ended up spread-eagled with eight inches of my unwrapped dick shoved in deep. The little fucker loved my dick. He would keep up a running commentary as I speared him with it. “Oh FUCK, that head is SCRAPING MY GUTS!” he’d yell. For someone who lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood with neighbors not too distant on either side, and for someone who was all wuvey-dovey with his boyfriend at every opportunity, he certainly didn’t make much effort to keep from yelling these things at the top of his lungs. The ceilings would ring with “God DAMN you are BUSTING MY PUSSY WIDE OPEN!” or “Just FUCK your little boy with THAT CUNT SMASHER! FUCK ME, DADDY!” At the time I had already transformed from someone who dabbled at topping to someone who really knew and liked what he was doing. I was flushed with pride at having this little ex-Army guy screaming “JESUS CHRIST you fuck me SO MUCH BETTER THAN MY BOYFRIEND and CHRIST your COCK is SO MUCH BIGGER!” while I nailed him. And I nailed that little fucker everywhere in that house. Floors. Kitchen counters. All the furniture in the living room. The guest bedroom. Their bedroom. After I’d bred him he’d squeeze out the spunk in his ass onto the coffee table or bathroom floor and lick it up, then jack off onto my feet or my loafers and slurp them clean. I had my own little nasty whore bottom who stroked my ego and inflated my dick, and for a while it was good. Yet I was ignoring the danger signs. Afterward, when my footwear was sparkling and my cock was spent, Jay would start talking. And talking. And talking. The dude never shut up. Mouthy as he was during sex, once he’d lapped up the last drop of cum like a good puppy, he’d start yapping and never shut up. I would have to edge toward the door inch by inch, as politely I waited for him to come to a natural break in the story so that I could make my escape. I know, I was stupid, trying to be polite. It’s lost on some people. Those breaks never fucking came, and I’d find the morning turning into noon turning in the afternoon with the two of us standing there while he battered me with his personal history. Most of his stories had to do with affronts he endured from business establishments around town who DARED to be RUDE to him. He would launch into an endless story about a waitress in a pancake restaurant to whom he gave a perfectly ‘legitimate’ seven percent tip who tossed a snarl his way when he exited, which made him confront her about her ATTITUDE and then how he DEMANDED THE MANAGER FIRE HER ASS. Or some mechanic at the quick-lube oil change tried to RIP HIM OFF and STEAL STUFF from his GLOVE BOX while he was in the waiting room and you really have to WATCH THOSE MONKEYS OR THEY’LL RIP YOU OFF FOR EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT. These days, I would’ve listened to one of those stories with narrowed eyes, excused myself, and erased the guy’s number from my phone. Back then, I would pretend to listen, nod, and think, I wonder if he’s got any military gear still? And if so, would he wear it when we boink? There was one story in particular that he repeated several times about how he used to work at one of the city’s bathhouses for about, oh, two weeks. He had to keep the job from his boyfriend, who wouldn’t have approved of him picking up condoms from men’s changing rooms or mopping the cummy communal floors of the movie room. But that was okay, because they paid him under the table, in cash. But then one day he was walking by the pool and this old fart just reached out and TOUCHED HIM on the ARM. RIGHT THERE. LIKE THAT! He couldn’t BELIEVE he was being DISRESPECTED LIKE THAT so he PUNCHED THE GUY IN THE NOSE and BROKE IT. Well, he was BLEEDING A LOT, anyway. Then, could you BELIEVE IT, the manager of the bathhouse FIRED HIM ON THE SPOT when it was OBVIOUS that HE, a VETERAN, was the one being DISRESPECTED. I would listen to this familiar tale with deep sympathy for the bathhouse, thinking to myself that yeah, managers usually don’t want their employees socking paying clients in the face and breaking their noses. Especially in a shady establishment in which married men and politicians and teachers and priests and bankers and businessmen were having illicit sex—an establishment that probably didn’t want the police roaming its halls. Right? But I’d keep my mouth shut and think to myself, My dick’s kind of hard. I wonder if I could go again. I don’t know how I put up with Jay for three years. I wasn’t hard up for fucks; I never have been. It’s just that the sex was so loud and hot, and his ass was so round and sweet, and I loved slamming my little Polish snowman. But then came the day it all ended. We were fucking in his spare bedroom. It was a fussy chamber dominated by a massive antique four-poster bed. The thing had a tester on the top that was printed with blue flowers and was dripping with lace; there were matching pillowcases trimmed so thickly with the same lace that I don’t know how anyone slept on them without scratching open his face. An old quilt in an antique ivory color covered the bed. Up around the flowery pillows were a number of old dolls of the Madame Alexander variety. We’d fucked here a couple of times and every time I’d entered it, I would think to myself, Damn, this room is faggy. So were going at it. I had my pants dropped to the floor and my work shirt open. He was naked, his hole turned into a gape by my cock as I rammed in and out of him. I remember he was holding both his heels in the air with one hand, and beating the dusty mattress with the other as I stood at the foot of the bed, slamming in and out like a porn star. “JESUS CHRIST I need you to FUCKING RAPE ME!” he was yelling in his usual style. “MORE LUBE! MORE LUBE! GET IN ME ALL THE WAY DEEP FUCKER! I WANT YOUR DICK COMING OUT OF MY NOSTRILS!” He reached over his head and retrieved a bottle from between the pillows. I slapped some of the water-based gunk onto my cock. I put more on his hole. He snatched the bottle back. But he left me with a problem that is the bane of tops everywhere. Namely, the condition known as Slimy Fuck Hand. One of my hands was dry and normal. The one I’d used to slap on the lube was cold, clammy, and glistening with the stuff. Considerate bottoms have a hand towel nearby to combat the affliction. Jay was not a considerate bottom. I had to go back to work, so wiping it on my trousers (if they’d been up high enough, which they weren’t) or shirt wasn’t an option. I could’ve wiped it off on his legs or body, but that didn’t really solve anything. The next time I grabbed him there, I’d have Slimy Fuck Hand all over again. So I did what I could to get back into the groove again. I reached out and wiped my hand dry on the bed covering. It was thoughtless, I admit. But it was necessary. If someone did the same thing in my home (even though I provide a hand towel), I wouldn’t really give a rip. My blanket is from Target. Chances are that once the boy pulls on his pants and leaves, I’m popping it the wash anyway. However Jay wasn’t so easy going. He transformed from starving nymphomaniac to shrieking banshee in about zero-point-five seconds. “Jesus Christ was the FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” he started screaming at me, as he rose to his knees. “This is my GRANDMOTHER’S HEIRLOOM QUILT that she made with her VERY OWN HANDS when she was STILL LIVING IN THE HOMELAND YOU FUCKING FUCKWIT.” My jaw dropped as spittle flew from his mouth and his face turned beet red. “You think I can just WASH THAT WITH TIDE?! Don’t you know how VALUABLE IT IS?!” On and on he went , foaming at the mouth and growing angrier and angrier with me. I thought about the mechanics in the garage, and about the stiffed waitress, and especially about the guy with the broken (or at least bloody) nose, and buttoned my shirt and stuffed it back into my pants. When he paused to take a breath, I finally asked him, for the first time in three years after one of his imaginary outrages, a sensible question. “If it’s so irreplaceable, why the hell are you fucking on it? Put that shit away if you don’t want it to get dirty.” Then, while he was stunned at my backtalk, I turned and walked out of the room, down the hallway, and out the front door. He followed yelling at the top of his voice. “YEAH YOU BETTER RUN AWAY, LITTLE GIRL. LITTLE GIRL RUNNING AWAY! NEXT TIME I SEE YOU I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU WHAT I THINK OF YOU, YOU FUCKING PUNK!” And other delightful hits from his repertoire. I never saw Jay again. Naked, that is. I did see him out in public with the boyfriend, up until the time I moved from Detroit. I know that he came to his senses within the week and wanted to pick up where we’d left off. But he didn’t apologize for flying off the handle at me, and I wasn’t so desperate for his hole that I was willing to overlook the dangerous flaws to which I was no longer oblivious. On AOL I’d tell him no thanks, or just ignore his emails. In public I’d avoid him. He didn’t want to raise his boyfriend’s suspicions, so he wouldn’t push it when he saw me at the bar. Just like that, it was over. There’s a lot of bottoms needing cock. Hell, forget tops and bottoms. There’s a lot of sex to be had. Your chances of getting some aren’t going to evaporate if you give up partners who are incompatible or unenjoyable or, let’s be frank, who are totally unstable. Jay might’ve been something of an oddball, but it was from him that I learned a valuable lesson: ditch the crazy and move on to the next available ass. It’s out there waiting. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I can’t evade thoughts of Spencer, this week. It’s been a year and three months since I last saw him mere days before he moved to Europe to finish his education and pursue a career. A year and a half earlier, I’d left him to move to the east coast. But oh, during that long year when I was alone and trying to sell my house to make that move, he and I were inseparable. For the better part of a year he slept in my bed, ate the meals I made just for him. He returned my kisses. When we made love, he surrendered completely. How can I escape Spencer? His presence lingers still as a tall and broad-shouldered apparition who wanders through my life with proud and graceful steps. I see him sprawled on my sofa, his toes pointed to the ceiling as he practices in the air the nimble legwork he picked up in ballet practice that afternoon. I see the books he gave me on the shelf by my bed, every time I rise in the morning and right before I crawl into the sheets after dark. Every time Spencer watched me dole out dried mackerel flakes to the cats as a treat, he’d wrinkle his nose and exclaim, It smells like a Korean whorehouse in here! I say aloud the same words now, almost nightly, as I divide up a palmful of the stuff. I still have an old bottle of his lotion beneath my bathroom sink, left over from before the move. There are some days I’ll sit on the edge of the tub, pop the cap, and remember his scent. Just for a moment, though. Then I attempt to stuff the hundred pounds of pain I’ll feel back into the seventy-five-pound container that’s all I have for it, and attempt to ignore the overflow. Originally I’d intended to write something sexy this week, but my plans went off the tracks over the weekend. I was already having one of those frustrating days when nothing’s absolutely wrong, but everything wasn’t really going my way. If I set something down, it was certain to spill or tumble; if I looked for milk in the fridge, the carton was sure to be empty save for a teaspoon. The clock stopped. All the batteries in every remote conked out. The mail contained nothing but bills. Then I sat down with my laptop, opened up one of my personal pages of social media, and saw that Spencer was getting married and staying in Europe. I’d suspected it was coming. He was finishing his program this month and hadn’t made any noises about coming home or about what he’d be doing after he was done. Instead, he’d moved into a new apartment with a new roommate. He’d made a couple of vague posts that sounded domestic. I wondered if he was seeing the guy with whom he’d moved in. I didn’t ask, though. I didn’t want to hear the answer. To find out that he was planning to marry the guy, though, came as a shock. After all the mild disappointments of the day, the news hit me in the midsection like a baseball bat. I sat in my chair for a minute, stunned. Then I had my first, genuine reaction: Well, good for him. I’d managed to run across his announcement just moments after he’d posted it. My congratulations were the first he received. I hit return. I bathed for a moment in all my memories of Spencer—the nights of lovemaking, the evenings watching television, the long snowy days when we cuddled beneath blankets and talked into the night. I let it all flood over me, losing track of the real world as every sense and sound and relived joy roared past. Then I came to, and numbly thought, Well, that’s that. This time, though, it felt as if I had to pack away two tons of sadness with only the same old seventy-five pound container. All week I dragged the remnants behind me like Jacob Marley’s chain. I keep going back to the moment when I found out, and parsing my reaction. I was genuinely glad for him. Spencer is amazing, and talented. I want him to be enormously happy and successful; he deserves to be with someone who understands and wants him and who can take care of him in a way I couldn’t—in a way that doesn’t have an expiration date built into it, anyway. He needs that. I was happy for Spencer first, and mournful for myself second. That’s the absolutely correct order. Spencer was unexpected joy during a dismal time in my life. He made a dark year not merely bearable, but wonderful. Special. I’ll never stop loving him for the light he brought into my life, or for the laughter and passion we shared in equal amounts. We were both lost boys when we clung naked to each other. Now he’s been found and taken home. Still, I think neither of us will entirely forget those cold nights made warm by being in each other’s arms. Nor will I ever be rid of his shadow as it tiptoes through my life from time to time, reminding me of the beautiful dancer who once, for a time, was mine. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Taking a six to eight weeks hiatus from my sex life—rather unwillingly, I might add—does a couple of things to a guy. For one, I was feeling so decidedly unsexy during the whole sick spell that I didn’t so much as masturbate the entire time. (To be honest, I was feeling so poorly that I didn’t even miss it.) After a month and a half-ish of abstinence, when my health roared back, my erection roared with it; I almost needed a bucket and a mop to clean up the load from that first orgasm. Whew. For another, it gave me a little distance and perspective on some issues I’d been taking for granted, over the last few years. Some of those I’m still thinking about. I’d like to address one of them, though, and get some reader feedback as well. Every online site that I know (not to imply that I sniff haughtily and turn up my nose at others) has some kind of function that allows a member to control who sees his photo. At the most basic, it allows him to set some photos to public, and some to private. Usually—unless there are explicit instructions on the website detailing that certain types of photos should not be visible to everyone—I leave all my photos open. Anybody can see them. Face, dick, the whole thing. In part I do so because I have a philosophy that I’m not really ashamed of who I am as a person, including my, shall we say, rather vibrant libido. I think I mentioned that when I first moved to the tri-state area I got a lecture from someone online—I think it was on Manhunt—who was absolutely appalled that I would allow a shot of my erect dick to appear next to my smiling mug. “That’s just not the way we do things here!” he shuddered, in what was the online Manhunt equivalent of fanning himself, reaching for his smelling salts, and groping delicately for a fainting couch. Fuck that. I think most grown adults are capable of imagining that other adult men not only have dicks of their own, but that sometimes they get erect and need attention. A dick is nothing of which to be ashamed. It’s a body part, like an elbow. I’m not ashamed of my face, of my nose, or of my junk. I’m not ashamed of being a sexual person. Besides, anyone who’s cruising Manhunt or any sex site isn’t there to exchange Christmas cookie recipes or talk about comparative religion. Anyone protesting about seeing a hard penis doth protest too much. The primary reason I went to all open photos a few years back, though, is because managing that dance of who unlocks first and when and why is just so tiring. One of the guys has to say unlock plz. Then the other has to say u first. Then there’s no u and i dont go 1st!! Sometimes there’s a standoff of epic proportions, a electronic peen-fight of chicken in which the loser has to unlock first and face the possibility of the other guy finding him unattractive . . . and the subsequent empty moment in which he realizes that the guy has blocked him, rejected him, and moved on to someone else. I figure that by letting guys see all of my photos, face, body, and dick alike, they can figure out on their own whether they want to make a further move. I’m spared having to exert my psychic powers and the services of the Delphic oracle to augur when might be the best strategic moment to unlock for the guy. Here’s the thing I’ve noticed since I began looking around online again, though. I have absolutely no patience for men who micromanage their photos. You probably know the type. They’re the ones on Manhunt who write long paragraphs in their profiles that in effect say, No offense but I lock my photos every time before I log off, so if you want to see them again, you will have to ask me. On BBRT and Adam4Adam in particular they have an annoying habit of unlocking and then locking again on some kind of accelerated internal time clock that seems to be connected to how quickly they want me to respond. Yesterday, for example, I was doing some legitimate work in another window of my laptop and tabbed over to my browser, where on A4A a guy had unlocked his photos for me. I looked at his profile. All the photos were locked. A minute later, I got another blinking note that the same guy had unlocked his photos for me. Now, my response time wasn’t sluggardly; I clicked on his profile in less than thirty seconds after I received the email. But there they were, locked again. I know it wasn’t a server error, either, because I wrote the guy the note that read Why do you keep locking your photos immediately after unlocking them? and got back the answer maybe u aren’t looking quick enough. Fuck that, too. I blocked the guy. I can speculate endlessly on the reasons guys micromanage their photos—who can see them, who can’t, for how long they allow the photos to be visible. A lot of the men, however, seem really to get off on the notion that guys are begging them to unlock—as if the number of requests they generate through denial is directly proportional to their virility and desirability. And some seem to be genuinely paranoid about what I might do with those photos, which in itself shows a mistrust I find borderline offensive. Look. Your photos are your photos, on these website. I fully support a guy’s right to set his own pictures to private. I encourage anyone to show online only what he’s comfortable sharing. That’s totally his right, and his business. But I swear to god, when a guy starts toinking around with viewing privileges and letting me see only the one out-of-focus shot of his upper thigh in a murky bathroom in the middle of the night in a February winter when he’s got seven other locked photos of which I might’ve gotten a brief glance before he snapped them shut again . . . well, I’ve discovered in the last couple of weeks that I’ve just lost the patience for that kind of gamesmanship. So I’m asking those of you guys who are confident to post photos online. What do you think about those who keep a tight rein on unlocking and relocking photos? Or if you’re one of the folk who relock frequently, what’re your reasons for doing so? And if all your photos are open and visible, why haven’t you shared the link with me yet? Sound off in the comments for today’s open forum! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The apartment building lobby is the plainest of the plain. Beige walls. Beige mailboxes near the doors. Beige carpet leading to beige staircases, everything inoffensive to the eye. No matter. I’m not here for the interior decorating. I take the stairs to the lower level and follow the hallway to the higher numbers. We’d arranged the tryst the night before, when I told him I’d be dropping the family at the train station early in the morning. I’ll put the key under the mat before I go to bed, he wrote me. How about you just come on in and get into bed with me. When I pull back the plastic mat in front of his door, it’s lying there, metallic and shiny. I slide it into the knob, twist, and feel the lock release. I ease the door open, step inside, and leave the key on the front table. The living room’s neat and inexpensively furnished. He’s drawn the blinds and curtains tight so that very little light leaks through. The CD tower, the computer desk, the back of the sofa are all silhouettes. Across the carpet I shuffle, past the kitchen and the bathroom and down the short hallway to the end. It’s stuffy in here; he keeps the heat high. He’s beneath a thick duvet. I can see his close-cropped short hair in the dark, but not much else. He’s still as I stand by the bed and remove my shoes, my socks, my sweater. He’s breathing deeply. Perhaps he’s faking, but it sounds as if he’s fast asleep. That won’t last long. I remove my T-shirt. Unbuckle my belt. It makes a faint metallic sound as it and my pants slide to the floor. I step out of my trunks. The only things I’m wearing now are a cock ring and a smirk. He stirs a little when his naked flesh is exposed to air. It’s only a few minutes after seven in the morning. I’m still pretty sure he’s sleeping—or he’s doing a mighty fine job of faking it. I pause to admire his body. It’s a crapshoot with photos online, you know. Some are old, some are deceptive. Some guys just photograph better than they appear in person, and it’s only afterward that you go back to the pics and see all the things that should’ve been obvious on the first viewing: the clever angle that hides the paunch, the body stretch that hides the hunched shoulders, the bad skin that’s been smoothed by a blur. This guy hasn’t deceived me in the least. His photos showed a lean and athletic Latin man with face stubble trimmed in a Nike swoop across his chin, fit and fine. And that’s exactly what he is. One of his arms lies by his side while the other clutches the pillow. They’re as muscular as his photos, bulging in a way that makes my cock stir. His ass is a marvel of worked-out roundness. There’s a trace of fur across the cheeks, and a valley of the stuff between them. He has one leg pulled up so that I can almost—almost—see his hole. I lay down on the white sheets next to him and pull the duvet over our bodies. It’s warm beneath the heavy textiles. Warmer still when I slide behind him. My cock finds his crack, the hardness of it nuzzling the furry crack. My right arm burrows beneath the pillow as my left surrounds his chest. I pull him close to me. It’s then that he begins to waken—or to do an Oscar-worthy imitation of it. He startles; I see his head jerk to see who’s joined him. Either he recognizes me in the near-dark, or he remembers his promises of the night before, because he settles, then melts into me. I’m kissing the back of his neck, running the flat of my hand up and over the bristles of his hair. His shoulders are broad; I run my palms over their natural bulk, down his biceps, over the light hair of his forearms. My left hand grabs at his ass, squeezing it, stroking it, grabbing at it. When I pull apart his cheeks, my cock hones in on its target, rubbing against the outermost ring of his hole. He curses softly, and buries his face in the pillow. I slide down between his legs. I hear him moan a little bit as my hands pull apart his ass. It’s mine, this ass. He’s giving it to me. He’s pushing it up against my breath, humping the mattress fruitlessly in need and frustration. I know he can feel my hot breath against his skin. I know he can feel my beard against his flesh, prickling when he moves against it. Desire is making him anxious. Even his respiration increases. If I laid my hand on his chest, I’d feel his heart fluttering like a bird. I pull apart his ass and dive in with my face. His hole tastes good. It’s lightly sweaty from a good night’s sleep, but it’s obviously clean. He reacts as if he’s never had it eaten before. Bucks. Whimpers. Lets loose with a ******* of Spanish I don’t really understand. I don’t need to brush up on my high school foreign language skills, though. I know what he’s telling me by the way he pushes, by the way his hole opens for my tongue. He clutches at his pillow as he would a lover. I manhandle his cheeks. I don’t care if my paws leave prints on that round butt. He can’t complain. He knew, when he left that key beneath his apartment mat on the lower level, that I’d take ownership. For long minutes I chew at his hole. My lips and teeth draw it out, make it wink at me. His breath is increasingly short and raspy. My own cock is retribution itself, stiff and red and angry. Pre-cum is soaking his sheets. I want to punish him for making me this way, for making me need release in these wet and puffy ass lips. I flip him over so that he’s on his back, then rise between his legs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him face to face. His eyes are dark and round obsidian, glinting in what morning light has infiltrated the bedroom. There’s that little swoop of facial hair, the obscenely handsome face. His chest is hair-free, but lightly freckled. There’s a trail of fur leading down from his navel, though, and he lifts his hairy legs into the air without my having to ask. I stare at him while I spit in my hand and mix it with the lube my dick’s already been pumping out on my own. He must have been doing the same to me. His eyes finish their dance across my face and body. “God damn,” he whispers at me. “You are a hot daddy.” “You know what I’m here for, boy,” I whisper back. They’re the first words we’ve uttered to each other. I can see him gulp and strain to try to look at my dick. I’ve already seized his ankles with my left hand, however, as I’ve guided my cock to his hole. It’s engorged with lust for the guy. It wants to split him wide open. “You ready?” I ask. He bites his lip. Nods. Then his head jerks back. He gargles out incomprehensible noises as I slide into that wet, tight hole. His ass wraps around my meat tightly in a hot embrace. His body shakes. Struggles. Then I pass through his tight inner ring; I can feel it stretch and open around my head. I pause. When I loom over him and brace myself on the mattress, my face directly over his, he stares up at me with half-closed eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. He looks almost drugged, but I know that expression well. It’s the expression boys wear when they’re truly in the moment, feeling full and complete and in love with my dick. Hell, I’ve challenge myself to make every man wear that look, every time I fuck. “You’re welcome, son,” I say softly. Then, as he clings to my arms, I drive the rest of my inches home. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I sat down this evening to write about an incident from my youth that had been on my mind for the last couple of days. I got a couple of paragraphs in, and then thought to myself, "Hey, maybe you'd better check to see if you've written about this guy before." Surely enough, I had, two years ago. Sigh. Apparently the story wants to be repeated again, though. So here it is once more. To my readers in the U.S., I wish you guys a happy Thanksgiving. And to everyone else, I wish you many things for which to be thankful. When I was a kid during the nineteen-seventies, would occasionally throw end-of-semester Christmas parties in our home right before the holidays started. Days before the party they'd start making a go of cleaning the living room, though for neither of them was tidiness ever a strong point. They weren't drinkers, but the colleagues and students they'd invite to these yearly shindigs would show up laden with spirits, and there'd be leftovers. Our basement bathroom—a mildewy, forbidding place that seemed so much like the movie set of a serial killing that I'm still reluctant to enter it when I visit my dad's home—was filled with liquor bottles that we'd begin hauling up the night before, until the dining room table was crowded with liquids of different colors (and of dubious age). My mother's ash trays got a thorough cleaning and the good ones were strewn around strategic places; my dad would pull out a bunch of LPs and eight-track tapes and have them stacked by the stereo. My mom would spend an afternoon in the kitchen with cans and an opener and a jar of mayonnaise and emerge with space-aged canapés. The cats were banished outdoors. After a cold dinner, and before the doorbell would ring, I'd be sent to my room for the evening. Faculty parties were not for the young. They were exotic, especially when I was fairly young. From my room, with a book in my lap, I'd listen to the swinging strains of psychedelia on the stereo, often improbably mixed with Nat King Cole singing Christmas carols, or Peter, Paul, and Mary. I'd listen to the laughter and smell the cigarette smoke and the clink of the liquor bottles and the increasingly loud and inebriated conversation and think to myself, This is what being grown up is all about. My parents' guests were usually two-thirds other faculty from the university, and the rest were upper-level undergrads or graduate students. One of the things I used to do as a ritual, after the party had started, would be to go through their coats. They all lay there on my parents' beds, taken upstairs and tossed on the mattresses upon entering. When it was quiet upstairs, I'd tiptoe out and into my parents' room and just examine what their colleagues and students were carrying in their pockets. Mostly it was boring stuff like keys, or small change, or cellophane-wrapped Kraft caramels. Once in a while I'd stumble upon cigarettes, or more frequently, tiny little unsmoked joints tucked away in breast pockets, acrid-smelling and spilling weed from their twisted ends. I had to time my stealthy investigations right. More often than not I'd be interrupted, either by hapless students looking for the bathroom, or couples (not always married, not always of the same generation) looking for a private tryst among the coats. I wouldn't say that my parents' parties were orgies, exactly, but they had their share of fucking. In the bedroom, among the wraps. In the spare bedroom, on the rusty twin bed that had been my father's as a boy. Outside in the back yard, behind the massive brick nineteen-fifties barbecue. In the basement, or down the outside cellar steps. And once, in my room. I was pretty young the night that Dr. Jones came into my bedroom. It was late—late enough that I'd given up watching the little portable TV from the kitchen that my parents had lugged up to my room for me to watch that evening, and had gotten into bed, but not so late that I was asleep. I had a book in my lap, and my knees propped up, and had stripped down to a T-shirt and briefs. Then my door opened. "Anyone home?" asked a tall black man. He slipped in quietly, raised a finger to his mouth to indicate I not say anything, and then made a pantomime of tiptoeing to my bed. I knew Dr. Jones from my dad's office. They were in the same department; I'd seen him a couple of times a year since I'd been five or six—enough to recognize the face and associate a name, but not enough that we'd ever actually spoken. I raised my eyebrows. I think I told him that the bathroom was on the other side of the upstairs hall. "Oh, I'm not here for the bathroom," he said. The man sat down on the edge of my bed. He was in his forties or fifties, and had a grizzled beard limned with white; it looked like his halo had slipped over his head and around his neck. An oversized mole decorated his dark, dark skin on his forehead; he had a large, nineteen-seventies Afro shot with gray perched like a helmet on his head. "Just needed to get away from the party." He reeked of alcohol. His eyes, though unwavering as he stared at me, had that liquid sheen of the thoroughly inebriated. I nodded, and waited for him to say something. "So," he started, putting his hand on my knee. Then, finding that awkward, he removed it. "You're just . . . sitting up here, real quiet?" I told him I was. "Must be real nice to be up here, where it's . . . quiet." Again, his hand landed on my leg. This time, it made its way up to my thigh. Dr. Jones might have been an expert in African history, but subtle he was not. "What you doing there, boy?" he asked, when he reached my hip. "Nothing," I told him. Despite myself, my boner was raging beneath the covers. "You must be doing something, if you're making me do this." He pulled down the sheets. "I didn't come up here thinking I was going to do this. Must be you making me do it." Maybe that kind of talk worked on other young guys, but I saw through it. His big hands pulled apart my legs, right below the knee. I didn't resist "You are a real pretty boy," he told me. "Real, real pretty. You got that creamy skin I like so much. Don't be scared, now." He talked like Barry White on a quiet storm radio station after midnight, and I have to confess that I was more aroused than frightened. "You got those pretty blue eyes, looking at me like that. You're making me do this," he said. "It ain't me, baby." His lips were on my calf, my knee, my groin, and then he was pulling up my T-shirt and yanking on my briefs. I heard the crackling of their elastic as he yanked them down, hard. My barely-teen cock flopped out of the cotton and slapped audibly against my belly. "See what you gone and did?" he asked, breathing heavily on my twitching, hard flesh. "You made me do this." Dr. Jones roughly grabbed my balls, almost making me yelp out in pain. Then his mouth engulfed my dick. I'd had sex by that point, a few times. Even in my limited experience I could tell he wasn't the best of my encounters. He used too much teeth; he created too much suction rather than let his mouth and lips travel up and down the shaft. He was simply too drunk to do much good. But a blow job was a blow job, and I'd spent the evening waiting for the party to end so I could turn out my lights and masturbate and get to sleep. A stranger's mouth on me was even better than that. It didn't take very long before my young nuts were retracting and my dick started to pulse out a tiny load of semen. Dr. Jones swallowed it all. "Fuck," he said. "See what you did?" He mumbled another sentence or two into my balls, as he nuzzled there. Then he was very, very still. He was asleep, in fact. Apparently no one from the party noticed he was missing for over an hour. Not until people were starting to drift off into the December night did my father come into my room. "Have you seen—?" he asked, and then saw himself what he was looking for. Dr. Jones, sprawled on his back, head lolling over the mattress edge, arms at his side, snoring loudly at the very bottom of the bed where I'd rolled him. "Gawrsh," said my dad. He rolled his eyes. I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I were used to adults passing out on my bed every night of the week. "Was he a pain?" My dad dipped down and grabbed his colleague beneath the arms, trying to stand him to his feet. I told him that he wasn't, not really. "Come on, Lamont," he said, shaking the older man. "Time to go home." Dr. Jones hadn't stirred up the entire time he'd slumbered, after that hasty blow job he'd given me. He opened his eyes in confusion, saw my dad, saw me, and then became very suddenly and drunkenly awake. "It's okay," said my dad, gently escorting him from the room. "Come on. We'll get you some coffee." And that was my one and only encounter with Dr. Jones. I got the impression he was never really sure of exactly what we'd done, if anything; his memory was probably hazy of those confused few minutes before he passed out. Whenever I'd pass him with one of my parents in the department offices, he'd blink at me and work his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite decide what. I, in the meantime, would only smile in the same way I smiled at any of my parents' colleagues, without betraying what happened between us. If he thought it was a fantasy—well, at least he had a hell of a good fantasy. More...

Oh, I've bottomed. Your recollection is correct. It's just not often, and not with a lot of confidence. I would hesitate before I just offered it up, much less advertised it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During my lengthy and delirious illness last month, at least I managed to bring a little comedy into the household. There was the time, for example, that I decided it would be nice for everyone in the immediate vicinity if I took a shower. I got up, blundered into the bathroom, turned on the faucets, and then went back to bed to wait for the water to warm up . . . then I promptly fell asleep for ninety minutes. On the minus side of that, all the walls of my flat were moist for the rest of the evening. On the plus side, no one complained about dry skin for a few days. I also discovered that an extended illness makes me even more absent-minded than usual—and here we’re already talking about a pretty high baseline in which I’m doddering around mumbling, What was I about to do next? or Where are my pants? or What month is it? I got up one morning determined to be helpful, emptied a can of food onto a plate for the cats, and then left it for some reason on top of a bedroom dresser. (The cats found it, eventually.) I put a DVD box set in the refrigerator, and left a half-full container of ice cream in a cupboard. (The cats found that eventually, too.) But I think the oddest mistake I made during those long weeks was when I accidentally switched from top to bottom for a couple of weeks. That was interesting. I think I did it on one of my more feverish days. I logged into a site and saw that for some reason, the little ‘About me’ box still had some travel plans listed in it from, well, 2012. I went to change it. Somehow I managed to do so. But along the way, the same way I ended up putting ice cream next to the spaghetti in a cupboard, I managed to change a menu item from top to bottom. And I didn’t notice, or even think about it, for a few days. I was feeling decidedly unsexy during my illness. I think it was the first time in my life I’ve gone a month without even so much as an erection. I wasn’t online much. If I was, it was to look at the pretty pictures, not because I was actively cruising. But a couple of days after I think I made my little error, I started to get emails from guys I’d never seen before. Nice dick, but what’s your ass like? one guy wanted to know. Damn boy I want to shove this dick up that tiny pink hole, said another. U pretty. how hard u like 2 b fucked son? read the third. By that time, I was kind of noticing a pattern here. (Actually, I was busy blushing and modestly muttering, “Pretty? Son? Oh, go on,” at the last guy’s mail.) At first I ascribed it to something in the air—some random alignment of the stars that was making all the guys in the area feel more toppish than usual. It took me a full week to figure out I’d been a dumbass who’d accidentally flipped the switch on my profile. By the time I’d actually clued in to what I’d done, though, I’d come to a couple of conclusions. The first was a gratifying realization that if I ever did decide to pack up my erection and take dick for a living, I at least wouldn’t be coming up totally dry. The second was that my bottomy profile seemed to attract a definite type—namely, uncut men of color. I mean, some of the dicks on these guys who were messaging me about my little pink fuckhole were massive, meaty slabs of thick dark meat that made me look like a wee little tadpole in comparison. The men themselves were hot and handsome guys for the most part. Muscular. Built. Some in their twenties, some in their fifties, and lots from in between. Most of them were outspokenly aggressive. No white guys. Most were black, but there were a good number of Latin men in there as well. And I kept looking at those profiles and thinking to myself, Damn, that is really tempting. I’m not really sure what the attraction was on their part, unless it was the notion that they weren’t going to find a better contrast to their own skin than my lard-white complexion. I was flattered enough not to question it. Don’t worry, full-time bottoms. I know you’ve got enough competition amongst yourselves without a fever-addled amateur mucking things up. I’m not flipping. If I were, though, at least I’d be consoled by the thought that I’d still be popular in some beds. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Many of you—well, some of you at least—have been wondering where I’ve been for the past month. Was I dead? Did the stalkers get me? Did I at last come to my senses and make a devout vow to keep my dick in my pants and my hands off other men’s junk and never again to kneel on a floor except in godly prayer? Nah. I was just sick. It started off as one of those things in which I felt fragile and slightly delicate. Like some heroine in a regency romance, I wanted to fan myself, clutch the arm of a fainting couch, and declare that I’d been overcome with the vapors. Then the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back for roughly four weeks, staring at the ceiling and groggily wishing that someone could just put me into an induced coma and wake me up when it was all over. I had the chills, I had fevers, I had nightmares. Fun stuff. Early in the month I managed to drag myself to the doctor. He looked me over, said I was dehydrated, and then sent me to the phlebotomist for blood work. The phlebotomist was a big German woman with her hair in a bun. “Sit!” she ordered, pointing me to her chair. I sat. “Roll up ze sleeves!” I rolled ‘em. Because she really did talk like that, and I was frightened to disobey. She reminded me of Frau Blücher in Young Frankenstein. I watched as she poked and prodded the insides of my arms. “Vhy do you have no weins?” she wanted to know. “Make ze fist! Clench ze fist! Relax ze fist!” Her expert fingers felt like they were leaving bruises as she searched for the missing weins—I mean, veins. “You are dehydrated!” she announced at last, as if I’d done it on purpose just to spite her. “Yes, the doctor said that,” I agreed. “This is no good! No good!” she yelled at last. In the distance, horses whinnied and lightning flashed. She untied the length of elastic from around my right arm and tourniquetted it onto my left, then scowled as if she intended to scare the veins into appearing. They didn’t. Finally she prodded around some more. “Most men, they have big strong manly weins!” she told me. “You, though! You have leetle beety baby weins! For you I use leetle beety baby needle for your leetle beety baby weins!” I felt obscurely defensive on behalf of my little bitty baby veins. “I’m big where it counts,” I protested. Frau Blücher stared at me. Then she let out a hearty laugh that rocked the fillings right out of my teeth. “Beeg where it counts! Hah-hah-hah!” So at least I made a new friend there. The doctor didn’t do much for me other than refer me to a specialist, whom I couldn’t get in to see for a good two weeks. The specialist, however, gave me some much-coveted drugs that have been, knock wood, getting me back on track. That is, at least I’m spending most of my days upright rather than imprinting the fabric texture of my sofa onto my face while I drool and blankly watch The Chew. When I’m sick, though, I really don’t feel like writing. There were times in my youth when I imagined to myself that should I ever be struck down by some fatal, lingering illness, that I’d use my remaining time to pen some touching, insightful, and beautifully-written memoir about my malady. Nope! I now know that if that time ever comes (knock wood again) I apparently will be the first to say, “Fuck that mess.” Then I’ll lie in my hospital bed scarfing down junk food. (Sadly, my appetite was the only thing unaffected last month.) But when it’s difficult for me to string together anything more coherent than “More aspirin, please”, it’s tough to write blog entries. There were a couple of times I hauled out my laptop and contemplated posting something brief just to allay the fears of my readers, but then I’d think about the effort I’d have to put into pushing all those little keys and it would seem like way too much work for what I could manage. Thanks to those of you who emailed or left comments while I was out of commission. As I said, I’m feeling somewhat better, and anticipate getting back to my normal energy levels soon. Bear with me while I get back to speed, would you? More...