TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “If I were to write a poem about you,” someone said about me not too long ago, “I’d write about the feel of your skin, the smell of you, the way you taste on my tongue. You’d be the best poem I ever wrote.” The poem that came out of that encounter is certainly the best poem I’ve ever read. Thank you for writing it about our night together, Ace. It’s beautiful. And thank you for letting me share it with my readers. Someday I’ll Read You This Poem and You’ll Fall in Love with Me All Over Againlying beside you crushed pushing my way inside hard press pull me through envelope me deeper and longer this is not about sex two bodies rubbed and raw lubricated by sweat this is not about sex me trying to push the other side so far in I’m nearly out your nimble back jumps my fingers trace your nerves pattern of swirling war pant the scars from pulling marking passage of flames and breath can’t compare your taste to chocolate can’t compare your taste to flowers there is nothing before worthy nothing to describe pleasure not sweet not sour not bitter not salt not umami your taste of the absence of taste if I sound obsessed it is because I am obsessed with the sound of you the way you play upon my lips you vibrate inside me you shake around me a drum slowly beating crooning “row row row” while you skip at the cool air I blow over you this is about love the way it can grow at a moment a moment grows to a year or more this is about love our love will make pulling apart worse the pain a testament to our pleasure More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here You guys remember my personal friend FelchingPisser. He's written a couple of guest columns for me before in which he's described some of his adventures with Chgowaterbuddies and at MAL. He's irresistible to me not only because he's hot as hell in person, but because he's an intelligent and educated pig whose philosophy of fucking corresponds pretty well to my own. As a person, he's a gem. And when he volunteers to write a column for me, I leap at the chance, because I know you guys enjoy him, too. Today he's written in to recount some of his adventures in Cleveland, where he went for the annual CLAW convention. Be sure to thank him for his contribution (and his general hotness) in the comments, would ya? (And as a personal note to FelchingPisser: I want to know more!) Thursday It had been an awful Thursday morning: A few hours at work where no one returned phone calls or emails. Packing the car quickly before it rained. Realizing seven miles out of town I had not packed my boots. A U-turn with a litany of profanity. Stopping by my parent’s assisted living facility to pay for next month--to be told it now had to be mailed to corporate headquarters. Garbage. I need to escape: CLAW X I head south to Toledo. Past the Breeder’s favorite rest area (too bad it’s on the wrong side of the highway…). I stop at the glory hole bookstore in Toledo to buy lube---and to find the arcade is closed for cleaning….Jeez--Come ON!! I arrive in Cleveland with ease. Find the Hampton Inn with ease. My mood is brightening. I’d asked for a single king-size bed--so I’d have room for the sling. And that’s what they give me. Set up is a breeze. Move around an easy chair and the sling sits in one corner with the rim seat next to it. Have a sling and hungry bottoms will beat a path to your door… Quick dinner and online. It’s set up day for CLAW and the leather crowd is busy, so I’m guessing I will play with a local who appreciates the leather boys coming to town. Instantly I get a hit. My earlier mood has evaporated. In three emails each we connect, approve and meet. YES! The way it’s supposed to work. He’s at my door in no time. A furry blue collar man with a nice build, great chest hair pattern and who swears he can be fucked for hours. He strips. I am in a jock and boots with my leather wrist band. The leather is in the drawer and that’s just fine with both of us. He drops to his knees and proceeds to make the jock incredibly wet before he takes my cock out. He gags as I reach my full hardness in his throat. I toss him on the bed, on all fours and dive into his furry ass. I lick his hole deep. I spread the cheeks and go deeper still--he is panting and babbling. I rear up and slowly slip my cock home. “Jesus.” I don’t move for a moment. “Is that the cock you wanted so much?” “Fuck, yeah” I slowly begin to move. His breathing is rapid--then he starts talking absolute filth. “Fill me with your cock. Your fucking huge dick. Fuck, yeah. Fuck me with that dripping pole. Yeah, make me feel it. Fuck. Yeah, Fuck. I want your cock snot deep in me. Fuck…” I reach down and hold the back of his head, pushing his face into the covers of the bed. It doesn’t stop him reciting his mantra--it just makes it unintelligible. We continue on the bed for awhile. Then I pull him up and get him into the sling. His ass is spread wide and he can’t keep his index finger out of this ass. I kneel and begin licking around the outside edge. As he pulls his finger out, I lick it off and dive for the hole. His sizable cock is erect. I come up for air and suck just the head into my mouth. I press my fingers against his balls to milk it into my mouth. He gasps as his cock spits a large amount of precum onto my tongue. I don’t swallow. No, I stuff it up his ass with my tongue. “Oh, fuck. You put my cum in my hole.” I repeat the process. My own cock is leaking. I smear that against his puffy hole, then push it in deep with my tongue. Finally, my cock enters him again. The chains rattle in time to my thrusts and to his voice. He’s back to babble as we are both lost in sensation. I seem to fuck forever--I know the porn on the computer is over. I pull out, make him clean my cock, then I clean his dripping dick and put it all up his ass. “Get up. I want to eat that precum out of your hole.” I lie under the rim seat. He sits gingerly on it. “I’ve never done this.” The seat spreads his hole and my tongue goes deep the first moment. “Shit!” The strands of precum are dripping from his ass into my mouth. I feel like I’ve never been deeper in anyone’s hole. He’s jerking now, too. My tongue swirls, laps, eats every last incredible drop. Finally, my jaw gives out. I tap his thighs--to get him up. It’s back to the sling. I drive home. I know I’m close. So does he. “Give it to me. Give it to this cock whore.” I shoot. Deep. Long. Big. A good five days worth of cum. My knees buckle and I’m lying on him. “Please. Eat my hole.” I slowly pull out and begin felching my mega load out of him. “Fuck, yeah. Eat that cum!” In a few swift strokes he spews, almost to his chin. I start to go for his load, but he pushes me away and is up, out of the sling--wiping himself down with the sling towel--and out the door with barely a word spoken-- except for a soft, barely audible “Thanks--that was hot.” Friday I start the day by having the Hampton’s breakfast buffet with other leathermen--and a gaggle of teenagers on a field trip-- all watching the Royal Wedding instant replay. Back in my room, I read the Open Forum Friday on Cocksuckers over one more cup of coffee. By one o’clock it’s off to registration at the main hotel--easier this year, then the endless lines of other years. I go down to the Vendor’s Mart, and say hello to my buds at The Leather Man. Everywhere I turn, I swear there is a man I played with from previous years: The piss drinker, The guy I fucked on the motorcycle, The glory hole booth guy I fucked as he was sucking cock, The boy who found me every time he took a load so I could felch it. My dance card could be filled just with these re-dos. I wander the various displays of goods, but feel no need to reach for my wallet. I walk home--I’m ready to play. Almost immediately I am hit up on Man-Hunt by a guy who wants to suck my cock. I type back that I’m looking for more. He says I can fuck him, but he’s not sure he can take my size. I respond with saying that still sounds problematic. He asks if he can recommend a bottom for both of us to use. Now he’s talking--I check this new guy’s pics--Yes! 15 minutes later, the would-be sucker knocks on my door. He’s far better looking than his pics, (early 40’s, hairy, defined but not worked out) and sports a large wedding ring. We strip and don’t wait for the third. He is hungry. He is on his knees and slurping on my thickening cock. I pull him up, get him on the bed, with his head hanging over the edge to fuck his face. He moans as my cock slaps his nose and cheek. I insert slowly. Adding half an inch at a time. He’s panting. And jerking like mad. I hope he lasts until the bottom arrives. Just as I have a good fuck rhythm started, there is a knock on the door… I open the door on an attractive guy, about the same age, but of slightly smaller build. Rick, he tells me. I greet him and return to Married Guy on the bed. He hangs his head right back over, telling me to fuck his face. I start, as the bottom strips. He jumps on the bed with us, gets between MG’s legs and starts sucking. He sits on MG’s cock as soon as it’s slightly wet and gets massive points from me for finding my mouth with his own--while there is still some precum in it. I pull out of MG’s mouth and go around to see the fucking. His cock is thicker than I’d thought--and looks terrific in the bottom’s ass. I lean forward and lick the disappearing shaft. Excellent. I stand on the bed, straddling MG. I kiss Rick to see if he’s ok with the Ass To Mouth moment. His answer is to groan, and stick his tongue deeper into mine. We kiss--lost in the exchange of juices. I straighten up and put my cock into Rick’s mouth as he continues to ride. Wow, no bad blow jobs here. Soon I am lying on the bed. I have Rick bouncing on my cock and MG sitting on my face. He almost suffocates me. But I kinda like that. After a few minutes, I suggest it would be easier with the rimseat. I get under. But Rick sits on the seat to let me taste what the two cocks have done to his hole. MG is standing up so Rick can suck him as I eat Rick‘s ass. The smell of poppers in the room is almost overpowering. After what seems like a long time the guys switch. I’m still in place, but now I’m rimming MG’s ass as Rick slowly inserts my cock in his incredibly wet hole. I have to use every ounce of will not to shoot. I get past it and let him control the fuck. I have no choice, really. I’m fucking pinned to the floor by two men in heat. “Fuck me in the sling,” Rick whispers. Both stand and Rick helps me up. I let MG slide into him first. He fucks but looks like he could blow any minute. He pulls out and tells me he wants to watch me fuck. I enter the bottom again. But the new position of Rick on his back feels totally different. “Oh, God…you go so deep,” he hisses. “Fuck!” I start to slam into him. Hard. After several minutes, MG says if he’s gonna try my cock it has to be now. Rick gets out of the sling, MG gets in. I rim for another moment…hoping he can take me. I meet with a clenched hole. I tongue him some more as Rick bites his nipple. That opens him right up. I stand and insert. MG is panting. I wonder if he’s going to hyperventilate. He is still tight. I start to fuck. Slowly. His eyes roll into the back of his head. Rick continues on his nipples. I increase the pace. We both sense he‘s going to blow fast. Rick dives for his cock, pulling away his hand. He’s just in time. He gets a mouthful of cum as MG groans. I slow the fuck and ease out of his married hole. Rick comes around the sling frame and kisses me, snowballing the load. I make a noise deep in my throat and bend him over, on top of MG. I spread his well fucked ass cheeks and reverse felch the load now in my mouth into Rick’s hot, wet hole. It’s his turn to groan. MG holds on to him as I slip my dripping cock into Rick--pushing the load deep. Where he’d really wanted it. Where he’d had it many other times…. I fuck for a bit, but MG needs to take off. I reposition Rick on the bed, doggie style, as MG dresses, excuses himself and leaves. I dip down and taste his hole again. Fabulous. It’s so good I scramble up on the bed to share the taste still on my tongue with Rick. I lose all track of time, I have no idea how long we fuck--never leaving the bed again. Finally, with his legs on my shoulders, his eyes locked with mine, I grunt, grind and thrust a load deep into his guts. I collapse on him--Rick pulling me tighter. I leave my meat in place to marinate. Our breathing stills, becomes one--and he’s asleep in my arms. I am close to sleep myself. Maybe I nod off. Long minutes later, I pull away just enough to look at him still sleeping, his breathing on the edge of a snore. It’s a mini triumph for me--the first man I’ve allowed to sleep in my arms since I became a widower… Friday Night Rick has gone. I’ve slept and eaten a late supper. It’s 10 o’clock and I need to dress for the Recon/reFlex play party. This is what makes CLAW different than other leather events--it’s not just hotel sex, there is a playspace. Over the years they have had various dungeon spaces, but for the last few, the Flex bathhouse has given them the upper floor of a warehouse that is not part of the regular bathhouse. There are slings, gloryholes, crosses, a bondage table, a tire swing, a fuck bench, a motorcycle to bend your boy over, and a barnyard feeding trough for piss play. It is modeled on the Fort Troff Maneuvers spaces. I open the closet door. The smell of leather fills the room. I am showered and naked. I add the metal, slightly rusty cockring. Yellow jock. Thick wool socks. Combat boots. Chaps. Harness. Left black leather wrist band. Right black and yellow wrist band. I look at myself in the mirror. Yeah. I slip into the flight suit to cover it all so I can walk through the lobby. The doors open at 11. I check in at 11:30. I like to watch the troops gather. First stop the piss trough. Still empty, but I christen it with a long flow. One of the guys watching me is the man I fucked across the motorcycle last year after he’d spent hours on the bondage table. He’s hot, my age, looks like the mechanic we all wish was under our car. He stops me from putting my cock away. He kneels and begins to give excellent head. It’s like an alarm sounds--or our images are flashed on a huge screen--for we go from being almost alone to suddenly ringed with guys watching us. Neither of us care. My cock is now hard. He leaves it and starts sucking my balls. A hand snakes out of the crowd and wrenches my cock as if it were just a hunk of salami. I remove the offending hand and put it back in the cocksuckers mouth. Hands are on my nipples, my ass cheeks, on the back of the boy’s head. A short Hispanic boy, with an tool nearly as big as mine, is the one forcing him down on me. We get him up. I pull the boy’s pants down, bend him toward the Hispanic’s cock and kneel to lick his hole. I don’t spend long. I get it wet, stand, slap my cock on his hole. He grunts around the dick lodged in his throat. The crowd is jacking. I insert, driving him all the way down on the cock in his mouth. I fuck. I turn him around. He hungrily cleans my cock as the Hispanic slips up him. Eventually we take him to a sling and continue tagging his ass. No one is looking to cum. We have hours to pace ourselves and sample all sorts of men. The crowd is building. It’s hard to tell, but I would guess 100 to 125 men are there. I eventually head back to the piss tub. A boy is reclining in it. I wet him down, letting my piss play around his hard cock, up his chest and flirting with his mouth. I let him decide if he wants to drink. Of course he does. He dips and slurps. The next few hours become a blur of hungry mouths, hungrier holes, and some piss pouring down my gullet. I am in a state of constant arousal. I make my way around the to the fuck bench. A young Asian sub is in it being plowed by a massively muscled black man. It’s absolutely riveting. The crowd is stroking, but no one seems to be allowed to touch the boy. I join the audience watching the fuck from the side. The top’s arm snakes out and pulls me to him. “Fuck my boy bareback. But don’t cum in him.” He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I kneel and taste the sweet, young hole. My cock pushes in. The boy squeals for his daddy. But daddy is busy selecting some lucky hole from the crowd. He brings the chosen bottom over in front of his boy and bends him over. The two bottoms grab onto each other as we plow. We fuck in rhythm so the two boys are mashed toward each other. The site of the four of us leads to any number of other couplings around us. There is fucking everywhere. The black top tells me to let a guy to my right into his boy and I should try the guy he got out of the crowd. We change…my new hole is very wet. Then as suddenly as it erupted, it all stops as the Black top pulls his boy up and away. I head back to the piss area. Two gorgeous leather clad men in full gear are about to piss. I kneel in front of one. “I’m piss shy,” he says. “But I’m not.” His boy friend pushes over to me. His cock rests lightly on my tongue. No sucking now. Just wait. He starts to piss. It’s everything I love about piss drinking. Sweet tasting. And that endless flow. That never ending cumshot. I start to suckle a little on his cock. I hear his boyfriend piss in the tub behind us. Having piss fill me up makes me instantly erect. As he finishes pissing, the man I’m drinking leans over and touches my cock. “Look at this thing.” The piss shy boy makes me stand up. The top fondles my cock along with the boy. “You’d like that up your hole wouldn’t you?” The boy only nods. I look at the feeder. He nods. I bend the pee shy boy over the tub and begin to rim. Great hole. I push in. His partner begins kissing me as I fuck his boyfriend. I think this may be it. I’m closer to cumming now than I’ve been all night. An older man reaches out to touch us. The boys will have none of that, dammit. They stop me and say come back to the hotel. I consider---but say no. I make the circuit of all the playspaces. But I‘ve been spoiled. Nothing looks good now. Until I get to the fuck bench. A muscle god in leather. Tattooed angel wings on his back. Arms that make me weak-kneed. And he only has eyes for my cock. I get him in the sling next to the fuck bench. I kneel, at worship for those gym built thighs. His ass is all muscle. I use my hands to part those cheeks to let my tongue in. He whimpers. I ‘m sure I can taste some cum. There may be a crowd, but we are lost in what we are doing for each other. I rise, wipe my drooling cock head on his hole. “Oh, yeah!” he moans. “You want this in you?” “Fuck man. I need some cum. I’ve only got a couple of loads.” I kneel and lick my precum off his hole, lean across him and kiss him. Long, wet, passionate. My brain clicks. I know I will load this man. I slowly begin working my cock in as we kiss. He is sucking so hard on my tongue that I can barely get my breath. I start slowly fucking. It builds rapidly. Faster than I meant to. His ass is doing incredible things on the entire length of my cock. We are beyond words. I begin to buck wildly into his ass. “Breed me. Come on, breed me!” I thump on his chest. “Yeah. Yeah.” “Fuck me!” I begin a low rumble in the back of my throat. “Fuuuckkkkkkk!” I shoot. A build up of hours and hours of play. I collapse across him. He holds me. I can’t stand. His ass will not let me pull out. Nor do I want to. I kiss him. He responds hungrily. Slowly we return to be aware of others around us. From out of the crowd, a cute young leather man emerges. His boyfriend. I slowly pull out. The boyfriend samples the left over jizz on my cock. I help the muscle god out of the sling. We hug. Tight. They leave. I hold on to the sling and pull myself together. I retrieve my bag and slip into the flight suit. I slowly make my way down the stairs and out to the car. It’s 4:30 am. Five hours of play--not bad. Not bad at all… Coda: Those are the first two days of my four day trip. I’ll post the rest later if The Breeder, and you folks, would like to know more…. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There used to be a group in the area—I know they still exist elsewhere—in which a bunch of gay guys would agree to meet at a straight bar for a night of revelry. No one would know the bar's location until the very last minute, and then they'd swoop down and take over for the night. Guerilla gay bar, it's called. Well, I was out with friends last night and had the tables turned. A party bus stopped in front of my usual Saturday-night haunt and belched out dozens of straight couples, who proceeded to come in and take over the place. They whooped and hollered and wore sequined cowboy hats and scarves around their heads (the men and women alike), and generally took over so much of the bar that the regulars were all pushed into the back, where it was less crowded and the noise wasn't so oppressive. It was well after eleven, and in these cramped quarters, when a guy walked up to me. A total stranger. I could tell by his heavy eyelids and his slightly unsteady gait that he'd had a couple of drinks. Even if I hadn't noticed those details, the fact that he walked right up and stood right next to me, so that his face was approximately six inches from mine. A little too close for comfort, in other words. He stared at me, and worked his lips to speak. The six or seven people with whom I was sitting at the moment all turned to look at the guy, too—just in time for when his lips finally parted and he spat out, in the too-loud volume of the inebriated, "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not stalking YOUR MANHUNT PROFILE." Honestly. To my ears, that's the way it sounded. The only thing that would've made it worse was if a sudden hush had fallen across the bar at that exact moment. Now, I'm not ashamed of having a Manhunt profile. I'm not ashamed of what's in it. What I am unused to, however, is strangers in bars shouting about it in public. I raised my eyebrows. "I'm really not STALKING YOU ON MANHUNT," he said. "I just keep opening your profile because your main profile photo DOESN'T HAVE YOUR FACE—heh-heh-heh!—and then I see your face and I'm like, oh yeah, that's who it is, because you've got it all out there, you've REALLY GOT IT ALL OUT THERE. ON MANHUNT." He took a swig from his drink. "But I'm not STALKING YOU THERE or anything, just so you know. I just want to reassure you, I'm NOT STALKING YOU ON MANHUNT." And all I could really think at that moment was, What the fuck? Because up until then, I didn't think that anyone was stalking me on Manhunt. After that confession, I was pretty sure someone was. And what in the world is one supposed to say to that kind of thing? Laughing it off and telling the guy it was totally fine to keep stalking me on Manhunt was beyond me. "Yeah," I finally said, stunned, but knowing I had to say something. "That's really a great opener. You should keep that." It was apparently enough of a rebuff, or at least a reminder of what the guy might have sounded like to someone sober, that it caused him to retreat, red-faced, to another table. He avoided me for the rest of the night. Then I went home and pored through my track list, trying to find traces of stalking. Fun evening! Today's questions are rounded up from my formspring.me responses. Pop on over to the service and ask me what you'd like, anonymously. Why did Earl wear a wedding ring? I think I remember reading that in the first Earl entry. Were there ever times when he'd be fucking you and Topher-the other kid at the same time? Earl wore a wedding ring because of his relationship with his partner Jim. I don't think they had an actual commitment ceremony (or if they did, it was before I knew them), but Earl did go out and buy some big ol' matching rings for the both of them. Topher and I never saw each other at Earl's place except at a few parties. There were times that Earl fucked us both at those, but the parties could be pretty much a free-for-all when it came to screwing. Knowing that I find a wide variety of men's bodies to be attractive, I'd like it if you would describe a couple of your features that you think I would find nice to look at (not your dick, and not just "My face is ok.") I get a lot of compliments on my hands, which are lengthy, long-fingered, and narrow. One of my readers once commented that he wanted to watch me eat French fries with my fingers. I charge good money for my French fry action, though. I also have nice eyes. Do you like your hair? What would you change about it if you could easily do it? My hair is a dark blond and very fine in texture. Too fine, if you ask me—it has a tendency to do what it wants regardless of styling product. And what it usually wants is to part itself down the middle, like some seventies teen idol. I've hated my hair for most of my life. It was either messy, or too long, or badly styled. When everyone else had big New Kids on the Block hair, mine was flat and longish; when everyone got Caesar cuts in the nineties, it seemed out of date and hopeless. When guys shaved their heads close in the new millennium, I was the only one with hair, and a lot of it. But then I kind of found out that other guys really liked it, sometimes. And as I grew older and more at peace with myself, I found I liked it too. Still, I keep threatening to shave it all off. My last haircut was in December. I missed my January cut and keep putting off rescheduling. Have you ever had sex with someone related to you? I've kind of covered this before, but yes. What's your experience with words that work in things like CL posts? Not words that are poetic, but words that get responses. I'm not really a fan of Craigslist, at least in my area. I tend to get more signs of intelligent life when I visit other cities and use it, however. 'Top' always gets responses, but I have noticed that certain other keywords get a reaction, too. If I describe myself as a 'dad', I always get a slew of young guys who want to work on some daddy dick. If I use a phrase like 'your mancunt', I'll get a lot of guys who are very submissive. I'd suggest being blunt and describing what you want without being coy—but don't go overboard. A few choice words will usually get guys sending you responses, even though the vast majority here in the midwest will be from guys who apparently never read anything you wrote anyway. What can your partner (or best friend) say that really annoys you most? "What do you mean, I'm loading the dishwasher wrong?" Gets me every time. I've only explained it about a kerjillion times now. when you bottomed, what's the biggest dick that you ever took? It was about eleven inches, and was one of the last dicks I bottomed for before beginning the transition to topping. favorite song at the moment?? Duran Duran and Ana Matronic, "Safe." Bears are _____________ (insert adjective here) Encouraged to sit on my dick. When you smile, do you consciously try to control your face in any way? (Like not show teeth, or any other consideration?) I consciously try to show as many teeth as possible, so that no one notices my thin lips. How much of the advantage had by guys looking to top stems from ED on the part of the guys who wind up bottoming? I'm not sure what you mean by ED. Erectile Dysfunction? Because the huge majority of the bottoms I've fucked have been rock hard during the act. I don't know that either part has an 'advantage' during sex. It takes two people to copulate. When the act is going on, one's got to be a top. The other's got to bottom. Each has its advantages and disadvantages but neither is more privileged than the other—they're simply two halves to an equation. Without one of them, the other person is simply a masturbator. would you be willing to relocate for the person you really care for? I think the fact I'm trying to sell my house and move across the country for someone's happiness should answer that question. Rob: not to get too granular or anything, but have you done any fucking in les Grosses? Farms, Shores, etc? I've fucked in all the Grosses. Except maybe Ile. Haven't been in Detroit in years, but I can't imagine what it looks like as a place that lost 1 out of 4 residents in last ten years. Do you see depopulation everywhere? Or is it concentrated in some areas? The urban area known as Detroit is a large collection of suburban cities spread across three counties, surrounding the actual city of Detroit. It's the actual city that's experienced depopulation. While a lot of those leaving have indeed abandoned the state, most have simply moved into the suburbs, for their better schools and lower crime rates; the state only lost 0.6% of its population in the same period. There are sections with in the Detroit city limits that are fairly abandoned, and have been proposed to be converted to farmland or other public-use property. Most of these areas are in neighborhoods, and not necessarily in the downtown area, which can be bustling and friendly and quite safe. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Those of you who also follow me on Twitter might have picked up from my desperate tweets (Somebody please make these fifth-graders stop farting!) that I’ve been spending a lot of my last couple of weeks playing piano for kids. I’ve never claimed to be an especially great pianist. I can’t improvise. I’m not one of those musicians who can sit down and play anything by ear, though I might be able to plunk out the melody with an index finger and a whole lot of fumbling. I can’t transpose a piece from D to A-flat major, the way some of my friends can. But I can sit down in front of a piece of music and sight-read it well, and I’m fantastic at listening to a solo instrumentalist and following their musical instincts. Plus I don’t miss a whole lot of notes. Particularly on those occasions I’m present-minded enough actually to glance at the key signature at the beginning of the piece. Certainly my skills are good enough to accompany a bunch of ten-year-old monkeys playing a three-part rendition of “We Will Rock You” written entirely in big fat quarter notes. Though inevitably there will be some little Suzuki savant who will want to play some spritely concerto that involves accidentals and sixteenth notes and other roadblocks that actually require me to pay attention. I know a lot of music teachers in various school systems—all of them big ol’ lesbians. (Which is not so much a comment on their personal size, as on the sheer bulk of their lesbianism.) I’m not trying to imply that every female choral, orchestral, and band teacher in my metropolitan area happens to exhibit Sapphic tendencies . . . well, yeah, that’s totally what I’m saying. When Christmas and this time of year roll around, though, my piano-playing skills happen to be in demand. Those two periods are the height of the concert seasons, of the solo and ensemble festivals, and of the dreaded regionals, which are usually infinitely less exciting than they seem on Glee. So I get hired a lot. The pay’s pretty good. But other than the noise and the smell of post-lunch farts and of gym socks and that vaguely horsey odor of the prepubescent, and other than the prospect of having to play the eleventy-billion times, the main reason I sometimes dread going into the schools where one of my friends is teaching is because I know I’m going to have to play The Game.Ah, The Game. That’s the short version of an amusement my teacher friends leave with the unspoken title of Guess Which Of My Students Will Someday Be A Future Full-Fledged Card-Carrying Homosexual American Citizen? I first heard of it years ago, when the teachers would compare notes over dinner or drinks, like this: BAND TEACHER 1: That little short kid with the dark hair who wore the blue T-shirt. . . . BAND TEACHER 2: Dale? Oh, you think so? Yeah, I could see it. But if so, he’ll be the closeted type with a twink boyfriend on the side and four kids in the minivan. 1: And that one with the curls. . . . 2: Justin? No way! 1: No, not Justin. The one with the blond curls. 2: Oh, Adam? Well duh! Totally! And let me tell you, that Bible-thumping mother of his is going to freak out when he comes popping out of the closet. I didn’t believe in The Game for a long time. In fact, at first I refused to play it when Marian, one of my teacher friends, cornered me after one of her choir rehearsals. Scarcely had I finished playing the last bars of “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie” than she shooed her charges from the classroom and beetled over. “So?” she asked. “So what?” I wanted to know. “So!” she said, impatient with my obliviousness. “Which ones?” “Which ones what?” I was baffled. “Which ones are going to be fam-i-ly?” she growled, sotto voce. “Play The Game!” It was then that I remembered The Stupid Game. “Ohhhh,” I said, finally understanding. I looked around the room at the graceless homunculi loping in from the hall. “Marian, they’re ten,” I pointed out. “Trust me,” she said, standing up to take control of the classroom once again. “You can tell. You. Can. Tell. You can pooh-pooh it now, but ask any teacher. All I need is a few minutes in any classroom and I can tell you exactly who, in eight years time, is going to be adding me on Facebook and will have a profile that reads ‘I am: A Man/Interested in: Men. You look at the next class. Then we’ll compare notes.” Throughout the rest of the morning I studied the class when I wasn’t playing the piano, knowing that I was going to be grilled later on. Sure enough, the moment that the students began to file back to their homerooms, Marian shot over. “Well?” she asked. “The little boy with that cowlick?” I replied, uncertainly. “NO,” she said, in the same acid tone Anne Robinson employs when she tells someone that he is the Weakest Link—goodbye! “WRONG.” “Jesus Christ, woman,” I said, peeling myself from the cinderblock wall against which she’d blasted me. “Try again!” I sighed. “These children are barely self-conscious yet. They’re bundles of impulse and reaction, still testing the world around them with hypotheses they can hardly express. That anything—anything—can be predicted about their futures and their potential is a fallacy in and of itself. Therefore—“ “Shut your fat trap and try again,” she growled. “Fine. How about the little girl who was over on the left?” I asked weakly, pointing to the approximate area where she’d stood. Marian shook her head, needing more to go on. “She had on a white sweater? The one with the really, really short hair?” The girl in question had sported little more than a fine buzzed down on her head that made her look as if she were a nascent political protestor. She looked like Sinead O’Connor about to rip the Pope’s photo in half. If she wasn’t being raised by lesbian parents, there was at least a highly-militant mother somewhere in the background. "She looked all punk-y." "Emily?" she asked, astonished. I shrugged. I didn't know the girl's name. “Oh sweetie.” Marian looked at me with pity in her eyes, then patted my leg with unsuppressed condescension. “Emily just got back to school last week. She's our little cancer survivor.” Last night I was sitting in a stinking, stuffy gymnasium doubling as an auditorium, where an 88-piece orchestra of fifth-graders hopped up on, and farting from, their dinners bounced nervously in their chairs while their families waited for the concert to start. My teacher friend, who’d managed single-handedly to tune all the instruments while coping with the thousand student questions that pop up at these things, was busily trying to string a microphone cord between chairs so she could get the concert going. Nearby, a kid sporting a violin tucked his instrument beneath his arm and ran his fingers through his Justin Bieber hair. “Hey JONAH!” he yelled out to a friend in the cello section. “Did you see the LADY GAGA VIDEO for ‘Judas’? It came out today!” His friend shouted out something I couldn’t hear through the hubbub. “I know, it was SUPPOSED to debut on Entertainment Weekly tonight but it leaked on YouTube earlier! I've watched it like, a hundred and seventy-four times after school. The dancing is SICK. I know, right? They're like...!” Then, still clutching his violin, he pulled out some of the moves that Gaga’s considerably buffer and less formally-dressed dancers typically execute. He looked a little like a hip-hop fiddler on the roof, but I have to hand it to the kid, he had all kinds of fabulous going on. “And she's like, I'm in love with Judas, Joooo-das! You just know Britney’s going to SPIT GLITTER!” My teacher friend was regarding me steadily, with her eyebrows raised. “That one,” I said to her, discreetly pointing. Her hand over the mic, she pulled her mouth into a wry moue. “Ya think?” “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, making a pantomime of spitting on my hands and rubbing them together, “is how you play The Game.” “Oh, sweetie.” She patted me on the back and adopted a baby-talk voice. “Helen Keller could’ve picked out that one. From thirty miles away. But you are awfully cute.” “Whatever,” I grumbled. She might have made me feel as if I’d only just managed to hit an extremely large inflatable beach ball with an equally outside child’s bat, but at least I was still in The Game. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday was five months to the day that I last visited the local woods in my town. It’s a useless place to cruise during the long Michigan winter. Not only do I object to the extremes of cold that we get here in the upper midwest, but sex hunting in that particular location is pretty useless during the barren months. The trees of those woods grow long and narrow and straight, with no evergreens to break the monotony of those uniform trunks rising to the sky. In the winter months, when the trees have shed their leaves, it’s possible to see from one end of the park to the other through those tall and narrow trunks. Anyone attempting to drop their pants there would risk not only frostbite, but being seen. This time of year, though, when the tips of the branches are beginning to get fuzzy with the palest shades of green, there’s less risk. Those trunks become a wall, a curtain of green beyond which a constant stage of connections and separations takes place. I’d little intention of stopping at the woods, Tuesday. I was on my way to the supermarket on its borders, though, and to take the little detour that would drive me along its perimeter was a trivial thing. I stopped only when I saw how many cars were parked along the hidden street. Aside from the occasional lone dog-walker, the only people who really visit that park are those who are hunting for something more than a half-hour’s commune with nature. Every spring the city sends some hardy souls into the woods to mark its trails. The volunteers find some of the long trees that have fallen over the roughest of our seasons, and drag them into place to delineate the highest and safest ground. After this week’s rain, only these paths were really solid earth—the rest had turned into a soggy marsh. After I’d locked my car doors and stepped under the canopy of budding green, I had sometimes to balance along the fallen trunks so that I didn’t squelch through the two-inch puddles. As I disappeared into the trees, I heard the car door slam from one of the vehicles parked on the street. A man was exiting the park as I entered. Our eyes connected for a moment; his studiously swung away and kept straight ahead. I could see another man further down the path, ambling along behind. I gathered by their body language, which was as casual as it was purposeful as they strolled back to their cars with an appearance of no hurry, that they’d just sexed each other in the woods. The guy I passed was far more interesting to me than the one bringing up the rear. The latter was older, bad-complexioned, and large, and carried so much of his considerable weight in his upper chest that he gave an appearance of having so high a center of gravity that a single push would topple him over. I kept walking. I was aware that someone was following me into the depths of the woods. I paused and pretended to be looking at a message on my phone so I could study him. He was a shorter fellow in dark work clothes and boots; his hands were stuffed deep into his pockets as he walked past, his head down. I couldn’t see much of his face, but I could plainly tell he had long sideburns with a severe finish at the bottom. When he passed, I realized he was wearing a jacket with the name of an auto shop nearby. And I thought to myself, Fuck, it can’t be the same guy. The last time I’d visited the park, five months to the day, I’d played with this hot little fucker in the deepest part of the woods. It was him, though. I recognized the name of the shop where he worked. I followed behind him as he strolled down the path at the wood’s deepest part. The ground beneath was squelchy, but covered with leaves branches enough to keep my feet from sinking in. He stopped on the path, hands in his pockets just waiting. “How’s it going?” I asked, as I slowly approached him. “Good,” he said, looking me over. There was a spark of recognition in his eye when I approached. He looked me over, from head to foot. I was wearing a hoodie atop my dress shirt, and a pair of freshly-washed jeans. The last time I’d seen this guy, he’d been in a pair of work overalls. Today he wore a pair of navy blue utility pants and a shirt emblazoned on the front with his name and the auto shop’s identity, beneath his work windbreaker. “It’s muddy out here.” “Yeah,” I said, “Sure is.” I looked down at his crotch. “Your fly’s open,” I said in a soft voice. It pursed open like a pair of lips, and was lined by his red shorts. “Oh yeah,” he replied, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Let me fix that.” My hand reached for it simultaneously with his. “Let me help.” His palm cupped my hardening dick through my jeans as I pulled out his cock. I remembered it as being thin and small, but entirely proportional for a tiny man like himself. He hissed and sighed as I manipulated it between my warm fingers. The mechanic had a narrow face between those sideburns. He stared up at me, his face only inches from mine. His eyes bored into my own as he studied me. The last time I’d encountered him, I’d wanted to make out, though he hadn’t. Today it seemed as if he wanted the same thing. I turned my face slightly and lowered it to his. Our lips met and locked, and exerted a slight suction between them. Our tongues touched. A moment later, and we were kissing passionately. I fumbled to release my dick from my jeans and trunks. While we continued kissing crazily, his hands grabbed my dick, and then my nuts. I felt his finger digging into the already-wet tip, then stroking the sides of my balls. “Gotta suck that,” he said at last. He squatted down, knees pointed to either side, as he engulfed my dick in his mouth. He could only get about half of it in easily. He wanted more, though, and was willing to open his throat to get it. I kept my hands on his shoulders and the back of his head—partly to keep him steady, partly because I liked the feel of his hair between my fingers. My head moved back and forth in the directions of the path, trying to spy any moving figures that might be approaching. There were none. We were taking a chance, sexing each other on the path like that. Usually in the woods I was more accustomed to disappearing off the paths and into the trees, but the marshy earth prevented any of that. I let the mechanic suck like a crazed man, while I moaned and fucked his mouth. “I don’t suppose you have a place to go,” I wondered at one point, hoping for something more private. “No,” he said, with what sounded like regret. Damn. “I want to suck you, too,” I told him. “Fuck yes,” he said, standing up immediately. When I put my knee onto the path, I knew right away it was a mistake. I could feel the cold and damp earth muddying the denim immediately. In for a penny, in for a pound, though. I took the mechanic’s dick in my mouth and sucked it hungrily, while I let the mud do its worst. The last time I’d encountered the guy, he’d shot even before I got my mouth on him. This time, however, he was in no hurry to shoot. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, his hands in my hair. “Just suck me.” For long moments I bobbed up and down on his dick, bringing him closer and closer. “You want my load, buddy?” he asked. “Fuck yes,” I breathed. “Stand up,” he ordered. When I obeyed, he instantly put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me down to him. Our lips met again. We made out with enthusiasm as both of us masturbated ourselves. He gasped, then growled. His hand curved into a fist that squeezed his dick until the head was cherry-red. Then his cream shot out, arcing into the air and splattering onto the earth below. “Now give me yours,” he commanded, as he squatted down again. His tongue flicked out to lap at the tip of my cock, where the pre-cum was flowing freely. He nibbled at my nuts, licked my taint, and finally, as I grew closer and closer, turned his tongue into a curved bowl that he inserted directly below my swollen head. It was a receptacle for the load that came pouring out, seconds later. Much of it landed on the ground, and some on his face, but enough of it pooled onto his tongue that when he pulled it back into his mouth to ingest the precious substance, it made him a happy man. He zipped up, stood, and nodded at me. “Good to see you. Look for me.” “All right,” was all I said, as I zipped myself. My knee, I noticed with some dismay, was thoroughly muddied, and my hand was covered with my own cum. I let him walk ahead, down the path, as I remained behind to find some tree trunk on which to wipe my seed. He was pulling away as I finally exited the park. Once again he lifted his fingers in a salute as he passed. And just like five months ago, to the day, he was gone, leaving me with the hope I’d run across him again. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post is a continuation of an entry from last week, and will itself be continued. I hope you'll grant me the indulgence of it being not explicitly sexual in content, as I'm trying to relate an incident that deserves more than just a cursory recalling.) Earl was one of the least possessive men it has ever been my privilege to meet. He liked to hear about the sexual encounters I had when I wasn’t with him. With only a couple of exceptions, I think I was willing to tell him just about everything I did. When I’d be over at his house after school during my mid-teens, or early in the evenings during the good-weather months, or when I was hanging out in his bed on a weekend, he’d inevitably ask me what other dick I’d taken in my spare time. Earl would lie next to me between his plain white cotton sheets, stroking my hair and nodding, as he’d hear about my dusks in the Bryan Park picnic shelter with my legs up and eyes closed as man after man would take his turn at my hole. Or sometimes, when he wasn’t in the mood to fuck, he’d manipulate my hole with the middle three fingers of his left hand, while his right stroked my greased-up dick as he made me tell him in detail about the restrooms I’d cruised that week, and the strange dicks I’d gotten there. He wanted to know the peculiarities of every encounter—what the men said, how they made me feel, what was different about their dicks or their bodies, what I liked and didn’t like about them. It was Earl who turned me into a storyteller about my sexual encounters; he derived great pleasure from hearing the narratives I recounted for him. Sometimes I’d even go out and do something creative or simply stupid because I knew he’d get a kick out of it. One summer Saturday, for example, I went to the basement of the university library where my parents taught, which was not the epicenter of cruising on campus but managed at just about any time to provide a steady stream of horny students looking to unload with each other. Once in the center stall, I removed all my clothing, save for my sneakers, and stuffed it into a knapsack that I hung on the back of the stall door. Then I proceeded to stroke, cruise, suck dick, and take dick in my hole over the course of about four or five hours. I got a huge kick out of the reactions of the men who’d discover the naked boy wearing only a ratty pair of white Adidas on the other side of the stall partition. My biggest excitement, though, came from knowing I’d be confiding it all to Earl within a few days. That I’d be watching his eyes widen and his cock swell as he heard how slutty I was. Sometimes, to some extent, the prospect of retelling my stories was what kept me having them. In that respect, things weren’t all that different then, from now. I remember telling Earl about the Bible-thumping man in a decidedly non-sexual context, though. That is, it’s true I was wearing nothing aside from the collar I’d don when I stepped into the house through the back door. I was naked. We might have had sex, or were going to have sex. But we weren’t actually fooling around when I told him the story of being picked up by the jowly man in the Cadillac who, after I gave him head, railed at me for leading him into temptation and delivering him unto evil. We were sitting in his den, a dark, wood-paneled room with a round braided rug on the knotty pine floor. The room always smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and the acrid remnants of vanished joints. Earl and I were curled up on his sofa, trying to keep cool in the flow of his window air conditioning. I remember I had a big glass of Pepsi-Cola in my hands, and that it was leaving a damp and icy impression on my sternum as I told the story. “You know that’s him who’s fucked in the head,” Earl told me, when I was done. “There’s a moment after a guy shoots—his body’s been stressed and exerted. His heartbeat’s slowing. The excitement’s over, and he knows it. That’s when men feel guilty, or bad about sex. Even though they’ll do anything to get it in the minutes before. All those resolutions some guys make to themselves in those moments seem real, but they’re just as false as what they’re telling themselves when their dicks are hard. You know that, right?” I remember nodding. I’d experienced those blues many times during those few seconds immediately after orgasm. When I’d been younger, those had been the moments when I’d vow never to do what I’d been doing ever again, when I’d sworn off bad thoughts and bad deeds alike, only to have them come creeping back against within minutes. It was the nadir of the sexual cycle, the antithesis of the climax that arrived the moment my balls stopped pumping out the semen. And it lasted longer than any orgasm, too. “Just don’t let him fuck with your head,” Earl said. “Right. You should fuck with his,” Jim added. Jim was in the room. He sat on the floor, in roughly the same place that Topher and I had occupied during our enforced coupling in front of the other men at Earl’s parties. Jim had acquired for himself an Intellivision video game console of which he was extremely jealous. While we’d talked, Earl and I had been watching him play some kind of bleepy space game. I liked video games even more than the considerable amount I disliked Jim, and I would have been happy to have played with him if he’d ever asked. He hadn’t. He kept the cartridges for the Intellivision in his garret of a room so that no one could turn on the console without his knowledge. I was pretty sure that Topher, his stoner favorite, was probably treated to several bleepy face-offs against him on the Intellivision, but whenever I was around, an offer was never on the table. I was an Atari 2600 owner myself, and tried to be smug in whatever superiority that afforded me, anyway. “Don’t,” said Earl, in warning. “No, he should totally fuck with that fat-ass piece of shit,” repeated Jim, not even looking up from his video game. The corner of his mouth clenched a lit cigarette from which ash drifted as he spoke. “It’s the only way to deal with those motherfuckers.” “The boy’s not like that,” Earl said, sounding almost annoyed with his partner. Jim was considerably younger than Earl; he’d been not much older than I was at that time, when they’d originally met. Though over the years their relationship had settled into something that now I recognize as a constant display of barely-concealed hostility, in a way it was a relationship that worked for them both. Jim got a nice house to live in with all the amenities. His lousy part-time job pushing records at Peaches kept him in pot, porn magazines, tobacco, and Intellivision cartridges. Earl got someone to do his laundry, to keep the public rooms of the house clean, to throw together haphazard dinners, and to do (badly) all the wifely chores that many men of the nineteen-seventies still had no clue how to approach. “He’s not like you.” “Well. I like that.” Jim’s game finished. He sat up, then quickly brushed the hot embers of his cigarette from his naked chest as they fell. “So you think this boy’s better than me?” “Oh, Jesus.” As I said, Jim and Earl didn’t really have a good relationship. They were constantly at each other’s throats. “Different is not better. It’s different. Not better. Why do you have such a problem understanding that?” I breathed shallowly and pretended I wasn’t there as they argued. “Oh, I understand, believe you me,” said Jim. His eyes already bulged slightly from his head. Arguing only made the effect more pronounced. “I understand more than you think.” “If you did, you’d know it wasn’t a criticism. Of either of you. The boy’s guileless. And you’re—“ “Full of guile?” Jim sounded smug and affronted, both. “—Twice his age and have a lifetime of experience that he doesn’t,” Earl finished, growing more angry. “He’s not capable of the type of insights you and I have.” Jim caught my eye at that moment. He must have seen some spark of my surprise, or perhaps nascent resentment, at Earl’s words. I might have been only sixteen, but I thought I was remarkably insightful for my age. For a second, only a brief second, we were compatriots, both diminished by Earl’s words. “Well,” said Jim, capitalizing on it. “Perhaps you’re right.” He took a long final drag on his cigarette, then savagely stubbed it on in a makeshift ashtray made from a pickle jar top. “But if I were him, I’d be fucking with his head. I’d be spinning that pea brain of his around so fast. . . .” Earl cleared his throat, no doubt preparing to shut down his partner. I was quicker, though. I opened my mouth and asked a single question. “How?” Jim slowly reached for his pack of cigarettes. He withdrew another one, rolled it between his fingers, and stared straight at me. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you.” It was the one and only time we were on the same side. That should have been warning enough. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When the lifted his lips to mine, he had to stand almost on tiptoe to reach me. I was surprised how gentle he was, how tentative at first. After our skin grazed, though, his tongue flicked out. Its tip tickled against the spot in the center, directly beneath the indentation. The hairs of my mustached shifted and prickled against it, before it slipped into the opening and connected with my own tongue. I felt, rather than heard, him sigh. He tugged me down to him as if afraid I might want to pull away. I didn’t. I was a little surprised at how tender he was, as eventually we moved from my front door upstairs to the bedroom. His profile hadn’t indicated anything of the sort—it had been a tangle of ‘ask mes’ and ‘unspecifieds’ and had let me know nothing about the man. He’d let me see his private photo, a murky composition of shadows and acrid yellows that had seemed to point to the fact that the guy was merely shy man in his mid-thirties, and not a total troll. In person, he was both cuter and sweeter than his profile would have let on. With his dark skin, his broad Greek features, and hair so thick and curly that it was like bristles, the man was actually pretty good looking. We didn’t do much. In the lamplight I let him undress me. His hands roamed over my body, seizing my waist and moving up along my hips and ribcage to the tender areas beneath my arms. He licked tentatively on my nipples, staring up at me the entire time as if he was asking permission. He sucked on my dick, and licked my balls, and gnawed pleasurably at the spots where my legs connected to my pelvis. I had to talk him into removing his pants and sweatshirt. He left his button-down shirt in place, though, seeming embarrassed at the bulk of his hairy body. He wasn’t a heavy man, exactly, but he seemed extremely self-conscious of the few extra pounds he carried. He trembled when I pulled down his briefs. He didn’t liked to be eaten, he’d told me. He just wanted someone to rub his dick over his hole. I lay him on his side and spooned beside him as I warmed lube in my palm and then gently, so gently, parted his buttocks and spread the goo within. He curled in a fetal position, both hands curled like a boy’s as they clasped the back of his head. His forearms covered his ears. When I pushed at his legs, he drew them up almost to where his elbows touched together. My dick was slick with the lube when I pushed against him. I let the top side of my shaft slide against the crack. It was like passing the open door of a furnace; I could feel the intense heat from his hole, every time my head passed on its back-and-forth journey down the crack and between his legs. “Is that what you wanted?” I asked. His head jerked spasmodically. “Yes,” he grunted. With every pass, his knees drew higher. He exposed more and more of his hole as the crack surrounding it widened. When I had him breathing heavily with pleasure, he panted out, “It almost kind of makes me want . . . want to. . . .” He didn’t need to finish that sentence.I let him pretend for a while more that the sweet sensation of my rod passing back and forth over his most guarded spot was all he needed. When he was relaxed, and sighing, and breathing deeply, I paused. In the guise of shifting positions, I changed the angle of my shaft, and let the head wedge against the hole. He gasped a little. Without a word, his hands flew back and down, but they stopped short of pushing me away. Instead, the more free of his hands hovered helplessly in the air, as if waiting to see what I would do next. Taking that as permission, I pushed in a little more. The hole was so hairy that I could feel the hairs rasping my engorged cock head, and so tight that it felt a little bit like trying to push through a brick wall with a marshmallow. My head was wedged in there, though. I ground my hips a little to create some sensation, without trying to scare him. Millimeter by millimeter, I edged in, keeping the pressure constant. His hand flopped helplessly, pawing at something invisible. It then collapsed onto the bed. Whatever fear was in his mind, he’d abandoned, or at least discarded for the moment. The only thing that existed for him was the sensation of my dick, warm and hard in his hole. When I reached bottom, it seemed as if I’d been fucking for a half-hour already. Perhaps I had been; my entry had been the slowest I’ve made in years. All I knew is that when I pressed my body against his, he began to convulse. My hand moved down to the area of his small, uncut dick, and seconds later came away covered in sticky wetness. Cum dripped onto the blankets. “Oh shit,” he said, panicked. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry—“ “Sssh,” I whispered to him, stroking his thick hair like I might have tried to calm a worried animal at the vet’s. “It’s okay.” “I’m sorry. Thank you.” He relaxed again, so gradually it might have been measured in inches. Meanwhile, I withdrew. He sighed in relief when moments later I was all the way out, my still-hard dick wedged against the warm flesh of his ass. “It was nice of you to meet me,” he whispered into the quiet, after a long while. “And not turning me away after you saw my, you know.” “Your what?” I murmured, sounding sleepy. His extra pounds? His small dick? Those were inconsequential. “You know.” I shook my head and grunted. I didn’t know what he meant. “My birthmark.” I still didn’t understand. “Your what?” He rolled over, and pointed at his face. “My birthmark.” The man’s skin was already darker than my own complexion. Hell, uncooked bacon fat has more of a natural tan than I. When I looked carefully at the area he indicated with his forefinger, though, I could tell that part of his face was a little darker than the rest. The area coincided neatly with the hollow of his right eye. It didn’t resemble a birthmark or a black eye so much as it did a trick of the light, a shadow where a shadow might not ordinarily be. And in a snap I was able to imagine the man’s life in a way I hadn’t, before. All that shyness, those hidden photos, the ask-me’s and the tentativeness—a lifetime of holding back and denying himself—predicated on worrying about men’s reactions to a couple of square inches of discoloration. “I honestly didn’t notice it,” I told him. The words sounded corny. “You know, my face gets red and dry in certain areas. Worrying about other people’s skin is not something I ordinarily do.” The expression of gratitude he wore at my words was heartbreaking. Incredible, that something so simple as my heedlessness was going to make him feel like a real live person instead of walking monster. “Do you feel that self-conscious about it?” I asked. His shrug told me that he did, though he might not have wanted to admit it to me. “Were you picked on in school and stuff?” “Not by my good friends,” he said, which told a story in itself. After a moment’s quiet he added, “For years and years I used to go to New York City every couple of months for laser treatments on it, starting when I was about six. They really broke down the pigment. It’s not as bad as it used to be.” “It’s not bad at all,” I said, matter-of-factly, “if I didn’t even notice it until you pointed it out.” “But you see it now,” he argued. “Yeah, because you stabbed your finger at it and told me to look,” I retorted, with a snort. I lay back down and ran my hand through his hair. “Look. Everyone’s got birthmarks. Everyone has them. That’s what you have to remember. We’ve all got shit that stains us, and that we’re afraid sets us apart. Yours is on the outside, that’s all. It’s unfortunate, but those treatments must’ve worked, because like I said, I couldn’t even see the thing.” He thought about that for a minute. “Where’s yours?” “Mine? They’re the black stains on my eternal soul,” I replied, without hesitation. “And trust me, laser treatments are no good for that.” His hand reached out for mine; he squeezed my fingers tightly. “I don’t believe you,” he said, twining our hands together. “You must be the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.” I wish I believed his words, myself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I get a lot of email in the course of a week. A whole lot of email. And while I generally get around to it, sooner or later (I swear! There was actually the space of three whole days at the beginning of April when my pending-reply box was blissfully empty), sometimes it takes a little time. I prioritize, you see. The urgent stuff and the notes that only require a quick reply get my attention almost immediately. The mails that are more personal and need longer replies tend to languish a few days. Or weeks. I apologize for it, but I like to give the emails the attention they deserve. Eventually. Since I love the email, I'm not complaining or suggesting that I'd like to get less of it. Just know that if I don't reply immediately, it's not because I tossed your missive in my virtual trashcan. I've noticed in the last couple of weeks an email trend. I've gotten several notes from readers asking if I mind female fans. I'm surprised, a little—not that I have female fans. I've got a distinct population of those. Some of them comment regularly, even. I know that for a while I had several women readers who were themselves writers of slash fiction. And if I have to explain what slash fiction is to you people . . . well, I'm not gonna. There's no NO GURLS ALLOWED sign on my clubhouse door. A small minority of my readers might balk at the notion that this is anything other than a boys-only enclave. Don't worry. My female fans have been pretty innocuous, and just as polite as most of my readers. You've probably not even noticed them. If you happen to be one of my female readers, I welcome you. We could all stand to learn a little more about each other, in the end. Do you feel like you have to, or maybe do automatically, censor your behavior and what you say around women in gay bars? Even if they're not watching you? I cannot say I do. I don't think of women as alien creatures unacquainted with male sexuality. They know better than men what pigs we are, sometimes. Besides, if they're in a gay bar, they're guests there. You might not want to take them in the back room with you, but you shouldn't have to censor your natural affections when they're around. You had a great date with a guy. Is it to soon/needy to call him the next day or should you wait a day or two? Unless he asks you to call the next day, I think waiting another day or two seems less anxious. Of course, if he's asking you to call the next day, he might seem like the controlling and/or needy one. Are your little sperms flowing the bounty mane or are they being stopped due to some previous surgery? If you're asking whether I've had a vasectomy, the answer would be that I have not. What street do you live on? This question is nice and stalkery! Was that you shining the flashlight in my window last night? can you say that you are living your life to its full capacity? Who among us is? What I am doing, however, is trying to live as richly as possible, accepting experiences as they arrive, and trying to be open-minded to the possibilities. As long as I'm doing that and not running away from opportunities in fear, I think I'm doing all right. If I asked you to think of five dicks you've had in you, what five dicks (and guys attached to them) would you think of? 1. I'd think of the first I took. 2. Earl and his meat would come immediately to mind. 3. I'd think of the Latin guy who picked me up in a mall bookstore and fucked me in his apartment. 4. I'd remember fondly the dick of a man with whom I was in love a decade ago, whose top virginity I took before he took a religious vow. 5. I'd probably lastly think about the Australian who was my last top, way too many years ago. which one of the seven dwarfs from Snow White would you be?? Sleazy. That's one of them, isn't it? How many pairs of shoes do you own? Apparently I own 17 pairs of shoes. I had more, but when I learned I was moving, I gave a dozen pairs to charity that I rarely wore. The oldest shoes I have are a pair of tan suede bucks that I got during college. They're still in excellent condition. Have you ever slept with somone 10 years or more older than you? Over 10 years younger? (Some questions from the web now) Yes, to both questions. And quite often. I've never really been ageist, even (or especially) when I was very young. Lots of ppl work from home for their boss, seems sensible considering traffic jams and all. Do you think they all work the hours they claim they do? Do you trust that? I'm not convinced they work all the hours they claim they do in the workplace. There used to be an awful lot of Freecell going on in the places I used to work. If the work's getting done with sufficient quality, in sufficient numbers, and on time, why quibble? If your friends were in a monogamous relationship, you are friends with both, and you find out one of them is cheating.. would you tell the other? No. Never. The other partner probably won't think you've done them a service, either, and very likely it could damage your friendship with both parties. But primarily, their sexual life is not your business, and it's not your call to make judgements on someone else's relationship. More...

Ingulphus, I don't know why you're having issues on the original blog. But I'm glad you posted here. That hot tub scene sounds amazing. I wish I'd had a video camera with me to film you working on all those men.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The other night I found myself being hounded by a guy on Manhunt who wanted to give me a blow job. I told him up front that I love getting head, but I rarely, rarely shoot from it. I went through the explanation I always seem to make: that I rarely will agree to meet solely for a blow job because when I don’t shoot, I feel badly. And if I’m pressured to shoot when I don’t want to or can’t, it’s definitely not going to happen. But the guy was nice, and kind of good-looking in a goofy way. He told me that in that context, he didn’t care if I got off—he just wanted to suck on a very big dick for a little while. So I invited him over. We went up to my bedroom. I dropped my pants. He got to work. At first, the sensations of his mouth on my dick were pretty pleasant. Not very long after, however, I started to feel less like I was getting sucked off and more like the guy thought if he pumped my dick long and hard enough, he’d bring up well water. “I am kind of more into a slow and sloppy blow job,” I directed him. He went back to sucking for about thirty more seconds. Then once again his hand latched onto my meat and began flying back and forth over it. I had to stop him. It wasn’t pleasant. It just hurt. “You do remember you said you weren’t going to be in a hurry to try to get me off, right?” I asked. He ignored me and started beating harder. “I know I can do it,” he growled. “Just give me a chance.” Awkward. I had to detach him from my dick and gently send him home. I’m not sure why he even came over, after all my caveats and warnings, if he was going to be like that. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon, either. Part of me thinks I’m just kind of hard-wired for fucking. It’s what turns me on the most. Getting head feels good. But when I’ve mounted a guy and am sliding in and out of his wet hole, it’s better than good. It’s right. Another part of me wonders if I’ve just run into some guys who give spectacularly bad blow jobs. One of my readers shared with me a half-facetious, half-dead-serious open letter to cocksuckers that he’d posted to Craigslist. Let’s see how long it takes before it’s flagged and removed, he joked with me. I read through the thing and you know what? It resonated. With his permission, I’m reposting it below. Dear Cocksuckers, I have a tip for you. If I present you with my steely hard cock, and after a couple minutes of your attacking it, it starts getting soft, I'd recommend that you not continue to attack it even harder and faster. If you do, don't be surprised when it gets even softer. Not everyone enjoys having their cock practically ripped from their body, put in a death grip, or jacked and bobbed on so fast it makes for an entirely unrelaxing experience. Besides all of this, a hand job is not a blow job. Then when I take control of your head to show you how to do it, my cock gets all steely again, and I let you take over again, why do you go back to your old ways only to soften me again? Then when I lightly and slowly jack in your mouth to show you how to do it, my cock gets all steely again, and I let you take over again, why do you go back to your old ways only to soften me again? Are you really that unobservant...that unteachable? The worst of you are the ones who are all like "pick me, pick me, you won't regret it." I always do regret it as it seems you're so damned sure of your skills, that you can't be bothered to tune in. Oh, and I really don't like to have my nipples ripped off of my chest either. My God, they're still burning from last Sunday. So when I brush your hand away, get the message. Why am I posting this? It's because the last four blow jobs I've gotten have been baaad, and since you all seem to be tripping all over each other to get a fat dick and wad in our mouth, I thought I'd give the teachable among you a leg up. Sincerely, 7.5 thick cut leaking inches PS...I've never understood why cocksuckers post or reply with their dick pics...especially only dick pics. I just don't get the relevance. Like I said, the rant resonated. It does always seem to me that the worst oral experiences I’ve had come from the men who badger me with promises that I won’t regret picking them. The men who think that attacking my dick harder and faster and with more violence is going to make me produce a payload more quickly are pretty much deluded. So in today’s Open Forum Friday, I’m curious about your own experiences with oral sex. Are my ranting reader and I isolated cases, or is the plague of poor cocksuckers more common than we think? What makes a bad blow job, for you? Or more to the point, what makes a really good one? If you think you’ve got the mad skills, step up and share with us your trade secrets. After all, the more good sex going around, the happier we’ll all be. Right? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Old Southern money doesn’t shout. It whispers. In the days when I was growing up, especially, the best families didn’t drive flashy sports cars, or Hummers, or SUVs. They made do with the ancient, respectable models the size of parade floats, fifteen years out of date but immaculately maintained. They might have lived in Richmond’s relatively exclusive west end, with its deep and grassy lots, but in the well-kept and modest homes they’d inherited from their families, not a McMansion. The women wore pearls and joined the Daughters of the Confederacy; the men boasted ties patterned in thick diagonal stripes, pants with cuffs cut too high, and tobacco-stained fingertips. Old money was genteel. It didn’t call attention to itself. One could recognize it easily enough, though, if one looked. I could tell the Cadillac driving slowly down the street adjacent to the park belonged to old Southern money. I was sitting beneath my favorite tree in Bryan Park in the summer of my sixteenth year, paperback book in my hands, my bony back raw from the bark digging into my skin, my skinny legs protruding from a pair of very short yellow corduroy Ocean Pacific shorts, when I saw the vehicle round the corner. I was out early in the morning—almost too early to be cruising, since the action never started until lunchtime. I liked being outdoors, though, and independent. The prospect of a possible morning hookup only persuaded me to get to the park early, on those stiflingly hot mornings when I had nothing to do. The car was a huge boat of a thing, an old Cadillac that had obviously been freshly washed. Beneath the low-hanging crape myrtles it cruised along the residential street. Since it had been the only car to pass since I’d arrived a half-hour before, I watched across the little pond as it traversed the length of the quiet avenue, then made a U-turn. The drive either could have been lost, in which case he would have returned to the Boulevard at the street’s end, or else he could be a cruiser, in which case he’d take the park entrance and drive my way. My dick twitched slightly with anticipation when the Cadillac’s right blinker sprang into life right before the turn-off into the park. Almost regally, the Cadillac took the narrow pavement in my direction. The road had only one destination—a picnic shelter within the woods, and the restrooms beyond where I’d nearly been arrested the summer before. Cars that meandered through the park’s southern half, with its multiple shelters and tennis courts and recreational facilities were likely just souls seeking to commune with nature or get away from it all—or after five, they were the rednecks with their Confederate flags in the back windows and their brown paper bags concealing their containers of beer or hard liquor. Anyone making the effort to come to the park through its back entrance, however, was likely looking for sex. I caught a glimpse of the driver as his car inched by. Its wheels made a crackling noise as I pretended to be distracted from my reading and craned my neck to see; he was one of those Southern archetypes with which I’d grown up—a man of certain years not old enough to be elderly by a long shot, but somehow giving the impression of creaky old age. He had enough weight on him to give the appearance of jowls, and though he didn’t wear a tie, he wore a pressed shirt and a sports coat of summer seersucker. Sunglasses obscured his glance, but as he passed he straightened up in his seat and looked in my direction. Master of subtlety that I was, I let my right knee fall casually to the ground. I wasn’t wearing underwear. My junk didn’t spill out of the leg of my short shorts (hey, it was the nineteen-seventies), but they might as well have. I turned my head and watched as slowly the old Caddy disappeared in the direction of the woods. I didn’t hop on my bike and follow. I wasn’t entirely sure of the guy—that is, whether he was cruising me, or whether at that point he was worth my time. A few minutes later, however, when he hadn’t returned, I was about ready to get on my bike and investigate. Then I saw the Cadillac driving back down the road. Now that the driver’s side was facing me, I could tell that his head turned as he passed. He continued looking in my direction almost the entire length of his drive out. And then he was back onto the residential road, and gone. That might have been it, but five minutes later, his Cadillac was back. Driving more quickly and with purpose, it made the U-turn once more and nosed its bulky way into the park. It slowed down as it passed me, and then returned within the space of a couple of minutes. Both times, the driver stared at me intently, making my dick grow. When it came back a third time, I knew it was time to do something. I waited until the car was crossed the bridge over the duck pond, then stood up and dusted myself off. My hands were on my bike and I was by the road’s side when he passed. This time he stopped, as I expected. “Morning, son,” said the man from within the Cadillac. His voice was deep, and his accent as thick as sorghum syrup. “Hi,” I said. My dick was mostly hard, and hanging down the leg of my shorts. It wouldn’t have taken much for the head to protrude from beneath the corduroy hem. He was staring at it, over the top of his sunglasses. “Maybe you’d like to set a spell,” he suggested. “I can turn on my air conditioning if you’re hot. And,” he added in that drawling way Southerners have when they make a double-entendre, “you do look hot.” The guy might have been more jowly than I typically liked, but it was a hot morning, and I was bored and horny. I nodded. He drove and I biked to the end of the road, where he parked his car and I locked my ten-speed to a rack so riddled with rust that it was almost invisible against the picnic shelter. He’d already rolled up the windows and fired up the air by the time I reached the passenger side of the Cadillac. He leaned over to open the door for me. “Oh, sorry,” he said, noticing that there was a book on the passenger seat. He picked it up so that I could climb in. When he set it on the console, its red ribbon flopped over its leather spine and onto the dashboard. His trembling, chubby hand traveled over my hair as he studied me. “You surely are a pretty boy, son,” he said, smiling at me. His hands were perfectly manicured; their flesh was soft as lard. The heel of his hand moved down my face, the ring on his fourth finger warm against my cheek. His thumb and forefinger pulled down my lower lip, as if he wanted to insert a cherry in my mouth. “Pretty lips.” When he withdrew his fingers, I licked where they’d been. “How old are you, son?” he wanted to know. “Thirteen? Fourteen?” “Fourteen,” I whispered. I was sixteen, and as tall as I was gangly. But if he wanted me to be fourteen, I’d be fourteen. “Damn, son.” He cleared the arousal from his throat. “Have you ever sucked a man’s penis before?” “Once,” I nodded. “Kind of.” I was a coy little thing. Once or a thousand times. “What do you think about sucking on mine a little?” When I didn’t say anything, seeming to hesitate, he reached down and unbuckled his belt, then unfastened his lightweight summer slacks. With a bit of fumbling, he withdrew an uncut dick of perhaps five thick inches. The skin was already pulled back from the tip, exposing a furious purple head. I’d laid eyes on much more impressive meat, but this guy was almost more aroused than I’d seen any man, and a thick pearl of pre-cum adorned the slit. “It’s a nice one. Touch it,” he said, imploring me. “Come on, son. It won’t hurt you.” When I lowered myself across the seat to take the dick in my mouth, he sighed. He tasted of that morning’s shower, and vaguely of the medicinal aftershave that southern barbers used to have on hand. His dick forced my mouth wide open. His bulk pinned the back of my head against the steering wheel as he jack-rabbited in and out of my lips. “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, over and over again as I sucked. I didn’t give the kind of blow job that someone gives when he’s only sucked once. I used all the expert skills I’d by then collected to make the man tremble and moan. “Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus,” he said, over and over. When I came up for air once and looked behind me, I could see that the man’s hand clutched the Bible he’d thrown on the dashboard. The other clasped the back of my head and pushed me back down on his dick. When he came, it was quietly, almost genteel. He let out a few heavy breaths, then the quietest of sighs, as his body spasmed and a squirt of semen painted the inside of my throat. I swallowed, then waited for the last of his shots of cum before I sat up again. “Thanks,” I said, wiping off my mouth. “You are a damned sinner, and you are going straight to hell, son.” The man said the words matter-of-factly as his chubby hands fumbled over his clothing. “The Bible says that fornicators and homosexuals will burn in the deepest pits of perdition!” He had that preacher’s gift of speaking the word lord to sound as if it were printed in small upper-case letters, like in a King James Bible. “And you, son, are both.” I stared at the guy. I hadn’t seen anyone turn on a dime like this, going so quickly from need to hellfire and damnation. It was ridiculous, I knew. I turned to exit the car. He caught me by the hands, though, restraining me tightly so that I couldn’t exit. “You need to pray, son. You need to pray to the Lord with me to sin no more!” He pulled my hands onto the leather-bound Bible on his lap. I seemed to be the only one uncomfortably aware that it was close to where I’d been only moments before. “Together we are going to pray that you accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your soul and accept his grace in order that you may sin and be a homosexual no more.” Homosexshul, he pronounced it. Squeezing my hands so tightly that they colored, he immediately launched into a lengthy prayer. Basically he turned me in to God, exposing to his heavenly creator what a terrible young sinner I was, and how my evil and wicked ways were turning the godly onto the road of peril and sin, and how my sweet young face was nothing but the devil’s own mask . . . oh, there was a lot of stuff he said that morning, during that long prayer in the tepid air conditioning of his Cadillac. I believed none of it. When it was done, he opened his eyes and asked, “Do you see the error of your ways, son?” What was unsettling about the guy was that he was totally earnest about the whole thing. He didn’t seem to see any irony of his own words and actions. He really thought that I was the sinner, and the cause of what he’d just done. “Will you accept the Lord into your heart, here with me now?” I wasn’t doing any such thing. Without expression, I yanked open the latch and pushed the heavy door open, then kicked it shut behind me. My feet stirred up little whirlwinds of dust as I jogged back to the bike rack, where my fingers raced to twist out the combination of my lock. “Hell is no laughing matter, son!” he called out the window after me. “You don’t want to be a sad, lonely homosexshul for all your life! You are going to want a wife, children! You are going to want a legacy, son!” By then I was on my bike, pedaling furiously down the road. So that he couldn’t follow me, I turned down one of the park’s chained-off side roads where a bicycle could travel, but a car could not. His words followed me, clinging like black strands of sticky spider web. He did not. I waited until from a distance I saw the Cadillac drive back down the road and out of the park. It didn’t return, not that morning. All that afternoon I had mentally to brush off those words. They left me grimy. They were a soot so fine that it could never quite rinse away, and so foul and dark that it made the rest of the world seem just as gritty and incapable of being cleansed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A special edition of Reader Asses today, as I bring you first an ass that I know close up and personal. Ace Last week, in an entry called Someone's Poem, I wrote about spending a very special night with a 21-year-old boy who drove up from Ohio to meet me. After I spent several hours opening him up for the first time in over two years, I went back home. These were the self-photos he took with his phone an texted to me when I climbed into my own bed. I didn't take these photos, but I certainly got that hairy ass wet in them. Thanks, Ace! Writer Near and dear to my heart is my good friend Writer, the first Breeder's Reader who went out of his way, early in my blogging career, to make a place for me in his bed. I commemorated the evening in a post that remains one of my all-time favorites. Writer's a special guy, and has a damned hot ass. Not only is it hairy and perfectly round, but it looks awfully good when he's topping some lucky guy, too. Don't you folk agree? Dan Dan is one of my readers from the UK who chastises me for saying ass instead of arse. Danny, I'll call it whatever you fucking want as long as you keep sending in photos like this one. Props to the unusual underwear choice, the hot open hole, and the position of submission, my friend. That is one ass I'd like to come across in a dark club or a hotel room. Pun totally intended. Tyler What infuriates me about Tyler's incredible jock butt is that the guy used to live very close to me—and yet I could never get him to come over and let me pay attention to that beautiful thing. Could the guy be any hotter? I honestly don't think so . . . and he seemed like a pretty hungry bottom at the time, too. Tyler, come on back to your old home town and let me chow down on what you've got between those cheeks. I promise you won't regret it. And there we have another edition of reader asses. Did you like 'em? If so, let the contributors know in the comments. And please—I love my mailbox full of ass photos. If you'd like to be featured here in a future edition, follow the link and send me your ass! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This area in which I’ve lived for half my life is the most divided, racially and economically, of anyplace I’ve ever known. Though we refer to the vast region of southeast Michigan as ‘Detroit,’ that generality fails to connote what every native of the region knows: there’s a vast difference between the relatively prosperous suburbs and the city proper, which has been eating away at itself from within for years. I lived within the Detroit city limits for many years when I first lived here—I moved into the downtown area as a student, then bought my first house in one of the so-called safe neighborhoods at the city’s edge. In the early-to-mid nineties when I bought the two-story colonial for a whopping twenty-four thousand dollars, safety was indeed very much a concern. It was the height of the city’s reign as the crack and murder center of the U.S. My neighborhood was a pleasant little racially-diverse enclave of friendly people just south of the city’s notorious 8-Mile Road that delineated the city border from the suburbs, populated heavily by police officers and firemen and other city workers who were required to live within its limits. Back in the early nineties, an era that now seems as long-distant and antiquated as the middle ages, we had to cruise face to face in bars and parks and restrooms. Online was only becoming an option. I’d snagged a free Prodigy sign-up kit when I’d lived in my downtown apartment. In my new house, though, with my hot new Macintosh LC II pizza box and my 2400-baud modem, I made the leap to America Online, which outdid Prodigy with its nifty bells and gizmos. Not to mention its specialized M4M chat rooms, where excitement lurked. It was in one of these chat rooms that I made my first AOL hookup. The guy was married, and older than I, and lived in one of the ultra-wealthy, ultra-white Grosse Pointes, the most exclusive suburbs in the region. That’s about all I knew of him. It was an era in which having digitized photos of oneself was a novelty, not a requirement; obtaining one would have required an expensive and clunky scanner, or more affordably, one of those nozzles one could attach to a dot-matrix printer that would have scanned a photo into a pixillated approximation of itself, line by line, as it jerked across the slowly-rotating carriage. Even if I had, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to figure out how to send or receive one, in those distant days. We were all such babes in the woods, then. As it turned out, a photo didn’t matter. He didn’t want me to see him, anyway. This is how it used to go down, with him. We’d see each other in the MI M4M chat room. Soon I’d hear the familiar trill of the instant message from him, asking if I could host. He’d name a time, and then I’d agree to be ready. I’d wash up, strip down, and then wait for him in the living room, completely naked. Door unlocked. On my knees. Blindfolded. I didn’t want me to see him, not ever. He had too prominent a job, he explained. A wife. Three kids. He didn’t want to be recognized, especially by the men he was fucking. So at his command I’d take a raggedly old bandana that I’d had since high school and wrap it around my eyes. I’d kneel on the soft peach-colored carpet in front of the sofa. And I’d wait, patiently, for his arrival. He usually arrived quickly. When he was hunting, he wanted to get down to business as fast as possible. I’d hear the sound of a car door slamming outside, and then a step on my front landing. The whuff of displaced air between the storm door and my front door would follow, then the opening of the latch. My dick would harden as I heard him cross the threshold and drop his coat onto the floor. Then he’d walk over to me and take control. Usually he’d grab me by the hair and blindfold and grind my face against his crotch. I was clean-shaven, then; he’d abrade my cheeks and jaw against the cotton of his slacks. My lips would snag against the cold metal teeth of his zipper. His belt buckle, frigid and hard, would bang against my forehead as he fumbled it from its clasp. Then I’d smell his dick, hot and needy, close to my lips. Its scent was undefinable, but I’d recognize it immediately. There was soap, certainly, and the faintest remnants of the laundry detergent from his fresh briefs. But there was something else as well—perhaps the aroma from the bead of pre-cum that always lingered at his dick’s tip, or the mixture of oils and secretions that even the cleanest of man quickly accumulates in his out-of-the-way places. Regardless, I always knew when he’d pulled out that dick, just seconds before it plunged into my anticipating mouth. He wasn’t gentle. He was a skull-fucker, the kind of man who liked to cradle my head in his hands and hold it motionless while he power-pistoned its wet depths. His dick couldn’t have been any longer than five-and-a-half thick inches, but the length didn’t matter. The vigor with which he used it did. He managed to open my throat with those shorter inches than most men with dicks my size ever could. The back of my throat would be hoarse and swollen from the assault for days, when he was finished. I liked it like that. He never undressed; he never took any more than five good strides into my home. He’d enter, close the door behind him, drop his pants to his upper thighs, and face-fuck me until he shot a load down my throat. When he came—and he came quickly—he’d thrust his dick so deeply down my throat that my nose and mouth would choke and gag, deprived of air, against his belly. Done, he’d shove me away roughly. So roughly that sometimes I’d fall back to the carpet, dizzy and off-balance. I’d hear the sounds of his buckling and fastening, and then the door opening and closing behind him. Sometimes he liked to switch it up; he’d bring velcro cuffs with him that he’d attach to my wrists before he face-fucked me. A couple of times he cuffed my ankles and wrists and got me to kneel on the sofa in order to fuck my hole, but mostly he liked my mouth. He’d tell me how pretty my lips were, as he squeezed them with his stubby fingers, pinching the flesh tightly against his rigid meat. Or he’d whisper that I was better than his wife, as he’d insert his ring finger along with the rest of his dick. He always told me to leave on my blindfold for five minutes after he left. I cheated, once. I wanted to see what this man looked like, this figure of wet dreams who played so powerfully into my fantasies. After my front door shut, I ripped off my blindfold and raced to the front window. Through the California privet I watched a perfectly ordinary middle-aged guy—slightly overweight, dark hair, former jock good looks—striding back to his BMW. I only caught a brief glimpse of him. I didn’t want to see more. It already felt a little like ripping down the curtain and finding that the mighty Wizard of Oz was a a suburban soccer dad. After that, I left on my bandana, happy to remind blind for him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Thanks to everyone who entered last week's Follower 500 Jock Giveaway Contest. Between the comments and the guys who entered via email, we had close to seventy-five hot and sweaty guys wrestling for my dirty jock. Ah. The mental image. I like it. Now, I've been working on the thing for almost a week now. I didn't wear it over the weekend because the straps were cutting into me after four straight days—but it did see cum rag duty. I've already put the stinking thing back on this morning, and I'm going to wear it a few more days to fill out the week. There can only be one winner, though. After entering all the names into a lottery application written expressly for purposes like this, I've simulated a random drawing. And the winner is. . . Gingerbeard! I swear, guys, his winning has nothing to do with his offer to pay for personal delivery. Nor the part where he said I'd have to pump a few loads into him while I was there. It's kind of a tempting offer, though. Gingerbeard, hit me up via email with your mailing information and all your naked photos, and at the end of the week I'll send you your prize. (Okay, only one of those two items is necessary. I'll let you sort out which one.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've been having one of those weekends. You know, the kind in which I have all kinds of opportunity for messing around . . . but no one to do it with. In fact, it's been such a dry weekend that I was able to pull out the graph paper, the plotting pins, and the ol' geometrical compass so I could perform a scientific study. And it made me come up with what I think is a new and irrefutable principle. In fact, I've given it a name so that it can be studied more widely by the scientific community at large: The Breeder's First Law of Reciprocal Attraction. The Breeder's First Law of Reciprocal Attraction states, thusly: The amount of attraction between two units is inversely proportional to the distance between them. That is, to guys in Phoenix, I'm catnip. To men in California, I'm a tin of canned sex. To guys in Australia, I'm fuckmeat on a stick sprayed with pheromones and covered with wrapping paper made out of the most hardcore of porn. For the local guys, though, I could wrap my dick in hundred-dollar bills and they'd still not get off their asses and investigate. Maybe it's the holiday weekend. Maybe it's the stars. Maybe I've just worn out my appeal. But I'm pretty sure it's Breeder's Law in action. By the way, if you'd like to enter the giveaway for the jock I've been wearing all week, please make sure to enter before midnight tonight (or early Monday morning. Who'm I kidding? I'm not going to be checking the final emails before tomorrow). Check in Monday's entry for all the details. We've got more questions to round up today from formspring.me. Please stop by the site and leave your questions for me--you can do it anonymously, if you'd like. Sorry, this was the first Q. Suppose you are in a monogamous relationship.. and your partner decides to never have sex again... what do you do? Unless you're in a coma, one's partner should not be making unilateral decisions for the both of you. If this were to happen within a relationship and it was causing unhappiness for the partner who wanted to continue having sex, it would be either time to renegotiate the monogamy clause, or to seek counseling or outside assistance to explore the reasons and remedies for the sudden celibacy. You mentioned a few weeks ago you were doing something at the local middle school with music. Are you teaching something there? or just volunteer stuff I do school visits sometimes for my primary career. But I occasionally get hired on a free-lance basis for my crazy keyboard skills. In that case, accompanying a squadron of kids for a solo and ensemble festival. Why did you decide not to teach? I'm a creative artist who sometimes teaches, not a teacher who tries to squeeze in some creative work between his classes and research. I enjoy teaching and am a good teacher, but for the last several years I've preferred to focus on my creative work. Did you ever get around to playing D&D, or was it strictly a cover for your meetings with Earl? I played it once—with the original white box rulebooks. Yes, I'm that old. The dungeon master was a guy in my seventh-grade class named Henry, who had a reputation as the school's uber-nerd. On an everyday basis he wore Star Trek buttons all over his clothing. Dozens of them. Really. One of them blinked and was shaped like one those tricorders, or whatever they're called. He also wore a 'Frodo Lives' button and sometimes a cape like Gandalf's. Frankly, Henry was embarrassing to be around. And not just because he mixed his fandoms. But Henry was the first person I knew who had the white-box D&D rulebooks, and he tried to start those of us who were nominally his friends into letting him be the dungeon master. The problem was that he was kind of a dick as a dungeon master; all the frustrations he had as the most picked-on kid in the class (now that I think of it, that's probably the sole reason he was in my circle of nerdy friends...he made us look normal) came out in his campaign, that Saturday morning. I think my half-elf cleric was dead barely before the 20-sided diced cooled off from the character creation. I was kind of pissed, and told him where to shove it. And while my other friends continued playing D&D, I just used it as a cover for my Earl visits. In the interests of full disclosure, I was a fan of other RPGs, and tried to lure people away from Henry's campaigns with Runequest, Gamma World, and especially Traveller. I loved Traveller. Your creativity and intelligencel intrigues me, do you have any non sexual blogs you follow that you would recommend? I don't consider myself a writer even with an English Lit degree but I am always looking for interesting blogs to peak my interest Your flattery, er, flatters me. Thank you. I read a mixture of blogs online. My favorite general-interest one would probably be Towleroad, because of its mixture of gay political-interest posts, music and entertainment news, and science posts. It really is more than just a Lady Gaga Watch blog, which is a relief. For entertainment news I enjoy the A.V. Club. I also enjoy Tom & Lorenzo's Fashion, Television, and Pop Culture blog. WebUrbanist is always thoughtful and interesting. And I am always fascinated by the Shorpy Historical Photos site. Apparently my brain demands a steady diet of ephemera. I'm sure you can find any of these sites by Googling them. Is there anything you think I should be reading? The new Comments tab lists all the published comments and lets you delete them. You no longer have to visit each blog post and manually remove spam comments? I don't delete comments. I mark the obnoxious ones as spam. Blogger makes them invisible, and internally tracks the IP address so that it can automatically move future posts from the same address into the spam folder. Spencer makes you so happy. Do you suppose when you make the move your wife would consider taking in a boarder? Perhaps Spencer could be a gardener or the driver. That's a sweet fantasy, but I don't think Spencer wants to spend a life as my gardener. I see a bright future for the kid; he should be free to pursue it. Music questions here: 1. Have you ever sang Poor, Poor Pitiful Me in karaoke (it's my favorite). And 2. Would you ever post video and/or audio of your piano playing? 1) No, but I do like that song. And 2) I don't think my piano playing is really all that exceptional. Competent, yes, which is why I get hired on occasion to play in the background, where no one is really noticing me. I would consider posting a recording of me singing, though. Because although I'm not a particularly great singer, I surely do it with gusto. do you like bear? I surely do, but for some reason, the local bears don't seem to like me. Or else they don't like to show it. Maybe it's my hair. Did you write another blog before this one? Because a lot of guys here call you Rob, but I don't remember an entry where you actually say your name is Rob. I think I may have had snippets of dialogue in my blog in which a guy might have addressed me by name. Additionally, many of my readers have written me and gotten a response signed with my name. Which is Delores. (No, I'm kidding.) This might not be popular, but I for one am interested in reading about one of your MMF experiences. Do you have any thoughts about writing about that? Do you take requests?! It might be more popular than you think. I would write about them more if I was having more of them; I enjoy meeting with married couples, but I haven't done so for a little over a year. The last couple I was seeing parted from me somewhat awkwardly, so I might not have been as inclined to pursue replacements readily. Are you attracted to the way a man smells? Unless he smells like a skunk, or is highly perfumed, yes. Smell is the one sense that can turn me off of sexual activity almost instantly. Although I like both a natural musky scent or a light cologne sometimes, If a guy is at too far an end of either side of the spectrum, I'm likely to be gagging too much to engage in some good old-fashioned rogering. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The freeway was so dark on my return home from Ann Arbor Saturday night that I almost missed the turnoff to the rest stop. Only the blaze of its bright florescent lamps through the Plexiglass enclosure, greenish-yellow against the indigo midnight sky, tipped me to my destination. My ass was still sore, quite frankly, after its poking by the steam room bear. In my post-coital moments in his hotel bathroom, I thought I’d wiped all the remnants of his attempts to fuck me from my ass. My hole, however, had been leaking lube during the return trip home. The long, solitary minutes and the prospect of more sex had flagged my curiosity once more. Several cars were parked slantwise in the rest stop’s lot, when I pulled in. A head that was shrouded in the deep shadows of a suburban minivan turned to follow my path, as I stepped from my car and walked in the direction of the little shelter set back from the road. Most of the other cars were empty, which signaled to me that their occupants were probably within. A trucker smoking a cigarette lounged against the outside door, his hand thrust deep into the pockets of his grimy, ragged denim jeans. Though his head was angled away from me, his eyes danced over my length, checking me out. I pretended not to notice, and pushed through. A boy stood at the urinals just within the men’s room doorway, his skin the color and sheen of obsidian. His arms extended in long straight lines; his hands cupped around his genitals, which he’d pushed close to the porcelain of the waist-to-floor urinals. A latin man stood a urinal away from him. He had to have been around forty. His clothing was covered with dust, though in good shape. At my entry, he zipped up his grey jeans, stepped away from the urinal, and pulled his hoodie over his shaved head. The men’s room has three stalls. The one closest to the door was occupied by a tall guy who was unbuckling his pants. He must’ve been at least six-six or six-seven, because for a guy to register as tall in my eyes, he has to be at least a good three inches over my own. He was bearded and white, the kind of guy I see at student concerts and swim meets, cheering on the spawn. He stared at me in the mirror as I traveled to the stall next to him. No one was in the far stall to my left, when I sat down. The suburban dad’s foot immediately tapped at me when I dropped my pants. I tapped back. For a few moments we continued the ritual of tapping and bringing our feet closer. I sensed a shift in the shadows he was casting beneath the partition, and caught glimpse of ass from where I leaned over. When I moved my hand beneath the partition, he angled his body so that his backside connected with my fingers. I moved my hand further along the crack, between his legs, and found myself grasping his hard dick. The pre-cum oozing from its tip was cool and sticky against my skin. He wanted to feel my dick. I obliged by letting him stroke it beneath the partition. We were interrupted fairly quickly, though, so I had to return to my seat on the toilet. Soon, though, when I didn’t hear anyone else in the restroom change position, I stood up to see who’d come in. In the mirrors I could see the trucker I’d passed coming in was now standing next to the young black boy at the urinals. They were side by side looking both over their shoulders at the reflections of me and the married daddy in the stall next to mine, and at each other’s hard dicks. A third guy in a patterned woolen coat stood near them, stroking his meat through the fly of his baggy jeans. The latin guy had walked over to the sinks across from my stall. He unzipped the fly of his gray jeans and exposed his hard cock. The latin was only five-four or so, and his eight and a half inches looked obscenely monstrous on him. He had a circumcision scar a good three and a half inches behind his crown, which had to be the furthest back I’d ever seen, especially on a brown dick like his. He nodded at me, as I watched him stroke. “Let me see yours,” he whispered. The three men at the urinals had begun to stroke openly for each other. Next to me, I could see shadows of the tall dad’s hand flying back and forth over his meat. He was standing up and staring at the latin man, though his stall door remained closed. I felt bold enough to open my door and show off my dick to the latin. He immediately dived for it, taking it in his mouth and struggling to take it to the base. His hand went between my legs. One of his fingertips snaked its way into my still-sensitive asshole. “Fuck, papi,” he said, standing up and squeezing his dick so hard it should have popped. “You got load in there?” I didn’t answer. Instead I sat down on the toilet and took his meat in my mouth. It smelled slightly of a day’s piss, but I wanted to see how much of that monster I could take. Before I got too far, though, we heard the sounds of the door opening outside. The latin leaped back and yanked up his pants. I closed my stall door and settle back onto the toilet. I heard the men at the urinals adjust themselves. Then, when once again no one made any quick exits, I stood up after a moment. Two more guys had joined the already-busy men’s room. The latin had his pants unzipped again and was displaying his big dick to a kid with floppy hair pretending to wash his hands. A fourth man, tall and husky, had joined the guys at the urinals. Eight men, all hard and exposed, all jacking for each other. I watched for a moment or two, and then made a decision. Hot as it was in there, it was simply too busy at that point. When it comes to public sex, there’s a thin line between a hot group scene and a juicy headline news bust. I pulled up my pants and, ass still feeling like it was sloshing, exited the restroom and headed back to my car. I wasn’t too surprised when the latin followed me back. He stood at the trash can and watched me get into my car, which I left unlocked. After a couple of moments, he walked over, opened the back door, and got inside. He got his pants open so quickly that I might’ve sworn they were fastened with velcro. His dick stuck straight up in the air, just as hard and insistent as it had been in the restroom. I turned around and angled my body between the front seats, so I could see and hold it. “I wanna fuck you,” he whispered. When I shook my head, he added, “You all lubed up and ready, papi, I want that ass.” “Not here,” I said. “Let me suck you.” He thought about it a moment, then relinquished his hold on his dick. I craned my body into the back seat and went down on him, slurping on that amazing dick. From the corner of my eye I watched as he turned his head from side to side, keeping a careful eye on the comings and goings around us. I’d parked in the most distant reaches of the lot, though, so not much could have happened without warning. It didn’t take him long until he was pumping out amazing quantities of pre-cum that lubricated my mouth. A salty patch of the stuff dribbled down the back of my throat. The man seized the back of my head and held it still as he thrust upward. His breath left a sheen of fog on the inside of my window, where he breathed. With a mighty grunt, he shot. His load wasn’t huge, but it was unusually sweet. Hands still clamped on the back of my neck, he waited until I swallowed and cleaned him off. Then, when I sat up, he nodded, zipped and fastened, and existed the car. I watched as he walked back in the direction of the restroom, either to clean up or to play some more. Either way, I was done for the evening. I’d fucked, I’d been fucked a little, I’d played with strange dicks at a rest stop, I’d sucked dick in my car. That was enough for one Saturday evening, and so I drove off into the night, leaving the little oasis a receding spot of light in my rear-view mirror. More...

You present a compelling case, Always.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Let's get right to it, shall we? Donnie I think these photos are some of the most professional we've seen in my series. Beautifully-lit, aren't they? And the subject is perfection—that ass is beautiful, and those balls are amazing. Donnie hails from Finland. I'm pretty sure that if the Finnish Visitor's Bureau were to use him for an advertisement or two in selected publications, their number of tourists would probably triple. Damn, Donnie. Thanks for sharing! YB Continuing in our international tour of asses, Mr. YB hails from Canada. You can tell he's from the great frozen north by the wooly socks, right? But let me guess. You didn't even notice them, because like me, you were mesmerized by that hole. That submissive pose always gets me every time. Of course, the other way by which you might have recognized YB as a Canadian was by that uncut meat poking between his legs. That's one reason I love those Canucks. FF Sigh. Every time I look at this picture, that's what I do. Because that ass is simply beautiful. FF is a 19-year-old twink teen Latino bottom boy, as he describes himself, who's ready for a man to fill him with cock, cum, and love. Doesn't it make you want to go out and buy a bottle of lube and a bouquet of roses? I know it does me. FF, you're one sexy boy, and you'll have many years of fun ahead of you. Enjoy them, my friend! Nate Now, I find this a particularly sexy photo. Nate is a reader who corresponds with me on occasion, and he sent this to be shared after an evening on which he was fisted for very first time. Thus the open hole. It's an inviting sight—particularly with Nate's sexy face hovering in the photo's corner. Beautiful photo, Nate, and thanks for sharing a special night with everyone! God damn, I always get randy after pulling together another reader asses column. Of course, I'd love to display your ass and hole for everyone to see, so consider sharing and read my original call for photos to see how to contribute. And a quick reminder. If you'd like to enter the drawing for the jock I'm wearing and using as a cum rag for an entire week, make sure to visit that entry and leave a comment before Monday morning so that you can be in the running. I've had the thing on for two straight days now—overnight, too! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I met the steam room bear at the baths a few weeks ago, we’d spent such an intense few hours making out, fucking, and grinding against each other that there was no chance in hell I wasn’t slipping him my number and email at the conclusion of the afternoon. I give out my number in these situations with absolutely no expectation that the men will call me. They usually don’t. I’m too old and jaded to mope by the phone with my chin on my chubby fist, while Vikki Carr’s “It Must Be Him” plays in the background. The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday. He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.” Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em. Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below. It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.” “Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe. “Yes. Please. Please fuck me.” “Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass. “Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.” I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?” “Pl—!” He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!” His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.” I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.” “I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.” “Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment. He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days. Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return. Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said. “Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.” “I want to,” he whispered. He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.” I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that? The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case. His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?” “Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench. “Do you think about me fucking you?” I nodded. “Yes.” “You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know. I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity. He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.” “I know.” He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.” They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway. “I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say. I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.” “You’re sure?” “I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him. I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?” That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best. I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.” “I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it. But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped. “My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.” Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him. He slid back in, hard once more. It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know. “All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.” He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it. I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Want to hear something beautiful?” We were tangled together, knotted limb to limb, our chests glistening with sweat and semen. Though it was after midnight, I could see his face in the dark; the cheap room at the Red Roof Inn not too far from my home hovered in a perpetual twilight, thanks to the banks of florescent lighting beneath its eaves, that leaked through the drawn curtains. I’d been hearing beautiful things all night, thanks to the young man in my arms. He was all of twenty-one, a senior in his last semester of college who’d driven into town to meet me. His hair lay on my skin as he looked down into my face; it tickled. “Yes,” I replied. “When I was driving up 75 through Ohio, it was all gray and dreary and pretty awful. The rain was crazy. Then I looked up and just as I was passing the Welcome to Michigan sign, I saw this cloud break above. It was truly amazing. Like magic.” I held the boy more tightly in my embrace, after that confession. “That’s when I knew everything on this trip was going to turn out to be all right.” In the artificial twilight he lay on his side, his long, long blond hair gathered into a thick rope that lay across his neck and jaw and dangled loosely across the lower reaches of his ribcage. With his clear eyes, pale skin, and impossibly long golden tresses that seemed to give off their own light, he looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. His nose was narrow and sharp, his beard as short and neatly-trimmed as it was fair. He was beautiful, and to think that he’d been mine all evening took my breath away. I’d arrived not knowing what to expect from the evening. I’d loved the kid’s profile when I’d seen it on BBRT, the week before. He’d checked me out a few days before contacting me to say he was planning a Detroit trip this last weekend, and that he’d been a blog reader of mine for a short time and was wondering if I might want to get together? Oh, I absolutely did. Over the next few days we hammered out the details. The boy messaged me both in email and through text messages to warn me that he hadn’t been fucked in a while—for over two years, to be precise. He seemed nervous about his recent inexperience, too; he didn’t go to the extreme that some do of making me promise, over and over again, to be gentle. He’d mentioned the hiatus enough, though, that I knew exactly how he felt. After all, I’ve felt that way about my own lack of bottom opportunities in recent years. I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely breathtaking the kid was in person, though. His BBRT photos had been kind of goofy in a college boy way—they made him seem like a smiling, fun person, and definitely attractive, but they hadn’t prepared me for how truly attractive he was, when finally I knocked on his hotel room door and saw him on the other side, anxious and wide-eyed. I kissed him immediately, savoring the push and pull on my lips from his own. While we made out, standing there with his head tilted up to reach me, and mine lowered to his, my hands ranged down his body. My thumbs rubbed against his pierced nipples; my palms slid down the sides of his narrow waist. Then I cupped his ass, which in a pair of clinging sweatpants was full, perfect, and round. The kid wasn’t a particularly muscular guy, but my god, that ass. It would have bounced higher than a SuperBall. We took our make-out session to the bed, where we gradually undressed each other, taking our time. He licked and sucked my torso and cock and balls, which I paid back by lifting his legs high to expose his hole for my mouth to taste. Hairy little fucker that he was, his hole was a forest of fur that abraded my chin and nose as I dove in deep. He was tight. I could tell merely from the way his hole nipped at my tongue’s tip. At the same time, though, I could tell I was going to get inside that unused hole. The boy responded to every caress, warmed to every admiring word that passed through my lips. He wanted me, and he was letting me know it in every muscle’s turn, in every slow lowering of his curly lashes. When after a very long time I flipped him over so that those twin hairy globes were directly in my face, and he lifted them to assist my access, I judged that it was time. My first attempt went badly, though. I knew that when I eased my cock head between those furry cheeks that I wasn’t going to get inside. He clenched down, repelling the invasion, and I retreated. That was fine. I lay next to him on the bed, with my greased finger pressed insistently inside his hole. As we kissed and nibbled at each other, I used the finger to draw a circle, gradually widening the entry until it puckered. I slipped another finger, and twisted and turned them to get him used to the sensations. Then, after another very long period of relaxation and intimacy, I sweetly turned him back onto his stomach and worked my way in. There were a few seconds of shock, and another few of intensity. Very quickly they were followed by sweet acceptance as I slid to the base. He groaned loudly, vibrating the alien mattress with the noise. “How’s that feel?” I whispered in his ear. “Wonderful,” he sighed. I fucked him four times that evening, each time escalating the intensity of my thrusting just to the point I judged he could take it. All four times he responded by grinding and trying to add to my pleasure, the closer to got to orgasm. All four times, he pleaded for my load, and I was glad to give it to him. He spilled his sperm, too, once bringing himself to climax while I remained inside him and once letting me do the honors, and once by face-fucking me while I gulped eagerly at his dick. He licked me from head to foot, omitting no part of my body in his quest to bring me pleasure; he hammered at my hole with his finger, driving it all the way in until I grunted in contentment. “You are driving me absolutely crazy with pleasure,” I kept telling him, as he stimulated and stroked me. Waves of sensation traveled over my body like an incoming tide. “You deserve this kind of pleasure all the time,” he whispered back. What was sweet, and touching, was that he believed it. I mean, what he told me is my own personal belief—I do deserve that kind of pleasure, all the time!—but he managed to say it with such sincerity that I knew his conviction was far deeper than my own. The kid is a writer. In the morning’s early hours I got him to turn on the lights and read to me from his work, while I laid there on the bed in my shirt, my legs naked and sprawled open, my spent dick hanging limp between them. I closed my eyes and savored the words he spoke aloud, amused by the half-reticence in his halting voice as he read, and impressed by the half-confidence that took over as he proceeded. In a very few years’ time, that confidence is what will turn him into a speaker who will command attention. He’s a good writer, too—good with an image, playful with his words. At the conclusion of each piece, he turned to me, naked in more ways than the purely physical, his beautiful long hair hanging on either side of his face. He was looking for approval. He’d had that long before, from the moment I met him in the darkness as our lips wrestled for dominance. “If I were to write a poem about you,” he’d said in that florescent twilight, somewhere in the long, languorous hours we passed together, “I’d write about the feel of your skin, the smell of you, the way you taste on my tongue.” His arms had pulled me closer to him, and his words had buzzed in my ear. “You’d be the best poem I ever wrote.” I wish I felt like someone’s poem more often. Maybe I deserve that, too. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday in my weekly Formspring roundup, I asked for suggestions for a contest this week to celebrate my approaching 500th public Blogger follower. My frequent commenter and good friend Yves promptly stepped up to the plate and registered himself so that he could be number 500. And thus I must keep my part of the bargain. Tempting as the contest suggestion was that I fly myself to a lucky winner's house for a weekend of servicing, it's a little out of my budget. What I can work with, however, was the proposal that I wear a jock for a week and then send it to the lucky winner. Therefore: What you're looking it is my oldest jock. I had it as a senior in college, where it saw action in many an intercollegiate badminton tournament. (I'll leave it up to you guys to decide whether I'm kidding or not.) It's still in great condition, though the cup has lost some of its tone. I'll be wearing the thing for a week, night and day, starting tomorrow or Wednesday. It'll see service as a cum towel, too. Then at the end of that week, I'll be sending it off to one of my (need I say lucky?) readers. What do you need to do in order to win? Simple. You have one week to comment on this blog entry with a statement that you'd like to win the dirty prize. You don't have to be registered with Google or Blogger, but if you prefer to comment anonymously, please leave at least a name or nickname by which I can identify you. Do not, do not, do not give me your personal address in your comment. When I announce the winner next week, I'll ask him to email me with those details. If you prefer not to let the world know you're after my soiled underwear, email me directly for a chance to win. I'll keep the contest open until Sunday evening. When midnight strikes and Monday begins, it'll be over. I'll use my random drawing application to sort through all the names, and the first name drawn will be receiving a cum-stained packet shortly after that. So what're you waiting for? Comment already. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The number of public followers I've accumulated on Blogger seemed stuck forever on 471. Then it started to inch up again over the last week. Now it's at 499. And you know I have a tendency to celebrate when we reach milestones like 500. In the past I've given away pairs of spunked-up shorts that were, I do believe, quite gratefully received by the contest winners. I'm perfectly willing to do that again—I never seem to run out of the raw materials—but I thought I'd open up today's entry and ask the question: What kind of contest prize would you like to see for a random-draw event when I reach my 500th follower? All I ask is that the suggestions be realistic. As much as a night with me sounds like a good prize (I hope!), it's not going to be realistic for everyone to hop on a plane an get to my city in order to wine and dine me and take me to bed. Notice how cleverly I didn't even bring up the possibility of me hauling out my credit card, there. If you've got some good ideas, though, share 'em in the comments. Or mail me privately. I'm all ears. Otherwise, it's all underwear for the masses again! Not that it's a bad thing. More questions from formspring.me again, today. Feel free to pop over there and ask me what you'd like, as long as it's not abrasive or abusive. And have yourself a good Sunday, guys and gals. Do you have a favorite vacation spot? If so where? Although I enjoy beaches and wooded resorts, I tend to enjoy taking vacations to some of my favorite cities—Chicago, Toronto, New York, Los Angeles— so that I can not only take advantage of their cultural attractions, but meet several of their men as well. If i'm not being indiscreet.. when/why did you switch from pure bottom (in the Earl[y] days) to 95-99% power top? I wrote about the incident that began the transition in my blog, in an entry called 'The Fulcrum.' When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? I wanted to be an archaeologist. I was highly influenced by the collection of artifacts from King Tut's tomb that toured the US during the nineteen-seventies. Have you ever played hookie from work for the express reason of hooking up with someone? No. I would simply invite them to bend over my work desk. Have you sought or considered sex therapy/counseling to deal with your current mental block against bottoming? Not beyond the counseling I eventually received after the incident that was at the root of it. Bottoming isn't something that I generally crave with anything more than a faint regret. If it was something I genuinely wanted regularly and found myself unable to do, I'd probably be more interested in overcoming my issues about it with action. I know I can do it, because I've done it; the circumstances simply have to be right. Love your blog and the fact that you are so grounded. The March 2 post was outstanding. Best to you and keep blogging. Thanks for your compliments and good wishes! Damn, those are some big balls (literally) you have there (your recent "smile" picture you posted) - but I'm digressing... Ever tried roids? How does bodybuiding make you feel (in any aspect)? the Dr. Nope, I've never tried them. And do I look like a bodybuilder to you? I'm that 98-pound weakling upon whom the bodybuilder kicks sand. In your blog you say you had been collared, what exactly did that mean to you, then? You were already submissive and obedient to Earl, so I'm curious if being collared took you to another level, or....? A lot of today's leather and BDSM community talk about education, when it comes to their particular brand of play; I've known submissives who've been given books or texts to read, homework to write, their own blogs to keep about the experiences to which they're subjected. I had none of that in my several years of time with Earl, the man around whom much of my sexual life revolved in my mid-teens. I'd show up to his house, wear the collar he'd leave me on his kitchen table, and then do whatever the hell it was he had planned for me that day. I didn't get any training other than what I got during the particular event. It was the same approach to advanced sex as throwing someone who can't even dog paddle into a watering hole is to swimming. I knew certain things about the collar that made sense to me at the time. It was a badge of ownership. It allowed him to grab hold and direct me, when he needed, or restrain me when I was too eager. It was humbling. But most of all, it was one of those rituals that, by automatically following it without question, made me more his boy. Have you ever had an experience when you were simultaneously having sex with two or more men who were related to each other (two brothers, a father and a son, cousins, or whatever)? Yes. Have you told your partner about all of your past relationships? No. That would take more years than I've already invested in the relationship. For the tops, Have you ever fucked a Fleshlight? How does it compare to the real thing for you? Even when it's soaked in warm water to feel more like the temperature of hole, a Fleshlight feels very different from the real thing. It's not bad, or even inferior. Just different. A real butt is going to be warm and is going to react in way to being fucked that a Fleshlight can never approximate. However, fucking a Fleshlight can still be a fun and pleasurable activity, I've found. What rights should the father have if his unmarried girlfriend wants an abortion? I'm afraid I side with the girlfriend's rights on this one. It's her body. Her choice. Do you have a favorite 'toy' as an adult? What is it? (Note: toy can mean whatever it means to you...) If we're talking sex toy, I'd probably have to say my collection of cock rings. I keep going back to my trusty rubber rings over and over again, but I enjoy substituting some of the others for a change in sensation. If we mean other toys, I'd have to say my iPad. I use that thing more than I ever expected. At this point, I use it more than my laptop. You're the coolest man on the net!! I know, right?! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A lot of you porn hounds are probably familiar with Jayson Park. He's starred in videos from a lot of the major bareback studios, including Hot Desert Knights, Treasure Island (his scene in Bone Deep with a top porn actor I truly admire, Dan Fisk, is one of my personal favorites), Red Stag Video, Raw Fuck Club . . . I'm probably leaving some out, but I lost count long ago. Well, I actually have known Jayson for quite some years. I knew him before he was a much-admired and much-seeded porn deity, back when he was merely a hot man with an endless appetite for cock and cum. I've watched his rise in the porn world over the last couple of years with no little degree of pride, in kind of the same way he's watched me go from mere sleazy top to much-read blogger. I'm not into commercial endorsements on this blog (unless, of course, you want to buy me stuff—then I'm craven). Jayson is a personal friend of mine, though, so I have no qualms about sending you to his new website: viewsfromthebottom.com . Let me stress that Jayson's new effort is a personal website, not a commercial effort. Nor am I being rewarded monetarily for endorsing it. He's a friend of mine, and has been for some years. His goal is to reach out to fans and new readers with a mix of gay-interest new items, writings about his on-screen encounters, and queer culture. I think what he's started is pretty special, and I'm proud of him for branching out into this new arena. So please. Pop on over to his site and spend a while. Put the feeds onto your daily reads. And jeez, if you haven't seen him bottoming onscreen yet, do yourself a favor and pop in one of his DVDs. The guy's amazing. Love you, Jayse! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’d been dreaming. I couldn’t tell you what about—tall buildings, certainly, and streets full of people. Clear, bright skies, and a leaf-scented breeze. Beyond that, I can’t recall. The noise of my phone vibrating in its charger was like a bar of ordinary household soap dropped into a tub overflowing with delicate, aromatic bubbles; the dream immediately fizzed away and evaporated into a dirty ring at the edge of my consciousness. Nothing of it remained when I opened my eyes a few seconds later. The older I get, the longer it seems to take for me to come to consciousness in the middle of the night. I realize quickly that I’m in bed, but which of the many beds in which I’ve slept am I? The bed of my childhood, hemmed in by bookcases, or the bed of my first apartment, fourteen stories off the ground? Is the bed of my first house, tucked away in a corner on the second floor? The choices spun in my brain like a reel of a slot machine until I realized that I was in my own bed, in what has been my home for thirteen years, and will be so for another six weeks. It was nearly five in the morning, according to my bedside clock. And the screen of my phone was blinking off, but not before I saw that I’d received some kind of text, or message. I’ll be frank. I hate it when people try to call after my bedtime, or too early in the morning. It arouses an irrational kind of rage in me that can only be soothed with a good strangling. Usually I’ll ignore any texts I receive after a certain hour, but I was awake enough—and curious enough—to grab my glasses, clumsily shift them onto my nose, and peer at my phone’s screen. I’d missed three messages. Hey buddy I know it’s late but I am in Ur area, said the first. Apparently it had arrived a couple of hours before, and I’d slept through its announcing buzz. It was from the Greek, the hot, lean little muscle stud from a couple of weeks ago. U around if I drop by later? The second and third message had come in only a minute before. Listen if U get this I am parked outside Ur house. I’ll stay here for 10 minutes. If U want me 2 come in, flip on the front light and I will come in and come up to your bed. Hope U get this buddy. My urge to strangle someone was forgotten. I’d mentioned to the Greek my current situation, separated from the family until my final move. As normally irritated as I might have been by the early-morning intrusion, the memory of our last hot fuck session made me feel a little more generous in spirit. My dick rose beneath the sheets, as if knowing the texts had arrived especially for it. I considered the way I probably looked, with my crazy Bozo hair and an appearance as generally rumpled as the pillowcases. I slipped out of the bed and, in the nude, crossed to the front of the house. The cat that had been sleeping with me hopped down and rubbed around my leg. Sure enough, the guy’s showy muscle car was parked outside my house, still running, lights on. I’m probably not real presentable, I texted back, after a pause. Don’t fucking care what U look like, came the text. Let me take care of U. I thought about it a moment, popped a breath mint, then walked down the stairs and flipped on the porch light. Before I sprinted back up to the bedroom, I turned the lock in the door. At that time of morning, and in my tree-lined neighborhood, only a few stars and a distant street light kept it from being pitch black. I was lying on my bed with my dick in hand and my sheets pulled back when I heard the door open and shut below. I listened to the footsteps on the staircase, and their old wood creaking. I saw a shadow hove into the room. He said nothing. First I heard one thud, then another, as he kicked off his sneakers. A faint shimmer of sound announced the dropping of his sweat pants. Then finally I heard him skimming off his shirt. He found me by touch. His hand landed by chance on my calf, and then felt his way up to my knee and past my thigh. He claimed his prize when his hand wrapped around my stiff inches. The bed shuddered as he hopped onto it, and then I felt his lips around my shaft. He was hungry. Without hesitation he went all the way down on my dick, not caring that the last shower I’d taken had been the morning before. He cleaned my dick of sheet lint and the day’s piss and precum and impaled his throat with it, moaning to himself as he sucked. I reached down and let my palm rub over his buzzed head. When he clambered forward and roughly ground his mouth against mine, I was glad I’d taken that mint. His own breath was freshened as well. The stubble of his face ground hard through my beard and against my jaw. He pulled his hips so that they hovered over mine. Then he didn’t so much lower himself onto my upright cock as reverse-spear it with his hole. It was as if he jabbed down in one determined, savage motion, as if his hole knew exactly where to snatch at my rod. There was absolutely no resistance as I slid in him. His chute was not only warm, but already wet. Very wet. Several loads wet. I could feel other men’s sperm slicking up my dick as he began to raise and lower himself on top of me. I could only see his silhouette in the darkness, but my hands could feel his posture. I imagined him grinding my dick with his ass as he held himself erect, shoulders back, head lolling back as he let out the grunts of pleasure and need that punctuated the night. His own dick, restrained and bound in a ring of leather, had the spongy hardness of a man who’d been playing for several hours. I tried to roll him over so I could pound him, but he wouldn’t let me. His gruff, deep voice cut through the dark. “Pretend you’re sleeping,” he said, pushing me back down. “And I’m the good dream you’re having.” I laid back down, seduced by the idea of it. “So, how many?” I asked, after a few moments. He knew exactly what I was asking. “Four since midnight,” he said. “Give me number five, then I’ll be out of your way.” In a way, the fuck in the pitch black did seem like a dream. I was close enough to sleep that all I had to do was close my eyes, and I’d find myself drifting and dozy, though kept from sinking back into my dreams by that insistent ass clamped down on my meat as it rose and fell and clenched and loosened. I have an ordinary mattress and box springs, but so intense were the tides of pleasure that I felt as if I were floating on warm water, bobbing up and down upon the waves. He said nothing. The grunts he released betrayed his own pleasure. His dick, halfway between soft and hard, flopped heavily against my stomach. It left a trail of ooze wherever it landed. When I began to moan more loudly and my own hips rose and ground into him, the closer I got, he leaned forward once more and kissed me. His tongue darted in and out, slippery between my lips. “Give it to me,” he commanded, his face close to mine. His hips buckled violently, demanding the load. “Give it to me, buddy.” His growls grew more insistent. “I want it. Fucking give it to me.” When I released, it was with a heartfelt cry of mingled shock and amazement. His hands clutched my forearms, pinning me down to the bed as he pulled his ass down as deeply as it could go. He rested there for a moment, and then very carefully pulled off. The pressure on my arms and upper body abated. I felt him shift; his shadow receded. Then I felt warm breath on my dick, and the sensation of his mouth on my still-wet shaft. He cleaned off his own juices slowly, carefully, and with an obvious relish. Little whimpers of pleasure issued from his nose and the corners of his mouth as he engulfed the entire shaft, trying to get every drop. When he finished, I again attempted to sit up. He pushed me back down, and lifted the sheets from the floor and covered me with them. “You go back to sleep,” he told me. “I’ll let myself out.” I heard birds, over-eager for a dawn that was still a long time coming, chirping when he opened the front door after his stealthy trip downstairs. After the door shut, there was silence, then the sound of a car door closing and of his engine as he pulled away. My dick was still tingling as I lay there flat on my back, marveling at his hunger. When I awoke again into the daylight, a couple of hours later, I wondered if it might have been a dream after all. But there on my phone were our messages, letting me know that my unseen lover had been more than a thing of shadow and sheer will. More...

Benji--I'm glad that worked out for you. I've been in similar situations. Like I said to Barefootbob, though, not every guy reacts with such grace. I wish they did. Even if feelings were hurt, they're going to get soothed a lot more quickly than by flying off the handle. HungLatinDom--Amen. Nasty people come in every age. And size and shape and color and level of beauty. Every single time I am blown away by how they don't recognize their own behavior.