TheBreeder

Badbadthing--I tend to agree with you that the internet and its various forms of quick communication make it easier to be rude to people, simply because you're not having to do it to their faces. It's easier to justify being rude to some words on a display screen than it is to a live person. I disagree that it's a phenomenon limited solely to the young, though. I get just as much appalling behavior from guys my age and older as I do from the young. Belfast-Bottom--Those 29-year-olds who are claiming other are too old and too fat are the future generation of 54-year-olds I know with paunches and grizzled hair who act as if they are entitled to cruise only hot young boys. The 54-year-olds learned that behavior pre-internet. Judging from the number of straight men I've known who've duped their wives of many years for a newer, younger model, it's not exclusively a gay phenomenon, either. Barefootbob--I've had the pic trade-then-logoff maneuver pulled on me, too. I think guys use it, though, because there is a significant population of men who think that because they've traded photos with you or unlocked them to prompt you to unlock yours, there's an obligation to follow through and meet and fuck each other. When I've politely said something like, "Hey, nice pics, but I don't think you're really for me," I've been on the receiving end of so many shrieking demands to list what's wrong, followed usually by an abusive list of my own shortcomings. It hasn't prompted me to log off after someone sends me bad pics, but it has taught me not to engage in a lot of conversation after they've arrived. Like you, I'd rather just have someone plainly and politely tell me we're not compatible, but I fully understand why men are shy about it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We've got more reader ass to plow through today. And given how good looking they are, that was the right choice of verb. TJ TJ's not exactly the shy type. Nor is he a stranger to the camera, either. This sexy man has been in a couple of releases from Manhunter Videos, as well as in one of TIM's gangbang scenes. I think we can all understand why he's in demand, after these photos. Beautiful ass! If you're in the Maryland or DC area and want to mount TJ, check him out either as TJWolfePrnStr on Manhunt or TJWolfe on BBRT. Throb I already knew that frequent commenter Throb was a sexy-assed fucker. You'll just have to trust me on how I knew. Let's just say that there are many parts of him to admire. I love this self-taken photo of his ass that he managed to grab with his phone's camera, though. It's not exactly in focus, but hey. If I were kneeling down behind him at this range, I'd probably have to pull out my reading glasses to see clearly, too. But trust me, I wouldn't be wasting time fumbling for my readers . . . not with muscular globes this beautiful right in front of my lips. J. My boy J. seems to have snuck into someone's bathroom in order to take these photos of himself for me. I'm especially fond of the first shot, in which his ass makes a coy appearance over the waistband of his jeans, then flirts with the camera as it shows off its juicy, perfectly round self. You know, if I had an ass like J.'s, I'd be wearing a bright red belt to call attention to it, too. Cubinwpb I can't overstate how hot are these last two photos of the day. I mean, fucking beautiful. Look at the curly hairs on that firm round ass. Cubinwpb told me he had a blog up and running, when he sent the photos a few weeks back—but it doesn't seem to be functioning any longer. Which is a shame, because I'd read about the adventures of that beautiful ass any day. Let's have a big round of applause for today's butts! I know the guys who contribute their photos to this little project of mine love to hear your comments about them, so be generous with your praise. And if you'd like to participate in Reader Asses, in which I show off the finest views of my finest readers, I'd love to have your pictures. Read the original post in which I solicit them, and email me! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A number of guys spilled out into the hallway from the steam room when I exited. My long-haired man walked about a dozen feet in front of me, through the dimly-lit halls of the bathhouse. He looked over his shoulder to see if I followed. My flip-flops slapped against the dirty carpet as I picked up speed in his direction. I was aware that the bully was among the three or four guys who’d followed me from the billowing steam. When I turned the corner down the hallway where the long-haired fellow had his room, I could see the bully making a beeline in my direction, clutching his towel around his waist as he walked double-time after me. “Dude, you gonna fuck him?” I heard him stage-whisper. “He’s hot! I wanna watch you fuck him!” Once I rounded the corner, I picked up the pace myself. The long=haired man had opened his door and paused in it to see if I was coming. I slipped in behind him and closed the door, so that we wouldn’t have unwanted company. He had the dimmer switched down low. We were alone in the near-dark. Without any words between us, I removed my steam-damp towel and hung it on the doorknob. He loosened his, lay it on the tiny table between his bed and his locker, and lay down. In the interior twilight, he was a dark, lean streak against the luminous white sheet. One of his hands drifted down between his legs. It was too dim to tell what he was doing down there. I knelt on the bed. His legs automatically parted, then lifted. When my hand searched for his hole, he sighed. He was already moist down there, but I added to the slickness with some spit. “Can you go again?” he wanted to know. His voice was shy and hopeful. Oh, I could go again. Getting into him was a problem. The little guy was so tight, so little used, that it felt as if the head of my dick pressed against a cement wall. I had to check twice to make sure I was aimed at the right place. Eventually, though, I felt something give way. He gasped; his legs began to tense over my shoulders. I continued to push in, taking it slow, moving in and out in measurements too small to measure, increasing and relaxing the pressure. I got an inch in, then two, then a third. Then, as he let out one long shuddering sigh, the bottom five eased in, all in one go. Once I was inside, he relaxed enough to let me fuck long and hard. He didn’t kiss. There was a strong smell of cigarettes to him that might have put me off, anyway. The way he looked at me as we stared at each other was almost more intimate than a kiss, though. The guy had soft green eyes that, set against his dark skin and the raven-black hair splayed over the pillow, looked all the more eerily pale and out of place. He stared directly into my own eyes. His lips were parted slightly. From time to time, when I’d thrust in deep, a tiny puff of air would issue from between them. He really was feminine in aspect. That puts off a lot of men, but the quality suited him. His small, fine features matched the lankiness of his frame and the beauty of his mane. His hands, too, were small and narrow. As I continued to fuck him, his long fingers reached up and touched my cheeks, my temple. Stroked the sides of my head, cleared away the mess of dark blond hair hanging in my face. When droplets of sweat would fall from my face onto his, he would merely blink and let them remain. It was when he whispered, “Please,” that I realized how close I was to shooting. My mouth opened as my breaths became rasps. He nodded—just slightly, barely perceptible to the eye. His hands cupped my face, holding it still, as we stared into each other’s eyes. “Please cum in me,” he said. The words were so polite, so gentle, that I couldn’t help but oblige. My fourth load of the afternoon spewed inside him. Only when I was shooting did his eyes closed. His head rolled back onto the cushion of raven hair. His small dick, hard and uncut, shifted from one side of his abdomen to the other, leaving behind a shining snail’s trail of ooze. His hole clenched down around the base of my dick, refusing to let it go as it pulsed out the last of my semen. We had an awkward couple of minutes in the cramped cubicle trying to shift around into a mutually-pleasing position without me pulling out. At last, though, we settled down into a spooned position on our sides. “Don’t go,” he whispered softly. I ran my fingers through his tresses. They were as soft and sleek as they were shiny. “I won’t,” I promised. For two more hours and two more loads we stayed tied together. It was both intense and passionate—two things you don’t always find at the baths. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After nearly a week’s hiatus from sex, I decided to take off Friday afternoon and spend it at the local baths. Secretly I was kind of hoping for a repeat of the hot Friday experience I had a couple of weeks ago. After all, who doesn’t like being the center of everyone’s attention for a couple of hours, and who wouldn’t crave more of it? I’m not that strong a man. I arrived shortly after noon. Once I’d paid my money and signed my card and had been buzzed into the dark labyrinth of hallways inside so I could pick up my room key and towel, I could tell almost immediately that the crowd was a little different on this visit. The men a couple of weeks ago had been younger, generally. This last Friday there were an awful lot of seniors roaming around. Seniors with expensive cars, judging by the BMWs and Jaguars I’d seen in the parking lot. The average age of the men didn’t put me off too much. I could use a sugar daddy. (I’m kidding. No I’m not.) Besides I wasn’t asking the age of the guy who assumed the position on the lower shelf of the steam room, right between my knees, as he nursed on my dick. I would’ve guessed him to be in his sixties, but the guy had a tennis-toned athletic body and a firm pair of calves—and his mouth was pretty damned good. Guys drifted in and out of the steam room as he gave me an expert blow job. At one point he put his hands on my knees and eased them back and into the air, so that my hips rolled back and gave him access to my hole. As he held my legs down, his mouth opened and his chip dipped into the cleft of my ass. I felt his mouth and tongue connect with my hole, and I stopped really paying much attention to what was going on around me. It was a little while later, at the conclusion of that amazing rim job, that I found another older guy standing over me. I’d seen him before at the baths. He had big blue eyes that I couldn’t fail to recognize. His head was shaved and his body was fit and trim, while not as athletic as the man who’d gone back to sucking my dick, The guy’s dick, though, was killer—an actual nine-inch uncut thick slab supported by a cock ring around the base. My jaw dropped; he stepped forward and slipped between my lips the hefty poundage swinging between his legs. A third guy started watching the little daisy chain. He was big, almost ungainly guy with a bald crown and a fringe of hair around the sides of his head, big-framed and square-faced. As much as I hate to draw the comparison, he reminded me of actor Brian Baumgartner, who plays Kevin, the slow one on The Office. Much younger, though, and not quite as doughy. He watched me deep-throat the big-dicked guy for a long time. I kept putting on a show for him as I did it. I like to be watched. Finally my buddy pulled out his dick and sat down next to me on the ledge, where we made out for a long time while the first man continued to suck on my balls and shaft. “I want to see you fuck him,” the big guy announced, breaking the steam room’s unwritten code of silence that insists that all communications be made in nothing louder than the softest of whispers. “I want you,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at the big-dicked older man, “to fuck him.” This time, he stabbed his finger in my direction. “Get that big old dick in that boy’s hole!” It struck me that the big guy was something of a bully. He treated us like we were his personal porn servants. There was no way I was going to be fucked by the older guy’s big dick. It would have ripped me to shreds. He didn’t really seem inclined to leap up and obey the bully, either. We ignored him, and went back to making out. When the steam got too thick and hot, the bully drifted away. So the the rest of us. I went back to my little room with the big-dicked guy and enjoyed sixty-nining with him for a good half-hour, and then enjoyed him sucking on my feet and toes while he masturbated himself. When he left, I lay on my cot with the door open for roughly thirty seconds before a muscular black man strode on in. “Damn!” he grunted, at the sight of my still-hard dick flopped across my hips. He left the door open as he knelt on the mattress between my legs. I tried to sit up, but he wasn’t having any of it. He wanted me as trade, silent and not participating with anything other than my dick. He shoved me back down. “Just put your arms over your head and relax, baby,” he told me. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.” The blow job he gave me wasn’t great. It was just a prelude to the fucking, though. While I continued to lie on my back, hands cupping my skull as he’d instructed, the guy used a disposable one-time lube applicator and greased up his hole. Then he lifted himself slightly before settling back down on my rock-hard meat. His groans were loud enough to draw a crowd outside my door—and I’m sorry that my first thought wasn’t how hot the scene probably was, with a black muscle stud riding my pole with his head thrown back and deep cries of abandon issuing from within his chest. No, I was thinking, gosh, I wish I’d straightened my sheets a little better before all these people started watching. The black guy came quickly. His dick was even bigger than the uncut older guy, and it unloaded in a thick spray onto my stomach and chest. He kept riding, though, putting on even a more vigorous show now that the orgasm was out of his system. “Ooo, baby, you got so much big white dick up in me and it feels so good!” he yelled at a pretty significant volume. Loud enough, anyway, to double the crowd of guys outside the door. “You need to give me that cum, pretty white boy!” After a few minutes more of that, I obliged, loudly. The guy held himself on me until my orgasm subsided, then climbed off. My dick slid out of him with a slick, audible plop; a hefty handful of my load fell out of his ass and onto the bed. “Damn!” he said at the door. “White boy got some pipe!” The guys scattered as my new friend exited the room, like kitchen rats surprised in their scavengings. I took a shower, then returned to my cubicle and rested for a little while more. When I ventured out again, it was to the steam room. The place was crowded by now, and a hot little Italian guy caught my eye. I liked his clear, pale eyes, his acute angle of a nose, and his coarse and curly hair. We kissed, and then I had him bent over the sweaty tile shelves in a matter of moments. I was nuts-deep in the guy as he groaned and buckled and pushed back his hips, his head hung low and his ass pointed high. A hot little Asian guy pushed through the crowd and next to me; he used some of the Italian boy’s lube on his fingers, and then worked them against my hole. The Asian guy had what I believe is medically termed a slammin’ body. Lean, narrow-waisted, hairless, and muscular he was. His dick was as skinny as the rest of him. He obviously wanted in the Italian guy’s ass when I was done with it, but in the meantime he was more than content to make out with me while I shoved in and out. I came loudly, egged on by the dozen men watching. Some were crowded around me and the Asian kid, others were peering over the high tile partitions that separated one area of the room from the other. When I pulled out, the Asian boy shoved on in. I could tell by his ecstatic expression that he was enjoying the sensation of my sperm as lube. I was simply going to break away, but the Asian guy was insistent I stay with him. I stood behind him at his urging, holding him at the hips, and grinding my softening dick against his tight little butt cheeks. The entire time he fucked the Italian, the Asian kid kept making out with me. When he came—and it didn’t take long—his lips were locked with mine, tongue so firmly entangled that it would’ve taken a lock pick to separate them. (The Asian guy was apparently pretty popular, that afternoon. Two different guys placed Craiglist missed connection ads for him, over the weekend.) It was only about three by that point, so I didn’t quite want to leave yet. I returned to my room for a little and sat with the door open for a little while. A very little while, as it turned out, because Bully Boy came barging in fairly quickly. “Dude, you were hot, fucking that ass in there!” he said. “Thanks,” I drawled. “I love watching you young guys fuck. It’s hot to watch a boy like you do it so good.” Now, if I’d had to guess, I would’ve placed the bully at about thirty-five. A kind of prematurely middle-aged thirty-five, but no more than that. “I think you might have underestimated my age,” I told him. What can I say? It was dark in there. “Real young guys like you turn me on,” he said. His fingers reached out and grabbed a rough handful of my hair, which he proceeded to yank. “Go fuck that guy again.” “I’m relaxing right now,” I told him. “Go fuck that guy again!” he commanded. “I wanna watch you fuck his hole.” I smiled and shook my head. “Dude, he wants it. He wants your young dick up in him.” “My young dick needs a little recuperation time,” I said, being firm. “Dude, I know you got stamina. Don’t try telling me you don’t got stamina, because I know you got stamina. I’ve seen you with what, four guys now? Five guys? You’ve got the dick that doesn’t quit.” “Maybe in a while,” I repeated. “Not now.” He got the message, but every five minutes he stopped back by to try to entice me. “Dude. Just nail his little hole! I’ll track him down and bring him to you!” I kept putting him off, though. When he left at one point, I tried to sneak out and hide in the billows of vapor in the steam room, but somehow he walked in and found me. Almost immediately he turned around and dashed outside, only to return a short time later with the Italian guy in his clutches. He pushed the poor guy in my direction, then stood with his hands on his hips, looking smug. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I pulled the Italian to me and began making out with him. He relaxed into my arms almost immediately. It was then that I realized maybe the Bully hadn’t been bullshitting me after all, and that the Italian really had enjoyed the first fucking I’d given him. He certainly seemed to melt when once again I spat on my dick and eased it into his asshole. The Bully knelt down to the ground to get a good view, before it disappeared completely. While I fucked, he kept up a steady stream of profane encouragement. “Fuck him! Yeah, fuck that tight little bitch!” he’d say. “Pound him. He wants it hard. You can tell he wants his hole to get a real rough pounding. Slam it in there! Slam that young dick deep in there!” The commands didn’t really do anything for me, but they didn’t really detract from the fuck, either. The other men watching—because a small crowd, not as large as the last, had begun to accumulate around us again—seemed to enjoy it. One guy in particular caught my attention as I fucked the Italian. He was a short and slender man of indeterminate age—anywhere between his late twenties to his late forties—with very long, lush, dark hair. His skin was dark and his eyes large, in a way that made me think he had some kind of Pacific Islander heritage. The guy was beautiful to look at. His features were finely-formed and even feminine, but his lean and hairless body was definitely male, with bulges in all the right places. He stared into my eyes as I fucked away, and with my encouragement, moved up to my side. He didn’t kiss me, as the Asian boy had. But he touched my skin with his hands as if I were some sort of artwork, and he the curator. That was distracting. Not because I disliked it. But because I wanted to have sex with the dark-skinned, long-haired guy more than I wanted to continue fucking the Italian. I was close, though, and the long-haired guy’s feather-light touch on my butt was making my spine quiver in anticipation of orgasm. I slammed the Italian so hard that his head cracked against the tile shelf. He didn’t complain, though, or ask me to stop; he just braced himself and arched his butt higher so I could drive the load home. My head was spinning from heat and sex and a three-load dehydration, but before I could return to my room or to the water cooler, the slender long-haired man grabbed my arm. He walked in the direction of the steam room door, pulling at me lightly. His fingers drifted down my forearm, where we separated. I stepped out into the relatively frigid air of the dark hallways outside, and followed him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Apparently I never learn. There was a guy last year (I was looking for the entry so I could link it, but I didn't find it) who stood me up in a pretty spectacular way when he'd contacted me on BBRT and begged me—begged—to meet him. He detailed how he wanted to service me. Told me he'd do anything for my dick. Said he'd move heaven and earth for a chance to work on my knob. So I gave the guy my address. He told me he'd be over in half an hour, after he showered. It was a late weekend night, and I was horny as fuck and could host, so after a half-hour I sat by the front window and waited for the guy. And waited. And waited. I ended up waiting for something like over an hour for the guy, who didn't return my text messages or the one phone call I tried making. After a half-hour of chat, a half-hour of showering, and over an hour of waiting, the guy had effectively killed my evening and I went to bed frustrated and horny and mad. Well. I guess I'm just a sucker. I didn't talk to the dude for about three months after that. When out of the blue he contacted me to ask how I was doing. I'm one of those guys who carries a grudge for-fucking-ever, sadly; it takes a good deal of assholery to get me to that point, but once I'm there . . . hoo boy. Even though an entire season had passed, I was still angry enough at the guy to blast him with the full impact of the anger I still felt at him. Surprisingly, he took it like a man. He said he'd been wrong, and then he apologized. He told me his head had been in a weird space at that time, and that there was really no excuse for what he'd done, and he wished he could make it up to me. I didn't capitulate immediately. I still felt burned. I told the guy I appreciated his being up front with me about it, though, and thanked him for the apology. It felt a little like trying to heal a leg amputation with an application of some Chapstick, but still, it was an apology. So last night the guy hits me up again. Asks if I'm looking for sex. Promises he won't flake out on me this time. I shrug and say, sure, come on over. I give him the address and remind him of my cell number. He says he wants to make it up to me in a big way, and asks what I want him to wear. I tell him I'm not picky, but that I like fucking guys in jocks, if he's really wanting to make me happy. Other than that, I say, surprise me. The guy tells me he's going to hop in the shower—quickly, this time—and text me when he's leaving the house to head over. All proceeds according to plan. A few minutes pass, and then I get a text telling me he's on the way. He's in my zip code, and only about ten minutes away, so I take my computer into the office and wait. And I wait. And I wait. And I wait for the guy who stands me up once again, in the exact same way. This time, the waiting wasn't so annoying. I was chatting online with a couple of my readers—hi guys!—so the time passed relatively quickly. After 45 minutes, though, I texted the guy and said, So you're flaking on me again, huh? And then after an hour, I turned off the porch light and sent another message to the guy never to contact me again. I'm a sucker, I guess. But he was so convincing. And I was so horny! Let's get to today's roundup of questions from formspring.me. If you've got questions for me, ask them there. Is there hottest guy you've ever had sex with? Or are some of them like comparing apples and oranges? There have been as many hottest guys in my life as there are definitions of 'hot'. I've had guys of average looks who gave me the hottest sex, and guys of extremely good looks who'd given porn stars a run for their money. I've been with guys with untraditional looks who are hotter than sin, and men who, just from working hard in bed to keep things interesting, have been much hotter than some muscle studs that every guy seems to think should be the gay ideal. My strategy in life is to have fun with the guys I'm with, and to make every encounter hot. Have you ever called someone "Daddy" (or "Papi") when he was fucking you? Yes, but more often I'm called daddy than the reverse. Advice Needed: What type of a filing system do you use for your home office and how do you link your hard copy file folders in your filing cabinet with that of the files on your computer and or emails? I have a file folder named 'household', a file folder named 'contracts,' and then everything else goes into a folder named '2011'. That's about as organized as I get. None of my computer files correspond to my simple filing system. Do you and your spouse have cute pet names for each other? Do you use them in public too lol? I'm a southern boy. Therefore, "honey" for is a multi-purpose word applicable to all ages and genders, equally suitable for new relationships and old. Clearly, I've seen your dick, and I must say (if I haven't before), impressive My question(s): 1. Most risque thing you've ever done sexually? 2. Kinkiest thing you've ever done? 3. Do you like dirty talk in bed? 4. What DO you like in bed? Thanks. Asking me what the most risque or kinkiest sexual act in which I've ever indulged, however, is like asking Lady Gaga to pick her most outrageous outfit. After a while, you shrug and say, "Oh, she's just out there." I do talk dirty in bed, but I don't imitate porn movie talk. I like to be spoiled in bed. I don't get a lot of that, though. You mentioned in one of your posts that Jim may have hurt you in some way? Not sure if I missed that post or not, but will you be talking about that anytime soon? Thanks twitter follower There will be more posts in the future finishing off that long and dreadful chapter of my history. I don't think you've missed any, but on my blog you can always find my list of keywords and click on 'Earl' to see that particular series of entries. Would you prefer to comfort a friend/lover or be comforted? I've discovered over the last twenty-odd years that my primary instincts are to take care of other people, to provide comfort in times of stress and need. It's instinctive, and a reflex in my nature. Sometimes, however, I wish that I were comforted more. Have you ever in some not-gay-friendly public place ever held hands with a man? kissed him? put your arm around his waist? laid your arm across his shoulder? I've held hands with guys in a movie theater, in the dark, but that's about it. It's a shame that Iv'e edited simple expressions of male-to-male affection from my unthinking repertoire. Have you or your brother ever shared the same fuck? Or better yet has caught you in action? My brother and I have many times been with the same guy. There was never an option to be 'caught', however, given that our age difference is wide enough that he had already long left home by the time I was hitting my teens. Would you be willing to reduce your life expectancy by 5 years to become extremely attractive? My beauty is already nearly unbearable. How about I take another five years of life expectancy just to dim my pulchritude down to merely extremely attractive? More...

I guess my thing is that they're not going to know their behavior is mean unless someone tells them. Perhaps it's unbelievably naive of me, but I've got this notion deep within that when people realize they're acting in an unacceptable way, they'll stop. It's got to start somewhere, with someone saying, "Hey, you can't act that way toward me." There's another generation of bar beggars coming up? I don't need the competition!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Several years ago, I ran across a kid I vaguely knew on one of the instant messaging systems. He was a twenty-four-year-old Mexican boy on a bowling league with friends of mine. I’d seen him at the alleys once or twice, but I couldn’t remember having ever talked to him. He had a reputation of being something of a twit. I thought you looked like a good guy to get to know, he messaged. I think I’m a good guy to get to know, myself, but naturally I wanted to know in what way he was talking. He responded that he was talking about getting to know me sexually. Oh yeah? I wrote back. Why is that? I know you’re an old guy and really not a GQ type, he wrote. I was in my late thirties at the time. I’m okay with that. Knowing that my ego was not going to like the answer, I asked, And why is that okay? He typed out, Because it means you don’t get to have sex all that much. While I absorbed that one, he added, So you won’t give me any diseases. So let me get this right, I asked him. You’re messaging a perfect stranger to tell him that because you think he’s old and unattractive, he’s a good candidate for sex because no one in his right mind is going to have sex with him and give him diseases to pass on to you. Yeah I guess so. Pretty much, he wrote back. Jesus fucking christ. At the time, I wracked my brain all day today wondering if there was ever a time in my youth I ever told a guy he was old or ugly. If I had, I’d probably have understood why I was getting bit on the butt with karmic retribution. I’m positive I was never that unkind, though. Listen, I told the kid. So you know. I’m sure you thought you meant well, but that kind of approach is really pretty hurtful. Then I gave him a quick thanks, but hell-no thanks. I suppose there are men out there desperate enough to accept the come-ons of a twenty-four-year-old who thinks it’s okay to insult his potential sex partners, but I’m certainly not one of them. It was a little strange. I ran across this incident in my old journals yesterday when I was poring through some old entries, looking for something specific. Then within five minutes, I had two more encounters of the exact same type. They happened simultaneously, and both left me in a foul mood after. The first (by mere seconds) came from another Latin twenty-something-year-old—a guy with a misleading profile name that included the word ‘nice’ combined with the year of his birth. He wasn’t so nice. Hey sexy how ru, he messaged me on Adam4Adam. Hi there, I wrote back. I like your pics. He was a large-framed guy, but fairly good-looking, and had a good smile. A smile goes a long way toward making any man look attractive, particularly in a sea of profile photos taken by scowling at one’s own camera phone. I rly like urs, he wrote back. U got a hot dick. Thanks, I said. You should let me fuck you with it sometime. Then things got rapidly and mysteriously sour. Go fuck urself asshole!!!!! he wrote back. I wouldnt let u touch me!!! My reaction: What the fuck? So I wrote the kid back saying something like, you know, when you respond to someone’s expression of admiration with that kind of shit, don’t expect to have a real big circle of friends. It was probably milder than he deserved. Then I blocked him. Immediately after I sent that off, a message from some other Adam4Adam guy appeared. The guy was scruffy in a homeless way and only mildly attractive; most of his photos showed him swathed in huge hipster-ironic puffy winter coats or wildly-rumpled clothing, so that it was tough to tell whether he was skinny and trendy, or merely fucking enormous. Here’s his message, which I am reproducing in its entirety: you seem creepy - not entirely in a bad way. And again, I was like, what the fuck? In what universe, I wrote back to the guy, is it really acceptable to tell a perfect stranger that he looks creepy? Put your ego in check, asshole! he wrote back. Yes, really. It was a fucking compliment. In the future, I pounded back on the keys, my cheeks flaming and smoke issuing out of my ears like Elmer Fudd in some Looney Tunes short, perhaps you’d find that a genuine compliment would serve you better than the shit you’re serving up. Then I blocked the dipshit. I’m really not sure I understand how people can be so rude on these sites. Sure, I get snippy when provoked. But are there actually people—outside of a certain subset of guys who maybe are really, really into flasher-in-the-park roleplay—who think it’s acceptable behavior to start off by telling a guy he looks creepy? Even if it’s modified with the damning faint praise of ‘not entirely’? I imagine any guy who’d use that as his opener and then would admonish me to keep my ego in check has some serious issues of his own, but jeez. Why do I have to be the lucky recipient? So I’m turning it over to you guys. I know we’ve all been on the receiving end of bad treatment before, both online and in person. But have you ever had someone come at you right from the get-go with insults? And if so, how did you handle it? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My parents only owned one electric fan, when I was growing up. It was monstrous. No window in the house could accommodate it. Constructed of industrial-grade metals and older than Sarah Palin, it was almost too heavy to be picked up by a single person. On hot nights when we needed the air circulated, my father and I would lug it to the top of the second story stairs attach an extension cord or two to its oddly-short plug, and string the line into one of the bathrooms. Once plugged in, it only took a single flick of the metal switch to turn the thing on. I don’t see switches like that very much these days—the old fashioned kind, an exclamation point of rounded metal angled into a circular base. Despite the hulk of the fan itself, all it really took to turn it on was the slightest of pressures, the stroke of an index finger, the slightest of rubs. Instantly the fan would roar into life, shuddering and shaking and blasting air down the stairwell. It was like the testing wind tunnel for a military base. Anything that happened to come into the path of that furious stream was simply wafted away. We couldn’t hold conversations once the thing was going. It was simply impossible to be heard over that wild, crazy thundering. Somehow, though, it managed to make the house a little cooler. And we slept through it. These days I tend to think of my sexuality as on a constant low temperature, a stew kept on the simmer setting of a stove’s back burner, ready to be brought to a boil at a moment’s notice. Back in my late teens, though, I used to think of my sexual urges like I thought of that tiny metal switch. One slight, even inadvertent flick, and it would come roaring to life. I can’t think of a better example than after my freshman year of college. I spent most of my college career working in an ice cream store off the beaten path in the tourist town surrounding my school, but in the summer after my freshman year I returned home and lived with my parents and worked at a large amusement park a few miles north of the city. It wasn’t a bad minimum wage job, on the whole, especially as I’d chosen to work in a shop, operating on the logic that there would be air conditioning inside them. There were regular nights after the park shut down, when the management would feed the kids working there pizza and pop and keep a couple of the roller coasters running until the wee hours of the morning. And of course, my admission was free on my days off. But there were certain indignities as well. The regular lie detector tests were a bitch. We were treated like interchangeable cogs in a vast machine, and could find ourselves pressed into sudden service as a Hanna-Barbera character in a mascot costume, or slinging Belgian waffles with chocolate sauce, without much warning (or experience). And chief among those disgraces were the uniforms we had to wear. As a shop boy on International Street, as my section of the park was named because it lay at the bottom of a scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, mine wasn’t so bad. I wore a pair of khaki slacks, a day-glo yellow shirt, and a khaki-colored vest. The material was a solid, itchy, one-hundred-percent polyester, though. Itchy, and on a hot Virginia day, very much like wearing from ankles to neck an outfit made out of a plastic painting tarp. Nothing could have been more calculated to make me feel less sexy. True, I got to work in air conditioning some of the time, but with our doors constantly opening and closing, it wasn’t that cool. I had to be pleasant to customers who would’ve made Mother Theresa snappish. My shifts sometimes started at eight in the morning and didn’t end until after eleven. The entire time I was in that park, I felt sweaty, annoyed, and bedraggled. The last thing I was ever thinking about, believe it or not, was sex. One night I was working a late shift in the dreaded mug room—a chamber of the Spanish Shop filled with decidedly un-Iberian coffee mugs printed either with roses or old Model T cars, that sported names at the top. Keeping the mug room alphabetized and stocked could be a nightmare at the best of times. It was also weirdly popular with the park visitors, particularly those who needed a last-minute gift or souvenir. For hours I’d been ringing up mug after damned mug, along with the occasional T-shirt or hand-crafted pewter replica statue of the Eiffel Tower, at my register. It was dark outside. My eyes were bleary. My feet hurt. The curve at the base of my spine ached. I wanted to sit down, or lie down, or crawl back to my car and sleep in the back seat. Most of the back part of the park had closed by this point, and the remaining park-goers had crowded into International Street to finish their shopping and wait for the fireworks over the Tower. It was a little hectic, and I was wearing thing. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I kept saying automatically, over and over, with every purchase. I didn’t really mean it. I said it because I was supposed to. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I’d mutter to the little kids spending their allowance on something cheap and tacky. I said it to the women who bought Model T mugs for their husbands, brothers, and uncles and explain to me which was for whom. I said it to the tired, and to those who genuinely seemed to have enjoyed their day in the park. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” I said. “I will,” said a deep voice, as I handed the man his bag. And then his hand closed over mine. Usually when people took their bags from me, they didn’t make contact. Occasionally I’d feel the brush of a finger, or the side of my hand might collide with a customer’s. This man, however, didn’t collide. His big, masculine fingers closed over the top of where my hand gripped his package. They squeezed. Startled, I looked up into his eyes. “Hi,” he said. I hadn’t looked at him at all during the transaction—not when he’d brought me his purchase, not when he’d paid. I looked at him now, though, and found myself staring into his brown eyes, taking in his floppy hair, his thick, almost handlebar mustache. He was in his late thirties or early forties, and sported a wedding ring on his finger, but he was definitely an attractive man. Just like that, no matter how unsexy I was feeling at that very moment, he flipped that little switch in me. Like my parents’ enormous fan, my libido roared to life, loud and clattering and impossible to ignore. Every ache I had vanished. Every complaint of the day evaporated. I didn’t feel tired, or annoyed. I’d gone from one end of the spectrum to the other, from frumpy to fuck-me in a second flat. “Hi,” he repeated. “Hi,” I said bad, aware that I was staring. I hadn’t been aware, however, that his hand was still over mine. After a quick application of pressure, he let go of my fingers and took his package. “The family’s waiting for the fireworks,” he said. “I hear they’re good?” I asserted in a stammering way that they were. “I don’t suppose you get a break anytime soon,” he said, cool as could be. My shift was actually at an end the moment our doors closed and the fireworks began. I still had several minutes and customers to get through before then, though. “There,” I said, pointing to a gate right outside the shop door. “If you wait there, until ten. . . .” He nodded, then let loose a conspiratorial smile that crinkled his eyes, making me want him even more. I don’t know how I made it through the last twenty minutes of my shift, boner stretching down the right leg of my polyester slacks as it was, and sexual energy making the hairs on my arms stand on end. My mind had been numb all day, a heavy gray sponge distended and soggy. Now I was alert, alive, and raring to go. When the ten o’clock chimes rang through the streets and the Spanish Shop doors closed, I grabbed my cash drawer and ran back to my managers to cash out. Then I exited through the back, and made my way around the building. Most of the markets on International Street were in two-story buildings, though only the bottom floors contained shops. Upstairs, behind gaily-painted balconies and iron trellises decorated to look European, was mostly stock storage. The gate where I’d told the man to wait for me had a door in it that allowed access to a stairwell that led to a room where our shop kept a massive warehouse of tissue-paper flowers made by church craft clubs across the state for three cents apiece, that we resold for six dollars. Since no one in his right mind would ever want to steal tissue-paper flowers, that room was always kept locked. Occasionally one of us would use it to eat lunch (but, given the flammable nature of the merchandise within, never smoke). Usually, though, it was simply too oppressively hot up there to linger long. But it was quiet, and relatively safe, and dark. That’s all I needed, for a few minutes. My friend was waiting by the fence, arms crossed, hips slanted to the side. I unlatched the gate from the inside and beckoned him in. After taking a quick look around the crowd, he slipped through the fence and into the shadows with me. The fireworks show was pretty spectacular, but it wasn’t very lengthy. Since the guards would begin ushering people out the moment they were done, I knew we didn’t have much time. By the time we were in the paper flower warehouse, my dick was not only back to being rock hard, but had left a puddle of cum on my thigh. So was the man. Without a word he dropped his bag onto the cement floor and immediately began unbuckling his shorts. I was on the knees of my polyester khakis in a hot second, gobbling down the meat behind his zipper before it was even completely unleashed. I remember he smelled of sweat and a hot day in the park, but I didn’t care. That switch he’d flipped a few minutes before had turned me into such a voracious slut for his dick that he could’ve been covered in cheese and I would have cleaned it off gladly. He was clearly unused to having a boy my age between his legs—or at least that’s what I gathered by the way he kept running his fingers through my very long hair and murmuring, “I can’t believe we’re doing this . . . you’re young enough to be my kid . . . I can’t believe. . . .” Outside, beyond the cracked door that was admitting the only breath of cool air into the musty storeroom, the fireworks had started. I could hear their fanfare in the distance, beyond the Eiffel Tower. They were second in volume, it seemed, to the thundering of my heart within my ribcage. It pounded for escape, seeming to grow louder with every passing second. My dick felt so hard that it might burst; I didn’t dare touch myself for shooting too quickly. I didn’t know what this man had done in his sexual career. I didn’t know what he was into. I didn’t care. I wanted him in my ass. While I sucked, I worked fingers into my mouth and rubbed the spare saliva on my ass. I’d always been a naturally clean bottom, in my teens and twenties; I was counting on that to make sure I kept his dick relatively speck-free. When I could taste copious amounts of pre-cum flowing from the tip of his short, fat cock, I got back up to my feet and turned around to brace myself on one of the triangular easels holding the flowers. He knew what to do. I’d never found many men in Virginia who needed instructions, when they saw my seventeen-year-old ass up and poised for cock. He spat on his dick and shoved in me roughly, not really caring whether I was enjoying it or not. I was, for the record. I was in heat. He was, too. I didn’t know what had possessed me to hold my hand like that, in the middle of the Spanish Shop. I didn’t care. The only thing I knew was the sound of fireworks in the distance, the razor-sharp thrust of his dick inside me, and a heat so heavy and thick it was like a fiberglass blanket. My own dick swung and raked against the wooden brace of the easel as he banged into me, fucking me like a dog. Neither of us lasted long. I came first, my semen landing on one of the paper flowers and through the chicken wire holding it onto the easel, then down to the floor. He shot shortly after, loading my guts with his seed. We both paused for a moment. We both panted. Then he was yanking up his shorts and stuffing his dick back inside, in a hurried panic. The fireworks were reaching their loud and explosive climax, moments after we’d already had ours, and my married stranger had to get back to his family before it was all over. Once he was arranged, he grabbed his bag and pulled open the door that led back down to the little side yard behind the fence. “Wait a couple of minutes before you come out,” was all he said in parting. He seemed guarded. Maybe even embarrassed that he'd fucked some strange shop boy in a fit of excitement. Then he disappeared without a word more. I had rivulets of sweat running down my face and into my eyes. He didn’t hear my grunt of agreement, as he left. I pulled up my pants and tried to clean myself up a bit. My clothes were soaked with sweat; it felt as if I’d fallen into the fountains in the middle of International Street. I waited a couple of minutes, exited the building, and took a very long and slow walk back to the employee quarters so I could change and hand over my uniform to be cleaned. I drove home with a big, goofy grin on my face. Drained and hot as I’d been in that sweatbox, I still felt energized. Alive. Vibrating and still thrumming with life, in fact. And all it had taken was one slight flick of that switch. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I arrived at the bar stinking of dick, the other night. Now, normally I’m not a slob. I have something of a uniform of jeans and a T-shirt when I’m running around town, and I’ll wear even less when I’m at home. On a night out, however, when I’m in a bar or club among the judgmental eyes of my fellow homosexuals, I’ll clean up a bit. I’m not really concerned with looking trendy. I don’t feel the urge to pull on a tight sports shirt printed with some oversized, off-center fleur-de-lis or other grainy, heraldic emblazonment. But I will make sure my pants aren’t raggedy, and that my top isn’t covered with more cat hair than the cats themselves are wearing. I’ll pull on one of my good pairs of leather shoes—or at least one of the better and snazzier pairs of my sneakers. I’ll even iron. I was all dressed up and ready to head out for a night of drinking (Diet Coke, if you must know) and the occasional dip into karaoke waters when I got a text from Urlipsmypole, the fellow in my neighborhood with his own private gloryhole. You got time? he wanted to know. I’ve got a boner that won’t quit and dude, you know I like your sweet mouth. I looked at my watch. It was 7:50. I told my friends I’d meet them at the bar at 8:30. Yeah, I had time. My buddy’s gloryhole must be a cinch to install, because when I walked through his back door and into the little mud room at the top of the back steps, his kitchen was already dim and the plywood partition blocking it from view was already in place, as were the towels and padding he always throws down at the foot of it. I should write an email to the guy before I move, asking him exactly how he’s constructed the thing—it’d be handy to have one of my own, some day. I suspect it’s simply a piece of thick sheeting with a routed hole at the appropriate height, cut to fit the door and fitted with hinges and a safety bolt or two, so that all he need do is remove the regular kitchen door from its hinges (if he has one there at all) and replace it with the gloryhole partition. I always tell myself I’m going to inspect it more closely, when I’m driving over to his place. When I hit the mud room and see the door, however, my next trip to Home Depot is the last thing on my mind. His dick is number one. I shucked off my jacket, unbuckled my belt, dropped my pressed slacks and my trunks to my ankles, and fell to my knees. Through the hole I saw a shadow, and then movement. The curves of his muscular thighs appeared first, followed by the silhouette of his trim waist. I couldn’t see his dick until it appeared through the gloryhole. It hung in a perfect arc over his full, shapely nuts, soft, but twitching at the feel of my breathing. My own meat stiffened in the palm of my left hand. My lips parted, and my tongue licked out to guide his knob into my mouth. I felt him lean against the partition, pushing his hips forward to make available as much of his dick as possible. Gratefully I took him to the root, and found my eagerness rewarded as his cock grew in one mighty shot, like a javelin, and speared the back of my throat. He groaned, the deep grunt plainly audible through the three-quarters of an inch of wood, and seven inches of rock hard flesh. But I wasn’t ready to go to town on him, yet. Now that he was hard, I took my left hand and wrapped it around his meat, while my right fingers brought his nuts to my lips. He groaned again as I sucked them into my mouth and very gently ran my teeth over the firm globes. One at a time I worked on them, and then both together. Finally, when I had him banging his forehead gently against the partition, my tongue snaked out and licked his hairy taint as far back as I could. He cooperated by spreading his legs and pushing forward even farther. I half-hoped he might turn around and offer me his butt to eat through the hole, but that didn’t seem to be his focus. He wanted his dick sucked. Suck I did, as expertly as ever. I know how to get this guy off. From a soft, unfocused slurping I picked up the pace and began working his shaft with a tight jaw and my lips stretched over my teeth to provide some tension. A minute after that, I added my encircled thumb and forefinger. I used my left hand to cup his balls; my left index finger stretched out as far as it could and buried itself in his flesh, somewhere near his butthole. He parted his legs to accommodate me. His dick started to produce precum; I could feel his hips thrusting back and forth more quickly, in the slightest of motions. I added another finger to the tight circle I was making around his shaft as I sucked. I’d slobbered enough saliva over his balls that his sac was completely slick. My finger withdrew from his hole and pressed hard at the underside of his nuts, right at the back, where I could feel his heart and cock pulsing in unison. The pressure elicited from him a mighty groan, and the partition shuddered from where some part of his body struck it. Faster and faster my mouth moved back and forth over the shaft. My own dick was neglected, but hard nonetheless. His pleasure was what mattered, at this juncture. He began to batter the board with his body, trying to drive his dick deeper into my willing mouth. Then he came. I could tell it was nearing a mile away. He yelled, and shouted its arrival, then thrust forward as far as he could. I wrapped my mouth tightly onto his shaft, and felt it pulse and shake as the head released pulse after pulse of fluid onto the back of my tongue. Only when it was quiescent once more did I pull back a little and swallow the mouthful of salty fluid. Then, finally I went back to my dick. My right hand jerked myself furiously, while my left cradled and tugged at my balls. My mouth remained on his dick, nursing out the last sweet drops as I jerked myself to orgasm. I shot the fiery load into my left palm, jerking and convulsing with his meat still between my lips. He pulled out when I was done, and I lifted the cupped palm to my mouth and ate the generous amount of nacreous liquid it contained. Like I said I stunk of cum. I knew it when I pulled up my pants and escaped with my coat out the back door. I knew it when I got into my car and drove straight to the bar. And I definitely knew it when the bar’s owner and several of my friends tried to close in for a hug and a peck on the lips, upon my arrival. I deftly squirmed out of their embrace before they could sense the telltale scent lingering on my beard, lips and face. It’s a scent I love—dick and spit and cum, all mingled into one of the sweetest perfumes there is. After a few minutes of savoring it, though, I ducked into the men’s room and washed the lower half of my face. There was no telling who might have to smell me, that evening. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Spencer stayed the night, this last week. We spent the evening cuddled on the sofa, eating a gluten-free almond cake I’d baked for him and watching Doctor Who on DVD. Naked he came into the dark bedroom after his shower, carrying the iPod I’d given him for his birthday in one hand. Lines of white plastic ran from it to his head. He grinned at me self-consciously as he sang along to the song playing in his ears. I just laughed, shook my head, and reached over to shut off the light. While I’d been waiting for him to join me, I’d been reading on my tablet. I set it down onto my pillow as he dove between the covers. Like a little boy, he pulled them over his head and continued to sing loudly, before finally curling onto his left side, facing away from me. “Oh crap,” I muttered. I slid out from the bed, grabbed my T-shirt, and slipped it on. “I didn’t lock the back door,” I said. In bed, Spencer continued singing. He hadn’t even noticed I’d left. Well, I’d be back soon enough, I reasoned. I trotted downstairs, locked the errant door, and then stopped to refill the cat’s water dish and perform a couple of other tasks. It was a good five minutes before I returned to the bedroom upstairs. When I did, I found Spencer in the darkness, midway through a happy babble about a movie he’d seen on cable the previous weekend. “Um, do you know you’ve been talking to my iPad this entire time?” I announced, as I lifted the blanket and slid in next to his naked body. Obviously he hadn’t. He flipped around, surprised. “Maybe that’s what I wanted,” he retorted. “Did you, now?” “Maybe your iPad is better company than you!” “Uh-huh,” I laughed, not buying it. I put the device on the table and plugged it in to charge. “You like snuggling up to a computer, huh? I always knew you fantasized about being with an android.” “Oh yes,” he snickered, warming to the silliness. “Android sex is the best!” “I knew it. You ride human dick, but secretly you wish it were C-3PO.” “Oh, C-3PO! So hot! Boop-beep-beep-boop-bleep-bleep-booooop!” Apparently in the dark he couldn’t see my raised eyebrows. He could, however, hear the total lack of response I had for a few seconds, followed by the jiggling of the bed from my laughter. “Wait, which one is the little trash can?” “R2-D2,” I supplied. “Which one is C-3PO,” then? “The one that’s not R2-D2. R2-D2 is the one who goes boop-beep-beep. C-3PO is the gold faggy one who sounds like Roddy McDowell.” “Who?” he wanted to know. “Oh, god,” I muttered, pulling the sheets over my shoulders. “Who?” “Never mind.” “I’m not old like you!” he protested. “Uh-huh.” “Who is he? Who is he? Which one is C-3PO?” he begged, shaking me and pouncing on me beneath the sheets as if we were kids at a pajama party. Then we giggled and laughed like little boys until, not very long after, we fell asleep, warm and safe in each other’s arms. This is the sweet, safe routine in which lately Spencer and I have fallen. He’s over here five or six nights week, occupying space on my sofa and eating large chunks from my refrigerator and pantry. We share meals together. He does he laundry here, and keeps his soaps and special foods and herbal teas in my cupboards. We watch television, and look at DVDs of dance, and play video games together. We go to the movies, and out to dinner, and to the bookstore together. He brings me weird desserts from the local vegan restaurant. I buy him socks, when I see his are full of holes. What we don’t do anymore—and this is difficult for me to admit, a difficult entry for me to write, in fact—is have sex. I’ve been reluctant to write about this shift in my relationship with Spencer for a couple of reasons. One is the simple reason that writing things down always makes them more real, for me. I’m unwilling to codify in writing some of my own weaknesses and failures, that way. The other has to do with my blog readers. I only have a couple of detractors who are going to be filled with glee at the news, but there are going to be many who read the words I’ve typed above and think it’s the end of the world. What Spencer and I had was wonderful, they’re going to tell me. It was special, it was romantic and hot and it should have lasted and what the hell happened that it didn’t? To allay those responses, let me say the following, with all heartfelt sincerity. What Spencer and I have is wonderful. And special. It has been romantic and hot. We both knew from the very, very beginning that it wasn’t going to last, however. As for what happened—well, I’m going to be as honest about it as possible, though the narrative isn’t going to show me in necessarily the best light. I wrote once about a night I spent with Spencer in which we both seemed not to be connecting. The sex we enjoyed a couple of times after that rebounded back to normal. But then we had an evening in which neither he nor I seemed to be at our best. We’d been out to a bar with my friends the night before, where he’d performed a couple of karaoke songs. Over dinner, Spencer told me that my bar nemesis, a short rotund little dwarf who keeps stealing and butchering my songs, had hit him up online that morning, feeding Spencer lines about how beautifully he’d sung and asking him out on a date sometime. “Why, that little. . . !” I growled. “You aren’t my boyfriend.” Spencer announced loftily. “We didn’t pick out china patterns together. You don’t get to be jealous. Ever.” “No?” I asked, jealous despite him. “No. You’ve got no hold on me,” he said, spearing his sushi and dipping it in in his little plate of wasabi and soy sauce. “You’ve got no hold on me whatsoever, married man.” It felt like a slap in the face, frankly, but I couldn’t argue with it. That night, he came to bed, luminous by moonlight in the dark. “You really are so beautiful,” I told him, in all honest admiration. “Uh-huh,” he snapped. Then he said, “I know you only say stuff like that because you just want to stick it in.” You know, if I had to direct the scene for a movie that followed, it’d be like a cheesy episode of some family show—Blossom or The Brady Bunch—in which the hero keeps hearing the echos of the day as he tries to get his job done. There I was in bed that night, with Spencer’s beautiful ass in my mouth, munching away, and all I could see was the memory of his face, lip curled and sneering. You’ve got no hold on me. And then, over his other butt cheek, another vision of him, disdainful. You only say stuff like that because you just want to stick it in. Was that really what he believed? Was that really the way he felt about me? Try as I might, I couldn’t get my head into the business at hand. When the time came for me to do something, my dick didn’t cooperate. For the first time in my life, I honestly couldn’t get it up. I KNOW. Somehow I played it off. I made it an ‘All About Spencer’ night and thought I did a fairly good job of covering up my inability to get an erection. The next night, though we were in bed again. While we were making out, my dick swelled to its usual proportions. Well, that’s all right then, I thought to myself. Everything’s back to normal. With a gladsome heart I began pushing all of his usual buttons—butt eating, dirty talking, and nipple stroking. My dick was still rock-hard when I growled at him, “You know I’m gonna fuck you with this big dick tonight.” I remember the moment well. He was on his back, legs in the air, when he replied in quite a normal voice, “I wouldn’t call your dick big.” “Huh?” I asked. “Well, it’s slightly above average, maybe,” he said. “A little. But it’s not big. You could say, you know I’m gonna fuck you with my slightly above average-sized dick tonight, but I wouldn’t push it with big.” I settled back on my heels, confused. Why in the world was he ruining the moment with this shit? “Do you want it or don't you?” I said, trying to keep the same lusty spirit. “Oh yes, sir, fuck me with your slightly above average cock. No wait, give me your toy-sized cock.” He seemed mightily amused by that phrase, and started laughing uproariously. “I crave your toy-sized cock.” It was then I realized that I’d totally lost my hard-on again. And nothing I tried brought it back. I honestly thought something was wrong with me. When I tried to masturbate, after that night, I found myself thinking about my two erection failures—the only ones I’ve ever had in my life—and hearing all Spencer’s hurtful words in my head. (And yes, they were hurtful. Even if they’d been jokingly intended.) Then I’d find myself losing whatever sexual arousal I’d been able to muster. And I was afraid—deathly afraid—to attempt to engage in sex with Spencer, just in case all I encountered were more reasons to think that something was very, very wrong with me. I wasn’t even having erections in my sleep. There was a period of about two weeks when I thought something physiological had gone awry in my body. I thought my time as a top man was over, kaput, finished. The second of those two weeks coincided with my trip to New York at the beginning of February. And all that time I had this battle warring in my head. Half of it was simply convinced I’d never fuck again, that I was sick and impotent. The other half was more rational and tried to reason it all away. I was tired, and stressed. I was over-thinking my failure and letting it fuck with my dick. By the end of the week, I had gathered up enough nerve, and courage—it took both—to meet with that muscle man in his Manhattan apartment. I banged his ass just fine. No erection problems there. When I returned home, I reconnected with Scruffy and fucked four loads into his hole. Definitely no issues with hydraulics with him. The next night, confidence riding on the crest of a wave, I responded with fervor when Spencer kissed me for the first time in bed, since the last time I hadn’t been able to get it up. When our lips met, my dick was rock hard. Oh yeah, I thought to myself. This is going to happen. And again, everything was going right . . . until the moment he whispered, “I want your dick in me. Your toy-sized dick.” And poof. It was gone, yet again. I broke down that night in frustration and anger. Spencer held me while I raged. When I was done, he said, very softly, “I like you for more than just your dick.” Since then, the issue of sex together hasn’t come up. We cuddle. We sit on the sofa and watch TV with our feet or heads in each other’s laps. We sleep naked together. We just don’t fuck. As an option, it doesn’t come up. If I’d attempted to write this entry at the time it was happening, it would have come across a huge mess of self-recrimination and fear. I haven’t had, I’d like to say, a single instance of erection failure with any other person I’ve been with, since. Or by myself. I think the distance has given me a lot of time to evaluate exactly what factors were in play. For weeks and weeks—the entire time I was sexually active with Spencer—I slept with no one else. He was everything to me, sexually. I masturbated only twice during that entire time period; every other load, every erection, was for him. I poured all my sexual energy into one receptacle. I was deeply in love with him. I still love him very deeply. I know that Spencer was doing the same. He masturbated on his own, but all the sex he had was with me. And frankly, I think it scared the crap out of him. I know that Spencer has been very frightened of losing me when I eventually move away, from the first night we met; I know that even more, he feared loving me to the point he’d find me an indispensable fixture in his life. Every time we fucked—every time we made love so beautifully and so well—he was more and more at risk of needing me to a point at which he feared he could never let go. I think I am the very first person in his young life of whom he’s known that he would eventually have to let go. And instead of doing philosophically, or giving in and going through worse suffering, he began to push me away. I’m not entirely free of blame, here. We sabotaged each other—he pricked at my vanity and distanced himself with words. I deflated myself with my old enemies, worry and overanalyzing. I elevated him to a point in my emotional well-being that simply jibes had the power to leave me impotent. My instinct would have been to talk it out endlessly, to lay all the issues on the table and let him know exactly what was bothering me. But you know, I didn’t. I won’t. He was right about something: we aren’t boyfriends. We didn’t pick out china patterns together. One of the great things about a casual relationship such as ours is that we aren’t required to have the great big talks that tie us together further. He’s free of that obligation. I’ve got no hold on him. Which is what he wants. My philosophy would be balls-to-the-wall, all-in, no holds barred. If he’d let me, I’d love that boy as hard as deeply as I could, all the way to the moment I had eventually to tell him goodbye. It would hurt like fuck when we separated, but it would have been worth it. My philosophy is not Spencer’s philosophy. He’s never experienced with anyone what we shared. He’s frightened. He wants reassurance that in two months, or three months, or six months, or a year, when I finally move out of this state, that our parting will be as painless as possible. He doesn’t want to live his life with a story that begins, Once I knew a man with whom I was very much in love, and he had to leave. The story he wants to tell himself begins, Once I had a friend. . . . I know that he will still hurt when I go. But if a polite lie is what he wants, I will give it to him. I love having Spencer in my life. I like our evenings together, the cooking I do for him, the meals and the entertainment we take. I love our conversations, and nights out. I like having his warm body in my bed, next to mine. These things are all great and good and wonderful. They don’t speak of any kind of failure whatsoever. Nothing positive is ever a waste. It’s all to be relished when it’s happening, and cherished to heart when it’s gone. Yet when I think of how passionate, and how sweet, our union used to be, my heart aches. For his sake, I pretend not to notice that void I dreadfully miss. If this detente makes it any easier for him in the long run, though, I will give it to him freely, and gladly. And he will never know much, sometimes, it kills me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here As a warning, I have family visiting for most of the upcoming week. Usually that cuts down on my playtime a little (though rarely completely), but the barrage of familiar faces and the prospect of a house filled with voices again may prevent me from writing as much as I'm accustomed. On the other hand, trying to escape from all those voices and faces might just make me plug in my headphones and write more. You never know how these things work out. For those of you who've written to ask about the Earl series—there are still more memories from that era to come. The Topher story isn't quite finished, either. Perhaps I'll work on moving that chapter of my memoirs ahead, sometime this week. In the meantime, I've got the usual round-up of questions from formspring.me for your Sunday entertainment. As always, I welcome your questions—so feel free to head over there and ask them of me. How old were you when you first wore a thong? I still have never worn a thong. It's unlikely to happen at this point. If there's no bottom to breed and you're jacking off, do you eat your own cum? Yes, I eat my own cum more often than not, if I masturbate solo. I've always enjoyed doing that, and love the taste of my own load. Enjoyed your xtube videos. Just wanted to let you know Why thank you. Would you like to make one with me? I would like to see your cock...can i? Jeez. It's all over the net. I think most people say 'that ol' thing?' when they run across it, at this point. Check my blog for links to profiles with X-rated photos, or check out my Xtube profile (mrsteed64) for photos and videos. Hey.Rob;You are on XTUBE ? How about TUMBLR ? Love to see you on one of those red hot blogs. Is that a possible site for your readers to follow your sexual encounters !! I do have both Xtube and Tumblr accounts. I use the former to post the occasional video I capture with my phone, and the latter to post the occasional dirty self-photo to my Twitter stream. My user name on both services is mrsteed64. Rob--where's your cock??? Between my legs, last time I looked. Goddammit, has it gone wandering off again? Have you been with any men you would consider "dangerous"? not just a bad boy image, but actually someone you thought twice about being alone with for some reason? I used to see a guy who later, I found out in the newspaper, was arrested and sentenced for dealing illegal guns out of the very apartment in which we banged. He had crates of illegal arms in that apartment (that I never noticed!), but it was the crates in his storage cage in the building's basement that led to his eventual incarceration. At the time, he seemed slightly intense, but not dangerous. When I learned about it afterward, though, my reaction was of having had a close call. Love your blog - read it daily, get hard pretty much every day. Question - about to host a 3some with my bf and a good friend of ours who is a top. I want to bring some toys/equipment to spice things up - any suggestions? I don't know any of you guys, so it's difficult for me to speculate what toys might be best. Your top friend might enjoy some restraint gear, if you have any—but unless he knows you well, I wouldn't go bringing out the hardcore stuff, unless you really want to frighten him off. For the most part I'd stick to some dildos, some cock rings, and some lube. Bringing too many dildos, however, might give your top buddy an indication that you don't think his dick is enough for you guys . . . just be sensitive. I always appreciate it when guys provide me with bottled water and plenty of hand towels, myself. Is there anything hotter than fucking a guy who already has cum from other dudes in his ass? Doesn't the thought of your dick being bathed in the cum of other guys while inside the bottom's rectum turn you on? There really isn't anything much hotter than that. I've known many guys who will bring me their asses with loads already in them, just because they know I like to fuck in a pre-lubed hole. Yes, it's one of my major turn-ons, whether the loads belong to me or someone else. What is your cock length and girth? I've answered this a few times before, but it's about eight inches long and five and a half inches around. If you had unlimited wealth, what's the first thing on your 'to do' list? Pay off my mortgage. And buy some new socks. Have you ever received a gift that was surprisingly, totally you? If so, what was it? Not one that I haven't specifically asked for or hinted strongly to receive. People say I'm difficult to shop for. I don't really think so. Plus gift cards always work for me. What's it like being a breeder? I think I've been writing about the experience in depth for a year in my blog. Read it, and you'll see. If we can love someone so much, how will we be able to handle it the one day we are separated? And, if being separated is a part of life, and you know about separation well, is it possible that we can love someone and never be afraid of losing them? At the same time, I was also wondering, is it possible that we can live our entire life without loving anyone at all? I think it's important in life to love things knowing we will lose them. Because we will. If you stay in a relationship for the long haul, life will intervene in your perfect plans. Your loved one will die, or he'll change, or his feelings will grow and you won't be a part of them any longer—or you'll change and grow and rearrange your own priorities. Life will intervene to separate you for months or years. Illness could cause you both to reevaluate what is important in your lives. You may discover that the person you thought you loved turned out to have an inner life that makes you question whether you knew him at all. To me, love is all the more beautiful for having gone through a battering. It's like an old metal—it might not shine as brightly, but it has picked up a lovely and unique patina of its very own, with time and weather. It's not perfect. But it's not cherished any the less, because of that. Loving someone with all these things in mind—the knowledge that it could be lost on the turn of a dime—will keep you appreciative of what you have. Being mindful of the prospect of loss, separation, and change will not inoculate you to their dire effects. That mindfulness, however, will keep you from taking that love for granted, or believing yourself entitled to it. The lesson the universe tries to teach us, over and over again in its cycles, is not that we should shut ourselves off from the world because inevitably it will disappoint us. It is that we should revel all more more, during its times of bounty, knowing that it will not last forever. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’d seen him once before, in a gay bar, a few years back. He’d strutted in like he’d owned the club, hips jutted forward, thumbs hooked in the denim of his pockets, shirt open to the base of his rib cage. I recognized him immediately. The Greek’s online profile photo had been shot from about knee level, giving his sun-bathed, shirtless torso the false stature of a giant statue, a monument of clean lines, flat planes, and lovingly-sculpted muscle. In reality, he was quite short—a solid five-foor-four, maybe. In person, that golden physique was just as attractive. Even beneath his shiny shirt, it was obvious that he was broad of shoulder and tiny of waist, and that every limb and expanse had been gym-tuned and tightened. Once I studied him from the other side of the bar, I knew that he was one of those ugly-sexy men; individually, his features were not attractive. On its own, his eyes were too large and too round, and set too deeply in his skull. His nose was a hook—a beak, even. His lips were too plain and too straight, his head too small. His eyebrows were overgrown, bushy, too coarse and too dark. His body was perfection, but someone in a cruel mood could’ve drawn a cartoon caricature of a comic, droopy-eyed bald eagle, and it would’ve looked like him. Taken altogether, though, the effect was drop-dead sexy. Every eye in the place was on him. While guys watched, I walked up, introduced myself as the man he’d been talking to for a while. He gave me the once-over, shook my hand, patted me on the back, and told me we’d have to fuck, soon. And when he left later that evening, he made sure to come over and give me a kiss on the mouth before he vanished. I was on the receiving end of no small amount of jealous from strangers, that evening. And then, nothing. From time to time I’d heard from him—was I free? Could I host? He needed a load. Or, he was having lunch in a McDonald’s in my city . . . could I could load him up in the restroom there, if I couldn’t host? One Sunday we’d made arrangements to meet and then his mom had an emergency, so that he had to cancel. Another time, I’d had to cancel an appointment on him, because of something at work. This last Sunday, though, we finally connected. He hit me up on Adam4Adam and asked if I was looking. I told him to come over. He did. And we fucked like dogs. He arrived with a load already in his hole, and told me frankly that he’d already lined up a progression of tricks throughout the day. He’d let some college kid mount him early in the morning, before he’d hauled ass over to my side of town. He had plans to meet with a buddy in my neighborhood after he left, and then was going to meet with another partnered couple in the vicinity at noon. And his boyfriend was bringing someone home to share with him that night. “We’d better get to it, then,“ was my only remark. He’d arrived wearing only a pair of silky sweatpants, a T-shirt, athletic shoes, and a light jacket; it took him only moments to shuck them onto my bedroom floor. He hopped up on the bed and sucked my dick to hardness, then immediately flopped around so that his ass was rubbing up against me. It was a perfect ass, too, thanks to the routines of squats he’d obviously been doing for years. I shoved right into that already-moist hole, and drove home without much resistance. For someone whose life mission was to take as much dick as possible, he was remarkably tight once he clamped down around me. And I admit that the sight of my big dick splitting his small frame turned me on. His Mediterranean skin was so much darker than mine, as well. The contrasts were stirring. The Greek kept his knees spread as far apart as possible as I plowed in and out. His own dick, surrounded by a thick chrome cock ring, swung back and forth, hard and heavy, as I pounded away. This wasn’t a Greektic fuck. It wasn’t the kind of sex in which I try to get into the guy’s head and please him from the inside out. This was a sheer utility fuck, the kind of sex two guys have when one of them wants the load and the other one wants to leave it. It lasted long enough that his knees began to give out, so I flipped him over onto his back, hooked his ankles over my shoulders, and finished off that way. My dick was still pulsing and oozing inside him when it was over. “God damn!” he said, panting and playing with his own meat. “Why the hell haven’t we done this before?” “I don’t know,” I said, after clearing my throat enough to speak. “But we need to be doing it more often.” “I’ll fucking say!” I pulled out of him, then, and flopped onto my back onto the bed. I had to—my legs were still shaking. Playfully, he straddled my hips and let his ass rest on my dick. Then he leaned down, and put his mouth to mine. The kiss was hot. I mean, hot. I hadn’t known that making out was an option with this guy. He seemed more the utilitarian fuck-and-go kind of fellow. But when we started to kiss, my dick raged again. He felt it, and reached around to guide it inside him once more. I slipped in to the channel already lubed by my own load and that of another man, and began to gyrate my hips once more. He was as good about finding my pleasure spots as I tend to be with other men. When he found out I love to kiss, he kept his mouth on mine pretty much for the rest of the hour he was there. When it wasn’t locked with mine, he’d ask me questions—questions about my relationship, and information about how he loved to collect loads for his boyfriend to fuck in. Questions about what kinds of bottoms I liked, and what other action I could be into. We fucked the entire time, slapping our sloppy, cum-covered parts against each other in a perfect tempo. By the time he left my place, he had loads two, three, and four squirted deep inside. What turned me on about the Greek, though, was that throughout the rest of the day he kept me updated on how many loads he’d collected and where he was going next. He messaged me after his local friend had deposited inside him, and then sent me photographs of his ass and hole from the bathroom of the couple who added to the internal mess. He managed to sneak me a photo from the park near his home, where a black guy savaged both his holes. And late at night, after his eleventh load of the day from the boyfriend and the random trick the boyfriend had brought home, he texted me a shot of his ragged hole, red and gaping and dripping with with the DNA of multiple men. Yeah, that’s definitely the kind of buddy I like having. Sexy man, sexy ass, perfect degree of hunger. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here You know what? I really love Reader Ass Day. Mostly because I get an actual excuse to sit at my computer and look at photographs of naked butts. Why, it's almost like drawing an income for doing what I do best! I've still got reader asses trickling in, so to speak, and would love to feature yours along with the many other readers who've already participated. To find out how, follow the link and read my original plea for exhibitionists! Ken First up today, Ken—a fine, round, furry ass posed against an idyllic display of summer foliage. It's almost like a still life, this photograph: the perfect globes reflecting the slanted slats of light shining in from the blinds behind him. The pendulous balls hanging between his thighs. The trees and sunlight beyond. However, I think if I were in the room with Ken, the last thing I'd want to be doing would be painting him. Unless we're talking about painting his face and butt with my load. That I could manage. JebN21 I've got to confess: I love JebN's photos. Jeb is a young lad of 20 from Newcastle, England. (Please. Insert your puns about bringing coals to him, in the comments.) It's such a beautiful, muscular young butt—but what makes it irresistible to me is the second photo, in which he's squeezing his cheek with his hand and hairy forearm. Or at least, I assume that's his own forearm. I suppose it could be someone else's. Either way. JebN, I sigh whenever I look at these pictures. They really are just that attractive. I hope the men of Newcastle tell you how desirable you are. J. I don't know much about our Mr. J. He wanted to remain anonymous, and didn't tell me anything about himself. I'm guessing, however, that he's fairly young, a bit of an exhibitionist, and a bottom. All of those things are good for me. So is that ass, J. Thank you for letting me see that beautiful hole! HotSwedeNYC In contrast to mysterious J., we have HotSwedeNYC, who would like everyone to know that he uses that particular moniker on Adam4Adam, if you'd like to get in touch with him. And shit, why wouldn't you? That ass is fucking beautiful. As always, I appreciate the jock shot, but that last photo, kneeling on the floor, is also a beauty! Our Swede friend also runs a blog of his own, at sexualsvenofthegaycity.blogspot.com . Give him a follow and encourage him to update more often! Sigh. I need to visit NYC more often. Jim Finally today we have Jim from upstate New York, showing off his wares with enthusiasm. I love the way he's pulling those great ass cheeks apart with his hands and showing off the prize spot between them. The guy's got a great pair of nuts there, too. And is that a wedding ring I spy, Jim? You're certainly making someone a lucky mate. Let's have a big round of applause for all of today's exhibitionists—great asses, one and all! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Three times I’ve been to The Decorator’s house since I wrote about him last. The first and second times were both about a month ago, when online he caught me and invited me over late at night. I ended up arriving at eleven and stumbling out of his front door again at one-thirty in the morning, drained and warm and barely able to walk. He texted me two nights later to thank me, and to let me know he’d been thinking about me. It ended (as I’d hoped) with him inviting me over again. Since his king-sized sheets were in the washer, we fucked like dogs in his spare bedroom, ruining the sheets in there with our mixed cum and sweat. I was a happy man, to see one of my most sensual and favorite fucks twice in a week. Both times I was over there last month, I’d noticed on his bedside table, next to the lube and a bottle of poppers, a pair of wooden clothespins. The first time I saw them, they registered in my head with surprise. I knew The Decorator liked his nipple play, but he’d asked for anything other than my fingers, mouth, and teeth on them. I’d forgotten about the clothespins on my subsequent visit, until I was pulling on my shoes afterward and noticed them lying there on the spare bedroom nightstand. This week, I didn’t forget. I was sitting at home last week, feeling somewhat neglected and out of sorts, when The Decorator sent me a text message asking if I happened to be available that night. Hell. For him, I jump at the opportunities. I shut down my computer, jumped in the shower, and was there within fifteen minutes. The scene started as usual. I entered the dark, unlocked house and tiptoed up the stairs. The Decorator lay face-down upon his soft-sheeted bed, between the shadows of the dim indirect lighting that shone upon his artwork. I pulled his legs apart and lapped at his butt hole, my tongue savoring the tangy, almost metallic taste of the membrane inside. Neither of us said a word, not even when I pulled him up, like a limp rag doll, into a sitting position and pressed my lips against his. In silence he undressed me, removing my thick sweater and my V-necked T-shirt, then my pants, socks, and shorts. He knelt on the ground and with his mouth engulfed my dick, sucking it in a way that made me shift and sigh on the sheets. His eyes closed in worship, he licked and sucked at my balls, and then pushed me down into the pillows, so that he could kiss and lick my shoulders and neck. He discovered this sweet spot of mine a few visits ago, that erogenous zone that makes me lose all sense of time and place. And he’s good to me, when he plays there. It’s not a simple sweep of the lips against my shoulders, or a flick of his tongue against my nape. He works the area for a long, long time, using his mouth and chin and nose to stroke and brush against the skin, his fingers to scrape and knead and push and pull the muscles. The more loudly I gasp, the more broadly my lips part to catch my breath, the more vigorously and passionately he chews, and licks, and sucks, and abrades ever nerve ending in the vicinity, setting them all afire. At last I couldn’t stand any more. I pushed him to the bed and shoved inside, enjoying the helpless sounds he made as my cock parted his tight hole. Small grunts and groans were the sentences we spoke as I fucked. The sounds of our lips connecting and the sloppy sound of my wet dick plunging in and out of his hole were our punctuation. For a long time, our dialogue was only that soft exchange of the mildest and sweetest of sex noises. Then, when his eyes were closed and his body at its most accepting, I produced the clothespins. I’d actually palmed them when he’d been working on my neck and shoulders. During one of my flailings, I’d let my hand land upon the night table. Then, when I was sure he hadn’t been looking, I’d taken the pair of wooden pegs and concealed one in each hand. Now, still fucking him with long, deep, slow strokes, I reached around and twisted his left nipple with my fingers, pulling out. He gasped at the sensation. When I clamped the clothespin around his distended flesh, however, his eyes popped open and he made a sound that surprised me in its ferocity. It was bass, and base—it was the sound of sheer sexual pleasure. Around my dick, his hole first contracted, then expanded, opening wider and with more depth than I’d ever before heard. His groaning was almost uncontrollable. I’d positioned the pin so that it hung from his nipple and swung there; every time he moved, it would tug and twist at his sensitive nubs. I flicked the end of the clothespin with my finger, sending it flying. He responded with an arched back, a dropped jaw. His eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites. When I pinched the wooden jaws even more tightly, I thought he’d melt into a pile of twitching and quivering nerves. He didn’t expect when I applied the other clothespin. I tugged his right nipple out and pulled until I could fasten the second peg to its tip. The extra sensation shut up his groans immediately. Instead, he began to shake, and then to whimper. It wasn’t a human noise, that whimpering. It sounded like an animal wounded so badly that it knew the end was near. The Decorator pulled his ass from my cock so quickly that I was fearful I’d damaged him. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far. I needn’t have. The moment my dick hit the air, my partner pushed me onto my back, then straddled my hips and impaled himself back onto my still-slick meat. Up and down he raised and lowered himself. His hands clutched for mine and pinned them above my head. His lips connected with my own, and I found myself kissing him passionately. Between us, the clothespins swung and caught at and grazed my skin. Every time they pulled at his nipples, he’d gasp, and slam down on me even harder. Two tears were on his cheeks, one from the corner of each eye that had escaped and run alongside his nose. When I reached up and brushed one away, his eyes opened. We stared at each other for long moments while his hips rose and lowered, and mine gyrated to match his motions. Then he turned my head to the side, and ran his mouth along my jaw. His chin dug into my neck as he licked and sucked. I tried to pull my hands down, to regain control, but he was determined. And in heat. It felt as if his insides had risen ten degrees in temperature. He came on me, solely from the pressure of his stiff dick on the underside of my rib cage. The load squirted between us and our torsos crazily mashing together spread it thin. I wanted to roll him over and finish off, but he was insistent. His hips buckled and writhed, and churned. He was determined to take the load from me in that position. Pinned down and willing to be helpless, I let him. In five long, sweeping gushes, I let him. Then, when his grasp lessened, I reached up and removed the clothespins, one at a time. I held my palms over his nipples, to help them return to their normal levels of sensation. I could feel my semen seeping out of his hole and around my nuts as I lay there, panting. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations, then unmounted. Without asking, or being told, he knelt between my knees and cleaned off my dick, my nuts, and my thighs. Then he rolled me over, lay on my back, and applied gentle kisses to my neck once more. We stared at each other again when he was done. Then I spoke my only words of the evening. “Why are you so nice to me?” I whispered. His reply was soft and sincere. I could still see the tracks of moisture from the insides of his eyes, as he stared into mine. “Because you make me feel better than anyone ever has,” he said. And then we started again. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Ok they are waiting for you, read the text message. Tell me when you get them. When I arrived home, mid-afternoon, after a lunch with a former student, they’re waiting for me—an inconspicuous lump in the bottom of my mailbox, hiding among the circulars and the bills. They’re simply a pair of socks, rolled up into each other, into a ball of fabric. When I unfurl the brown nylon, I’m immediately reminded of women’s stockings, sheer and shiny. But the garments aren’t as long as a pair of stockings, and it’s printed with what I suppose is intended to be a masculine pattern around the hem. They’re the kind of socks I imagine an old Mexican man wearing to church, or to a wedding. Maybe that image is stuck in my head because the kid who drove across town to stuff the socks into my mail box happens to be Latin. Darrio, he told me his name was—a kid in his mid-twenties. His profile photos showed him as almost impossibly narrow-waisted and full-bottomed; his lone face photo was thugged out, tough and mean-looking. But all he really wanted, he told me, was to serve what he called ‘white man dick.’ I had plenty of that. I’ve got them, I texted back. I pulled the sleazy fabric over my toes and past my ankles. I didn’t like the look of them. I’d never have chosen the things on my own, much less worn them. But they were his choice, what he wanted me in. They’re on my feet. how long will u wear them, he asked. All day, I promised. I’ll wear them tonight when I sleep, and all tomorrow, too. o fuck, hot!!! he texted back. i want u in ur shoes when we meet, k? I kept my promise, too. But so no one would see, I pulled a pair of my usual cotton socks atop them. I saw him in person for the first time the next night, when he emerged from an ancient Oldsmobile convertible and loped his way up my front walk. He wore an oversized hoodie printed with enormous letters, and a pair of baggy sweatpants that could’ve contained not only MC Hammer, but his entire posse of musicians and backup singers. “‘Sup,” he said once he was over the threshold. His dark, glittering eyes flicked over me. His lids were heavy and hooded. I was wearing a pressed shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pair of clean jeans, and a dress belt. On my feet were my best leather Oxfords. I could see I’d chosen the appropriate outfit. His eyes devoured me in one long, long look in which he seemed to take in every detail, from the rounded tie of my laces to the polished buckle at my waist, from the ring on my finger to the spectacles on my nose. “You got something for me?” he asked at last, after a visible gulp. I saw his knees bend, as if he intended to lower himself down. “Upstairs,” I told him. He shed the puffy overcoat he’d been wearing and left it on the floor, then sprinted up to the second floor with me following. The light in the bedroom was deliberately low. There was just enough illumination for me to see him I sat down, legs and feet spread wide, hips poised at the mattress edge. “Strip,” I commanded, as his hands instinctively jerked toward my feet. Again he obeyed. He pulled off the hoodie and shucked the sweatpants in a matter of seconds, then shimmied out of a pair of tight designer briefs. His body was as good as the photos—better, even. He was tall and lean, with skin several shades darker than mine. His nipples were dark smears of brown. Curly hair covered his legs and pubic area, and skirted around to his ass. That beautiful ass. The ass that was as perfect and round as his photos had made it seem. He was fortunate to possess one of those perfectly flat stomachs that slanted down to a large, curved, uncut piece of meat. He squeezed it self-consciously to show it off to me, then stared in my eyes. I nodded, giving him the signal. In a flash he was back on his knees, bending over my dress shoes and untying them with a delicacy that belied his thuggish exterior. He gasped as he removed the first shoe; his hands lingered over my feet for a moment, then tugged off the second. He lifted my right foot to his face. Then, as I watched, impassive and stone-faced, his eyes closed. His forehead leaned into the flesh on the ball of my foot. He sighed. As his face softened with contentment and need, his dick rose, rock hard. “Lay back, papi,” he whispered, eyes still shut. I leaned back on my elbows, still wanting to watch him at work. Lovingly, tenderly, he rubbed his face all over my foot. His pillowy lips pressed against the arch; his chin dug into my heel. While he sniffed and rubbed the day-old socks, his hands massaged the sides and tops. His dick bobbed in the open air, stimulated by whatever was passing through his head. “Is that what you wanted?” I asked him in a low voice. He nodded. Very gently he returned my foot to the floor, not releasing it until it made contact with the wood. Then he picked up the left foot, moved it to his face, inhaled deeply, and began to go to work. With the second foot, he licked and sucked the nylon-covered flesh once he’d finished sniffing and massaging it. He took his time, lost in private sexual reverie. After long minutes, he lifted both feet to his face, so that his eyes were covered, and his nose surrounded. I heard him take one deep, lingering breath, as he inhaled the essence of my smell. I pulled him onto the mattress. His soft lips met mine. He was a decent kisser, though I could tell that wasn’t where his passion lay. I pushed his head down my torso until his tongue flicked out for the head of my dick. “Wet it up,” I told him. Like a good boy, he obeyed. There were two halves to this bargain. He’d get as long as he wanted with my feet, and his socks. And I’d get his hole. As I said, it was a beautiful ass. He gasped and trashed slightly as I tongued it, as if instinctively trying to buck me off. Then he gave in, and relaxed. The muscles protecting his most highly-guarded area relaxed, and gradually open as I ate at him with increasing vigor. By the time I was ready to enter, he was moaning. His hips rolled, back and forth, up and down. I squirted some lube on my dick, then applied the remainder to his ass. My knees straddling his thighs, I pushed in. He yelled like a boy. I’d barely gotten two inches in when his hole clamped down around my meat, barring further entry. “Take it out, take it out, fuck!” he cried. My mouth was close to his ear. I let out a long ssshhh. “Hold still,” I told him, to keep him from trying to squeeze me. “Hold still. Get used to it.” A tear was rolling down his face. At my command, though, Darrio stopped his thrashing. He dug his forehead into my pillow, but he also bit down on his lips. I could hear him whimpering still, like a kicked puppy, but at least he wasn’t making my ears ring. Guys praise me sometimes for my sensitivity, for being attuned to what my lovers need. That’s all very well, but there are some times, and some guys, when none of that matters. When the only needs to which I’m attuned are my dick’s. This was one of those times. I could tell he didn’t want to be fucked, that he was only doing it for foot time—that he was only doing it because he felt obligated, after I’d worn his sleazy nylon socks. And you know, that was fine with me. He’d given me permission in advance to take his hole. I could’ve let him off the hook. But I didn’t. Inch by inch I worked my dick into his hole. He clearly had never had anything that size in there, before. The guy’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched at the pillow and sheets as if they were his life preservers, but he endured. Every new inch brought him more pain, and opened him wider—but he endured. Then, when I rolled him onto his side with myself buried in him to the hilt, I reached between his legs and encountered his full bulls and an uncut dick that was not only rock-hard, but slick and slimy from the precum flowing liberally from its tip. He was fucking enjoying it. He continued to whimper and whine as I fucked, but didn’t protest at first. Then, after a few moments, he said, as if apologizing, “I can’t take this very long, papi. I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept pounding away. “I can’t . . . not for much longer.” It didn’t matter. The combination of his round, fleshy butt and and his vise-like hole were working magic on my dick. It twitched, and began to demand to burrow deeper, deeper inside. I let it have its way. He let out a sob half of relief, half of unexpected arousal, when I came. I held him tightly while it happened, letting loose my seed deeper into him than he’d ever taken before. Then he brought himself off with a few quick strokes, shooting his seed all over my pillow. Every crush of his muscles as he shot squeezed me farther out of his hole, until at the very last I’d withdrawn in a messy pool of my own semen, puddling onto the blanket. Then I let him have my feet again. For a long time—a very long time—we both lay on our backs with our heads pointing in opposite directions, balls to balls. My feet lay atop his face, as he licked and sucked and sniffed and gobbled at their soles, through the nylon fabric. It was relaxing, and arousing in his own way, but I knew he couldn’t handle another fuck. Not for days, at least. The kid had an advanced-studies appetite, but mine is not a survey-level dick. Beginners might admire it, but rarely can they handle it. Not that it keeps me from trying, when I’ve got permission. At last I suggested it was time for him to go. Without a word he hopped up from the bed, pulled on his loose-fitting clothing and shoes, and tripped down the stairs. “You want to do this again sometime?” I asked. “You way too big for me,” he mumbled, not looking me in the eye. “I’ll wear the socks again.” He considered that. I knew he would. “Keep ‘em,” he said, with a look of mingled shame and desire fleetingly crossing his handsome, guarded face. “I’ll be back.” Somehow I knew he’d say that. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm running a little behind this morning, and for that I thoroughly apologize. The reason would be that I got a little behind, this morning. As in, a behind wrapped around my dick. And it was so pleasurable and intense (apparently for him, too, as he's been texting me every fifteen minutes thanking me, since he left) that it lasted a great deal longer than I anticipated. So. Let's get to it. Formspring. Questions. Round-up. You know the drill. Based on your description, not only do you hook up with guys, but you cruise in public. I read about you cruising for sex in the woods, but do you still look in public restrooms? If so, do you play there as well? I do look in public restrooms. I've written about several restroom encounters that have happened over the previous months, and have even written about one restroom encounter that took place with a reader of my blog. When did you start sleeping naked? I remember sleeping naked when I was about 10 and found pajamas too confining. I have done so pretty much ever since. In college I tended to wear a T-shirt to bed (but no shorts) because nudity in the dorm rooms wasn't that common, but otherwise I prefer to sleep nude. How long does it take you to reload? Usually not very long. Often I don't deflate between fucks. Quite often I can shoot as quickly as five or ten minutes after I first unload. Do m/any of your meetthebreeder followers know your actual identity? I ask with full respect of your privacy; I'm just curious to know if there's much crossover. Do you see much variance between this circle of compatriots, & others in your daily life? You make me feel like Clark Kent. My blog and Twitter followers tend not to overlap with my everyday, local friends. They are two distinct groups. I prefer to keep them that way. That said, I have met and screwed several people from the first group. I've become genuine friends with several in the first group. Some of my long-term online friends also have discovered my blog and have made the not-so-tough leap to realize my authorship. Of these people, many know who I actually am. Usually it's led to us being closer friends than before, so that's a good thing. I don't consider my blog shameful, nor am I ashamed of the acts I detail within. While I prefer a certain amount of distance between those who know about it and those who don't, I never live in fear of ruin and exposure when the two collide. Thx for your reply to my question re "meethebreeder" cf the rest of your life. These considerations really interest me. I hope you didn't perceive any assumptions around shame or fear in my asking, because that wasn't where I was coming from. Cheers! No, I didn't get that at all from your question, but I volunteered the information to show you the perspective from which I approach my life. In one post you said that sometimes you visit friends or family in central VA. If a fan lives in the area would you be up for meeting? (In case, you can't tell, that fan is me.) I've gone out of my way to meet a couple of fans in the past, on road trips. It would depend on the fan and how I felt about him. Do you ever wish to be again with the first guy you had sex with? I get to have that option fairly regularly. Do you prefer to shoot inside someone or do you ever pull out, cum, then shove the cum inside a man? I prefer to shoot inside. I don't pull out, even to shove it back in again. This is one of many reasons I'd be lousy in porn. I recently received a friend suggestion on facebook from you, aren't you concerned that you have a face pic up under your breeder name? No. Are you doing anything remotely close to what you thought you'd be doing when you 'grew up'? I really had very little concept of what I wanted to do as an adult, when I was younger. At one point I wanted to be an archaeologist. At another, I wanted to be a concert pianist. I am neither. I did harbor hopes of being in the profession in which I work now, but seriously doubted I ever could make it happen. So basically, I guess I proved myself wrong. Is it truly greater to have loved and lost, than never to have loved before? Loss is inevitable. Everything we love, changes, or dies. It's better to honor the loss by loving as hard and as deeply as possible, knowing that the loss will come, than it is to shun life's rich bounty in an effort to stave off the prospect of change. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The Breeder prayed unto the heavens that they might bestow upon him the choicest of reader asses. And lo, from the heavens rained an abundance of ass, upon which the children of earth might feast! Let's see what we have in the Reader Ass mailbox for this week. M.B. Regular readers might recognize M.B.'s initials as a frequent commenter—he's also a regular correspondent and a long-time personal friend as well, predating this blog by a considerable amount. It's kind of interesting for me to see him in an entirely new light. By which I mean a light from above, illuminating his shapely cheeks. I suspect he wore this style of jock because he knows how much I enjoy it. And damn, do I ever enjoy it. Thank you, M.B. A.J. There's something particularly arousing about a guy so anxious to show off his ass and hole that he's willing to drop down to the bedroom floor in order to do it. A.J. doesn't need a bed; he doesn't need a comfy sofa. He's willing to drop and spread right there on the cold, hard wood. Speaking of hard wood, that's what these photos give me. And I suspect a good many of you as well. Holdon For those of you who doubt that older gentlemen can have fantastic asses, I present to you Holdon, a sixty-one-year-old reader with a rockin' ass. Holdon's in a long-term relationship and hails from the northeastern U.S. All I can say, Holdon, is that you've got one lucky partner there. And one fantastic rear end! Pakistani Pussyboi I'm going to let these photos speak for themselves, pretty much. Pakistani Pussyboi (that's what he assures he me likes to be called) certainly knows how to live up to the title. That round ass sports so much fur that I'd be afraid my face would get carpet burn from rimming it. Of course, I'd be rimming it pretty vigorously. Thank you, P.P.! Wildsailor There's something about this picture that really tickles me. It's obviously taken in an office. You've got the papers. The computer. The phone. The businessman's glasses. The bulletin board. And then, in the middle of it all, those dropped trousers and that round, firm ass. You know, Wildsailor? I'd venture to say that you are a pretty wild man, after all—and definitely the kind of guy I'd love to meet. Let's hear a round of applause for all our sexy-assed men of this week. It takes a lot of courage to put one's photographs up on a site like mine—and I want these guys to know exactly how much I (and you!) appreciate them. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here For your Thursday enjoyment, I've uploaded to XTube some footage of me fucking Scruffy. That would be him you hear there, moaning and groaning. I'm mystified, by the way, why XTube somehow rotates my movies whenever I upload them, in some random fashion. This video was shot horizontally on my phone, appeared horizontally on my computer, and yet on XTube . . . vertical. Enjoy! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When he steps through my front door, he avoids looking at me. Instead, he turns away and removes his thin wool hoodie, barely enough to keep his narrow frame warm on a cold night like this. Though the room is dark and the shades are drawn, the perigee moon has risen just above the rooftops across the street. Its brilliant, blue-white light reflects from his pale skin, giving it the iridescence of pearl. Down drop his ragged khakis, puddling around his ankles, followed by his shorts. When finally he turns, I can barely make out the familiar tattoos covering his young skin. The insides of his forearms arms are trellises for vines of roses, thickly flowering and studded with thorns. There’s a crest in the center of his chest, just above the sternum, elaborate, heraldic, and covered with scrollwork. His biceps are decorated with curlicues and intricate designs. On his shoulder is a dark splotch of a design—a Celtic cross, it would seem. And on the outside of a thigh, a woman’s face, surrounded by hair. There was no question we’d do it any way other than in the dark. This twenty-year-old boy, Jason, and I have still never seen each other’s faces directly. The many times we’ve played have been in restrooms around the county, where I’ve only seen the extended shape of his lips around my dick, beneath a metal partition. Once I had him over to my house. As on this night, I invited him over late, after dark. I’ve turned off all the house’s lights, save for the porch light over the address plate. I’ve drawn all the shades and curtains. The house is already on a silent street with very little light. Tonight, it’s as dark as it gets. I’m sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, my inches hard and ready in my right hand. He shuffles across the oriental rug in his socks and kneels down before me. After a deep, deep breath, he impales his mouth on his dick. There’s not timid preparation, no licking or kissing or slow entry. He throws himself down on it like a disgraced samurai upon his own sword, taking it to the hilt and letting out a deep, groan from his diaphragm when it can go no farther. My head lolls back on the sofa’s cushions, resting there. I feel his saliva dripping down my nuts, and then trickling beneath my sac. Though his skin is almost luminescent in the moonlight, I can’t really see anything of his face. I’m fine with that. All I need to know is that the boy wants me, and is doing his best to make me feel good. He’s not trying to get me off, here. He’s wetting me up, getting me slick for his ass. To accentuate the point, when I reach down between his legs to grab his stiff cock, which already has a tip that’s wet and getting slicker, he grabs my wrist and yanks it down, down between his legs. His fingers press mine against his hole, which opens and closes around the tips. He’s already lubed down there, but I want to taste him, first. I shove the boy onto the sofa and take his place on the floor, where I spread those perfectly round twenty-year-old cheeks and bury my face between them. He gasps at the roughness of my beard against his tender skin. I can hear him muffling his cries in the cushions before at last he lets his forehead rest on their back. “Fuck me,” he begs in a soft voice. “Stick that big daddy dick in me and ram the fuck out of me. Please.” His boyhole is tight. Very tight. I’ve had the forethought to put a small bottle of lube on the coffee table. I squirt a glob of it onto his hole and work it in roughly, making him cry out and squirm, as I spread more on my meat. When I go in, it’s with a savage push. I know he likes it to hurt. His head flies up. His jaw opens wide. The cry he lets out is at first soundless, a phantom scream that makes no noise, though its presence cannot be missed. He twitches, and shudders, and finally relaxes. When he lets out a noise, it’s only the word yes, sibilant and long, deep and in the chest. I hold it there until he completely relaxes, then begin pumping. “Let me sit on it,” he begs after a moment. “I need to sit on that daddy dick.” He’s used to sitting on me that way. In every restroom where we’ve fucked, he’s had me push my knees and legs beneath the stall so he can straddle my dick and ride. That’s what he does now—lowers his tiny frame on my outsized dick until it reaches the bottom. Then he begins to ride. He bounces, and thrashes, and squeezes that super-tight hole around me as our lips meet. We’re making out when he shoots, spraying semen all over his chest and mine. The spasms of his hole drag me kicking and screaming over the edge; my release is sweet, and deep, and silent. When he at last stands up, my load slides from his hole and lands on my shin. I grab my T-shirt and wipe it up, then mop him down. He takes the T-shirt from me and catches the spots I’ve missed, then hands it back. I sniff the soaked garment, then shrug and pull it on. He dresses facing away from me, not wanting me to see his face, or for himself to see mine. His legs are still shaking like a newborn calf, attempting to walk for the first time, but he manages to step back into his khakis and pull on his shirt. “All right, dad,” he mumbles at the last. “Thank you, sir.” “Be careful,” I tell him, and then let him out the door. I can only see his back, through the blinds, as I watch him stumble to his car. He’s walking almost bow-legged—a slip of a boy sneaking back home, by the light of the perigee moon. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After the steam room bear packed up his bag and got back on the freeway to Ohio, I decided to stick around the bathhouse a little longer. I didn’t have to be anywhere that afternoon, and I’d not fooled around with very many people. So after a quick pee break (during which some determined guy kept trying to rattle open the door to my stall) and a shower, I sauntered back to the steam room. I didn’t have to wait long for the action to start. A very sexy older gentleman had followed me into the tiled room’s foggy depths. His extremely thick dick was rock hard when he pulled away his towel. His hand touched my meat at the same time I wrapped my long fingers around his. My fingertips barely touched the base of my palm, as they encircled the rock-hard flesh. We kissed. He was even better at it than the bear had been—and the bear had been an ideal make-out partner. While we made out, surrounded by warm blankets of steam, the room’s door opened several times, admitting people that I didn’t bother to check out. I was too happy in the moment, being in a handsome stranger’s arms with his lips atop mine. He groaned when my fingers toyed with his nipples. His own hands began to play with my balls, and then stroked the area behind them over and over again. When he stood up on the lower shelf so that his head nearly scraped the ceiling, I went down on his dick immediately. By this time there were five or six men watching us go at each other. Their hands were on their dicks, stroking them to hardness, but none of them yet moved to join the action. I engulfed the stranger’s thick meat with my lips, enjoying the almost-painful sensation of my jaw dropping wide to accommodate his girth. I could taste the pre-cum at his dick’s tip, when it slid down my throat. I gagged slightly when he pulled out the first time, aware of how very far he was stretching me, but didn’t protest when he slid back all the way in. A young boy was among the men who’d invaded our tryst. He couldn’t have been any more than twenty or twenty-one; his pale skin glistened with steam and a red blush of excitement. When he sat down on the lower shelf so that his shoulder was next to my right leg, I reached out and ran my hand through his sloppy, curly dark hair. Still sucking, I brushed my thumb over his thick eyebrows, down his slightly snubbed nose. He looked a lot like Darren Criss, when the singer isn’t slicked back and brilliantined down for Glee. I could tell he wanted my dick. I lifted my right leg, and on cue, he ducked beneath and took up a position between my thighs. His pretty eyes closed as he took my dick into his mouth and sucked. The sensations of one cock in my mouth and a mouth on my own meat was incredible. I felt not merely a tickle of pleasure at the base of my spine, but a buzzsaw of sensation. The man I was sucking pulled out of my mouth. He obviously wanted the boy’s attention as well, but the curly-headed youngster was focused on me alone. I pulled my dick from between his slick lips and planted my mouth on him. He responded to the kiss with hunger. His back arched. His neck curved back, helpless with need. Our faces were upside down from each other as we made out, but he received my kisses sloppily and with a vigor that was matched when I let him return to sucking me once more. The older gentleman knelt between the boy’s legs and spread them roughly, then took the kid’s dick in his mouth. Another man took his place next to me—a guy my age with a perfectly sculpted hairy chest and a smooth bald head that shone in the steamroom’s lights. His dick was curved like a bow, and shot to the back of my throat just as swiftly. I looked up at the man as I sucked—he had an incredibly handsome face as well. The four of us formed a daisy-chain of sex for a few moments. The older guy sucked on the Darren Criss look-alike, the boy sucked on me, and I slurped on the curved dick of the hairy-chested muscle man. Perfect. Then all the focus shifted to me. After begging me to make out with him again, the boy responded by pushing me down onto the upper ledge, spreading my legs, and licking at first my balls, and then my butthole. I gasped, and attempted to help him out by sliding my hips down to the shelf’s edge. My muscle man responded by sitting directly behind me, and holding my head against his chest while his strong arms surrounded me. I looked up at him; he smiled, and stared into my eyes as the boy sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body as his mouth greedily connected with my hole. The muscle man reached for my dick and firmly, slowly stroked it, as he kissed me. The older gentleman, in the meanwhile, stopped sucking the boy’s dick and joined the kid between my legs. While the boy ate my butt, the older man licked and nipped at my nuts. It felt as if there wasn’t a single square inch of my body that wasn’t tingling or throbbing with excitement, and I knew that although I’d already shot a couple of loads into the bear, I was going to produce another very soon. All three men could tell by my muffled groans and by the reaction of my body that I was getting closer. The boy dug his face in as deep as he could, biting and licking the sensitive flesh in the most protected spot of my body. The muscle man’s hand grew tighter around my dick as he edged me closer and closer. When I came, it was convulsive. I remember crying out, though whether for mercy or from relief I could not have said. I remember the boy standing to catch the cum as it shot from my dick, and then to slap it on his own dick and bring himself to a very quick climax. And I remember the hairy-chested man holding me the entire time, his mouth firmly planted on mine with long, deep kisses, as the boy dropped what felt like a cup of sperm all over my body. When at last the muscle man released me with a slap on my ass, I was quivering and shaken. The boy grinned guiltily and ran his hand down my chest. His fingers trailed away at my pubes. Then he disappeared. The group that had accumulated to watch the four-way action dissipated; I was the last to leave the steam room. My face, chest, and stomach were covered with juice, not all of it my own. I headed back to my cubicle and decided to call it a day. There was no way that I could’ve topped that experience, that afternoon. I toweled off as best as I could and dressed, then surveyed the damage in the mirror in the shower room. My hair is pretty fine, and the steam and water had turned it into—well, let’s say that a dandelion after a windstorm looked more put-together. There wasn’t much I could do about it with my fingers, though, so I shrugged philosophically, collected my flip-flops, and returned my sheets to the front window. The handsome goateed clerk growled at me when I handed over my key. “Well, well!” I knew he was looking at the bedraggled state of my hair. “Shame you have to go so soon.” I’d been there about four and a half hours. “Yeah, well,” I said. He growled, in a low and lustful tone, “I was hoping to find you after my shift ended, push you into a dark corner, and have my fucking way with you.” I was glad that it was dark in the hallway outside the window, because his words made me blush furiously. I do that very easily, when flattered. “Anytime,” I laughed, as I signed my admission slip a second time. “Seriously, anytime.” “You are a handsome fucker,” he said, pushing back my membership card. “A good looking man. Mmmm!” he grunted, gutturally. Somehow he made me want to stay. But I thanked him and made promises to stay around longer the next time. Then I pushed open the door that would lead to the parking lot, and managed to get to my car on wobbly legs to deal with the hundred voicemails and texts that had accumulated during my time in the darkness. But dang. Between being mistaken for a thirty-one year old, being called a handsome fucker, and getting four and a half hours of constant attention for my dick, Friday was really good for my ego. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I usually judge the prospective activity of the local bathhouse by the number of cars I see parked in its two lots. It's not unusual for the back lot to be more empty. There’s a bit of a trek to the door from around the back of the building, in that industrial neighborhood. If the lot closest to the front door is abandoned, however, I'll usually make the U-turn that would take me around to the bathhouse's fenced enclosure, and continue on back to the highway. Friday, the lot was packed. I pulled in, parked my car, grabbed my flip-flops and the bottle of lube I keep in the glove compartment, and headed inside. I don't hit the baths all that often. When was the last time? Eight months ago? But the guy who works the daytime shift at the counter recognized me. From behind his glasses he stared at me, then nodded. "Hey," I grinned at him, and then slipped my twenty beneath the glass for a regular room. He handed me a paper to sign, took my membership card, and buzzed me in. Only once I was inside the darkness, waiting at the counter for him to pass me my room key and towel, did he open his thickly-goateed mouth. "Enjoy yourself, now," he growled in a deep bass. Then he chuckled. "I know they'll enjoy you." He's a flirt, that desk clerk. But he always gives me a choice room—this time, at the intersection of three heavily-trafficked hallways. The baths are a hit-or-miss affair. So much depends on the crowd, and the mixture of the crowd is always a matter of timing, chance, and the whims of the locals. If it's a miserable day of rain or snow or ice, it could swing either way—people might be looking for a refuge from the weather and come for a day of sex with strangers, or they might equally be tempted to stay at home, warm and dry and alone. Fine weather might draw people out of their homes, but they could be inclined to head to the mall or the riverfront, as to the bathhouse. National holidays tend to be good—even Thanksgiving. Guys are off work, and guys get bored and mischievous, then. I was hoping that Friday, right around lunchtime, might attract a certain mature crowd looking to play before the start of the weekend. Or at least some hot unemployed men. But still, it's always tough to tell what you'll get on any particular day at the bathhouse. You could have the time of your life. Or you could sit around for hours, diddling yourself and wondering why you came, when it's PERFECTLY OBVIOUS that everyone finds you OUTRAGEOUSLY UGLY and GROSSLY OBESE and RUNS at the sight of you. Luckily, Friday was one of the former. After laying out the sheet on my mattress in my room, then disrobing and slipping on my rubber cock rings and wrapping my threadbare towel around my midsection, I slipped out of the door and clopped down the hall in my flip-flops to the steam room. The steam room at this particular bath is large, and tiled from floor to ceiling, and divided into two roughly enclosures. I moved into the room's foggy far side, and climbed onto the upper shelf to wait. An older gentleman sat nearby; he didn't look at me when I took my place upon the tiles, removed my towel, and settled into a position with my legs spread and my forearms balanced upon the knees. I'd passed several guys in the hallway who'd given me the eyeball when I'd walked by. Several of them trailed in after me. One was an older guy in his sixties with an enviably athletic build and a shaved head. Without asking, and without any resistance from me, he removed his towel and set it on the lower shelf, then knelt upon it and began to suck my dick. I hardened between his lips, then let him move his mouth up and down the shaft as he got it wetter and more rigid. The two men who had trailed in after him watched from nearby. One was another senior whose features I couldn't make out through the dense fog that was ramping up as the steamer pumped out clouds of vapor. He was tall, though, and definitely as old, or older than the man working on my dick. The other was a big, burly bear. Five-foot-nine and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of very furry, masculine, bearded bear. I found the bear instantly attractive in a god I want that one! kind of way. However much I find many of them attractive, though, bears don't tend to go for me. Or if they do, they certainly don't act upon it in person. As a matter of fact, when in my presence they manage to hide any interest pretty damned well. I kept trying to give this one the eye, and to invite him to come over and join in, but he sat down at a fair distance and watched, just like everyone else. The older gent who'd been present in the room when I'd entered gathered his towel and left. My cocksucker rose, gave me a deep kiss, then grabbed his towel and did the same. By way of apology, he comically mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. It was getting warm in there; the boiler was at its peak, and I couldn't see more than two or three feet in front of me. Still rock hard and wanting a mouth on my meat, I pulled myself to the edge of the upper ledge and positioned myself so that I was sitting directly above the bear. He watched as I played with my nipples and masturbated myself lasciviously for him. Finally, when I spread my legs invitingly as wide as they could possibly go, he stood up and positioned himself between them. Now that I could see him more clearly, I could tell how fucking cute the guy really was. He had to me about my age, but he had the impish eyes and cherry cheeks of a little boy. His beard was bushy, full, and dark. His chest was furry, though his round belly was perfectly smooth. From the bush of his pubes rose a stubby penis, fat, full, hard, and short. I grabbed him by the dick and pulled him in. His mouth landed on mine; I found my lips surrounded by his mouth. His beard scratched my face, pleasantly. I inhaled his sweet scent of mouthwash and coffee traces as the breath from our lungs mingled. He groaned when I pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then I ran my right hand through his curly hair and pushed him down so that his face was at his dick. He opened his mouth, and engulfed it. The older gentleman had done a really good job of sucking me. He was nothing, however, compared to the bear. My hips buckled at the feel of his mouth as he took me to the root. His mouth was so wide open that I thought he'd slurp in my balls, as well. When finally he backed off, the combination of the heat and the blow job left my head spinning. "You wanna fuck me?" he wanted to know. Did I! "Yeah," I grunted. "Want to go back to my room?" I didn't have to ask twice. I was streaming water when we left the steam room. I didn't even bother to wait to get back; I removed my town and walked, hard-on bouncing painfully, down the hallway as I dried off my shoulders and back. Several men watched as we disappeared into the darkness of the little cubicle with the number 50 on its door. "Gawd," said the bear. "You’ve got the perfect dick, fucker." He sat heavily on the bed and grabbed it, pulling me to him. "The perfect dick. It's fucking big, too. How long is it?" I told him, and he shook his head. "I want it in me." I leaned down for another of his kisses. I loved the feel of his beard against mine. "I was hoping I would get with you," I told him, quite honestly. "I saw you walk in that room, and I thought to myself, I've gotta get some of that." "No shit? I'm just a furry fat dude." He seemed incredulous, despite my assertion that he was far more than a furry fat dude. "You clean?" I told him I was. ""Because I'm thinking I want you to sperm me up." "You want it bareback?" I asked. "Only done it that way with one other buddy," he said. "But yeah. I don't wanna pass up this shot. You wanna bareback me?" Again, he didn't have to ask twice. I had been turning him onto his knees as he spoke. He lay face down on the bed, clutched the pauper's pillow between his arms to prop up his chin, and groaned as I fingered some lube into his butt. When I pushed between those big, furry cheeks, he grabbed for his bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply. I could feel his muscles relax to admit me as I slid deeper. "Oh fuck," he said, over and over again. "Oh fuck. I've never had one this big. Fucking amazing." I was all the way in. As he told me how rarely he'd been fucked—apparently the last time had been eight months prior—I was a little surprised how elastic and smooth he was. He didn't clench down, or resist my thrusts, or betray any discomfort when I increased the depth with which I'd pull out and shove back in. He didn't seem to feel pain when I would hold myself in him at the deepest point, and swell my dick by clamping down on the floor of my pelvis. All he did was hold one of my hands like a lifeline, breath heavily, and moan with pleasure. "You like it, don't you, stud?" I growled in his ear. "Yes," he cried. "You don't know how long I've needed this, buddy. You don't know how bad. Where are you from?" he asked, suddenly. I told him, still keeping up the rhythm of my thrusting, and asked where he lived. He was from Ohio, he told me. An hour and a half away. "But if you could ever host, or meet me here, I would totally drive up for more of this—anytime. An-y-time," he repeated, drawing out each syllable. He sounded, quite honestly, so happy at the way my dick was making him feel that he was close to tears. "Then I'll have to give you my number," I told him. "Because I find you so fucking attractive that I'd love to see more of you." The news pleased him. It pleased him so much that he clamped down on my meat like a pair of hands and began to milk it. I wasn't going to last much longer. "Let me sit on it," he suggested. Anything to extend the pleasure. I got on my back. He mounted me, putting his considerable weight on my midsection as his hole grabbed onto my dick. I like a guy's weight on me. I particularly love a bear's weight on me—it makes me feel tiny, and compact, which is something that an ungainly, long-limbed fellow like me rarely gets to experience. His fat dick rubbed against my stomach as he rode me. I could tell that the feelings for him were even more intense in this position than they had been when I'd been ramming into him. "I'm going to shoot," he warned me. "Do it," I commanded. He continued to ride back and forth and up and down, more and more vigorously. His excitement tickled mine. I found myself very much on the edge as he rode closer and closer to orgasm. When he came, it was without having touched himself once; he shot a blast of cum squarely into my face. That alone pushed me over. I began to unload into him, loudly, as he continued to groan and squirm on top of me. Finally, wary of opening my eyes while his copious sperm was still dripping down my face, I let him wipe me off before I looked at him. "Holy fuck," he said. "Holy fuck," I agreed. "Shit!" He didn't stay on me long. When he stood up, I lay on my stomach on the mattress and took his still-hard cock in my mouth, cleaning off the rest of the sperm that was lingering there. His back slammed against the cubicle door. He rested there for long minutes while I nursed at his dick, enjoying the way it filled my mouth. Like most big men, he was actually much bigger than he appeared. I felt guilty for thinking of him as stubby and short, when it was obvious that he had a good seven inches on him. When I pulled off his dick, finally, he pushed me back and ran his hand through my steam-wet, long hair. “I didn’t expect to come here and rob the cradle today,” he said, pulling my face against his extended, rotund belly in a way that made my dick sit up and take notice. “You don’t mind being with an older guy? How old are you, son? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?” I might’ve thought he was teasing, or attempting to flatter me, but his tone was completely serious. I was flattered, though. Very flattered. Still, I snorted. “I’m forty-seven.” He seemed genuinely stunned. Once again he rattled the door in its frame as he leaned back against it. “Holy shit. Are you serious? I’m forty-eight. You look like, twenty years younger than me. Are you really that old?” I admitted I was, but that I certainly didn’t mind him calling me son. Blushing prettily, I opened the door for him and we stepped outside. The half-dozen men who’d been hanging around, listening to the fucking and waiting to see who eventually emerged, scattered into the darkness like rats. Usually at the baths I'm there for variety; I don't like to be pinned down to one guy, or feel as if I'm being monopolized. Likewise, I'm wary about taking up any guy's afternoon by keeping him in my company when he might want to be out and about, sampling other meat. With the bear, though, we formed a companionable partnership that afternoon. After we toweled off the sperm that seemed to be everywhere, we stuck together for a couple of more hours. While he showered, I filled out a slip of paper with my name and my email and phone number. We then made out and sucked each other in the shower room while guys drifted in and out. I let him piss on my head there, in front of a crowd of a half-dozen, and then let him soap me up and lather me clean under the running shower head. He invited me back to his larger room, where we talked for a while, and made out, and fucked again. He placed me on my stomach and gave me an amazing and skilled deep-tissue massage that left me (literally, and embarrassingly) drooling. And more importantly, we made some tentative plans to connect again when he gets back from a business trip. Ah, the bears. Usually they tend to ignore me, like I said. But when I trap one, I'm a very happy man. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Has anyone else noticed a little more crazy in their life, this week? Ordinarily I'm not a superstitious man. When an acquaintance blames an abundance of weird behavior on the full moon, I'm the first to give a bland smile and privately roll my eyes—mostly because half the time people say those kinds of things, it's not a full moon. It's a week to the full moon, or a couple of weeks past the full moon. And people, that really doesn't count. The lunacy at home late this week seemed to wax as the super perigee moon approached its height, Saturday. Most the clients viewing my house veered way off their appointments and arrived either an hour late or early. I started getting a lot of bill collection calls . . . for someone named Shawna. My friends have been acting erratic. I was offered a chance to be on reality TV—and no, I didn't take it. Then Saturday night, when I was trying to rustle up some action, I had all kinds of weird refusals and flakiness. I was told no less than five times that I was 'too big' to take—words I hadn't heard in a dog's age. I had a half dozen guys vaporize into the electronic ether the moment I suggested they come over for some fun. In the end, I did enjoy myself (in the moonlight, no less), but man. It was a struggle. How about you guys? Any ill effects from the moon's monthly roundness? As usual, I'll be taking today to round up some questions from formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask, either use the mini-form down in my sidebar, or bop on over to the website and query away. I'll answer just about anything that doesn't push my boundaries, or isn't overtly rude. Do you like the taste and texture of semen? Absolutely. The vast majority of the time, the stuff is amazing to swallow. I eat my own, too. Sometimes, however, particular guys will have a quality to their loads that is almost corrosive in my mouth; it'll feel as if it's slowly eating away at my tongue and cheeks. Usually it's pretty pungent, too. That is stuff of which I'm not at all fond, and which I tend either to choke on or spit out. Luckily, I don't run across them very often. is der a difference in sensation between vaginal sex vs anal sex? There is, and a lot of it has to do with the external pressure within the channel. They're both pleasurable in their own way, however. Are you in CT yet? Nope. Don't rub it in. Do you sext? If so, what's the dirtiest text you ever sent someone? No, I don't sext as a rule. Guys will text me for hookups, but I don't engage in sexual foreplay talk on my cell phone, any more than I'll cybersex with someone. (Which is something else I don't do.) I love bottoming. But I also enjoy topping. However I have trouble cumming without jacking off when I top. Thus making it impossible to finish inside my bottoms. I don't know if its performance anxiety or what. Any suggestions? First off, there's no rule stating that you have to finish inside your bottom, when you're topping. I know, that might seem pretty obvious, but in this porn-saturated world, it may not be. You've probably seen a lot of porn flicks with hard-bodied tops and bottoms who fuck and fuck and always manage to shoot on cue, simultaneously, with the top giving the bottom a hefty load. You don't have to do that. If you're having difficulty getting off simply by fucking, it's okay to pull out and jack off to a proper finish. If you're worried about your partner thinking less of you (if he's a good guy, he should just be happy that you're getting off!), make it a show for him. Or when you shoot, position your dick next to his hole and shove the cum inside, after. Your partner will like that just as much. If you've got a partner willing to experiment and you still want to try to shoot while fucking, switch positions. I tend to find it easier to shoot when the guy is on his knees or standing up, doggie style. Because of the vagaries of human anatomy, though, what might be a good general rule has its exceptions. I don't usually find it easy to shoot when a guy is on his back with his legs in the air, for example, though with Spencer, there's something about the way his hole works that I find it the easiest position in which to shoot in him. You shouldn't be anxious about how you shoot. There's no need. Just have fun with it. Did Earl ever let you tie him up and rape loads from him, such as in your own fantasy (8/14/10)? Because if he did you have to write about it for us pleeeease!!! No, he never submitted to bondage. He taught me how to take bondage and how to appreciate it as a bottom, but I've never known anyone who shared my fantasy. Damn it. Not a question, Mr. Steed. I have not forgotten your fantasy, and when you have relocated I vow to make it happen for you. There is nothing about it that does not appeal to me. Thanks, anonymous person. I'd really enjoy that. More than you can suspect. What is the first video game you remember playing? Pong. On an arcade console, in a Howard Johnson's. For realz. I'm old, y'all. As a writer, are you tempted to go on a book raid at one of the Detroit's abandoned libraries? No, but I have been tempted to salvage the beautiful bronze doors of the shuttered and closed public library in Highland Park. They are truly beautiful and amazing, and it's a shame they're now nailed under layers of plywood and obscured by grime and graffiti. face-to-face or doggy-style? feel free to list your favorite position to get you off I enjoy all the positions, even the weird ones. But when it comes to pounding away, I prefer a guy on his knees or stomach, taking it from behind. Some one made it sound like you had XTube vidoes. Do you? If so what's you id. If I might be so privileged to see them. My Xtube nickname is mrsteed64. Enjoy! Do you breed every man that you fuck? If so, how often do you get tested? I'm not really sure how these two questions are connected, to be honest. There really shouldn't be an 'if so' between them. The actual breeding—that is, the shooting of sperm into the hole—isn't what causes a top man to catch a sexually-transmitted disease. It's certainly one of the factors in what can cause the recipient to catch something, but not the other way around. The raw fucking itself is what would expose the top to an STD. If you'd asked if I barebacked every man I fuck, I would've answered yes. And the follow-up question would've been that I test every three months or so. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My first session with Mel happened on a dark night, when he managed to get away from his family at home to come to my house. I can't say I remember it as particularly exciting. I can't say, in fact, that I really remember it at all; I don't seem to have written about it anywhere. It wasn't bad, however. We made promises to do it again—promises that fell through. He was free mostly in the evenings. Back then, my availability was primarily in the daytime. Last week, though, he messaged me on BBRT when I was prowling around. He'd cleaned out hihs hole for another man who hadn't shown. Did I by any chance happen to be free? It was one of the evenings of the week on which I wasn't expecting Spencer to come by, so I urged Mel to hop in his car and come over. When he showed up, he was carrying a huge backpack. "Are you going mountain-climbing?" I asked with a single raised eyebrow. He laughed. "I never know what supplies the other guy might or might not have," he explained. "So I bring toys, lube, towels, leather gear, boots...." He paused to think. "Cock rings, wet wipes. Crisco." "I bet you were a Boy Scout," I said, at the exact same time he concluded, "What can I say? I was a Boy Scout." "The only thing I wanna climb tonight is that cock of yours," he said in a low voice, as he dropped the bag onto the floor. My arm slipped around his back, and our lips grazed. He kissed well. Not deeply, or with much pressure, but his kisses seemed sweet, as he leaned forward with closed eyes and applied each one with considered care. Then, without warning, his hand reached around my neck and pulled my head down to his, so we could indulge in the taste of each other more passionately. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested, after a minute or two. We took a few moments to remove our clothing in the dark bedroom. He had flung his backpack onto the floor when we entered; he took a moment to pull out a weathered white jockstrap and pull the elastic band over his meaty butt before he joined me on the bed. “Now, if memory serves me right,” he said as we kissed again, “I recall you really like to be ridden.” “Well yeah,” I said. There aren’t any positions I really don’t like, so long as they’re not throwing out my back or causing me to lose sensation in my legs or something along those lines. “Sure.” “All right then,” he chuckled to himself. He leaned over the side of the bed and produced a monster tub of a cream-based lubricant, which he liberally slathered over both my hard dick and his hole. “Let’s do it.” He positioned his hips over mine, where I lay on my back on the mattress. Facing away from me, he lowered himself down, one hand pulling an ass cheek to the side, the other gripping my shaft. I felt the head pop through the first ring of resistance, to be rewarded by a wet, warm channel that felt almost as if it were on fire; groaning, he lowered himself down onto the shaft. Mel was right. I like it when a guy rides me. The talented ones make me shoot that way. Most guys, however, simply let themselves rest on my pelvis and bounce up and down a little bit. It’s pleasurable, sure, but I walk away feeling as if I’m going to be sporting a giant, ass-shaped bruise with my dick at the very center. Once he got started, though, Mel took a very different approach. He leaned forward, lifted up his lips, and concentrated the very tightest portion of his hole on my dick’s top half. Whether he was on his knees or squatting on his feet I can’t remember, because I was overcome by such an intense pleasure that all I could really do was ball up the sheets in a tight grip and hang on for dear life. “Yeah,” he grunted, his voice sounding more like a pig at the trough than anything civilized. “That’s the dick I remember. Fuck, yeah.” “What the fuck are you . . . doing?” I managed to gasp out. I swear, in my thirty-five year sexual career, I’d never felt the like. It felt as if almost every other hole I’d had before had come at my dick clumsily and with brute force, while his had been the only one to approach it with a sexual precision that could be measured in microns. Over and over he drew his hole over the most sensitive portion of my dick, right below the flare of my mushroom head. It was crazy, how that attention made me feel. It was as if a much worthier opponent had thrown me flat onto my back with a single, long, pleasurable blow. After what felt like forever, in which electrical sparks danced through my body like out of the climax of some science fiction feature, I managed to lift my head and croak out, “Are you good down there?” I’d never known a guy who didn’t begin to give out after riding me for that length of time. “I can go as long as you need it,” Mel grunted. His own dick was hard and encaged in the jockstrap, but from his voice I could tell he was enjoying the fuck almost as much as I. I needed it. So I let him go. The fuck went on for a half hour or more, in which all I had to do was lie there, clutch the bedsheets or the bedposts, and let him do his work. After he’d made me twitch and gasp and cry out for long, long minutes, he at last began to offer me release. His motions grew broader. He engulfed more of my dick in his hole and took longer and deeper strokes; his hips moved with more vigor and purpose. I let out a terrible cry, and banged my head back so hard it cracked against the headboard. Whether the stars that I saw were from the blow or from my climax, I couldn’t tell. The orgasm overtook me with such force that I felt swept away, breathless and helpless to resist. I let the waves crest over my head, and the cold shock of it dragged me down and under. I drowned in it, breathless from bliss. My dick was tingling from the treatment all that night, and for a couple of days after. I’ve never had anything quite like it before. Three times we fucked that night—once in a more standard, doggy-style coupling, and once again with him gratefully riding me. When we were done, he turned me over onto my front, sat on my thighs with his jock-strapped bulge pressing against my butt, and gave me an hour-long gentle back massage while we talked. Athletic fucking and a back rub? Yes, please, and thank you. Like I said, bliss. For as much talking as we did until he finally gathered his backpack and left, it was surprising that the topic of our mutual acquaintance didn’t come up until he was heading out the door. Before he was gone completely, I said, “You know, considering on what rocky ground we were when I first talked to you. . . .” “Well,” he replied, nodding. He stroked his beard. “Sometimes it takes a lot of shit to grow a nice flower bed.” And that really about summed it up. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Sometimes, out of a barren patch of ground, life springs. Small at first, and scrubby blades of glass. Given enough time, though, even little flowers will eventually bloom. This time of year, with spring around the corner, it’s nice have a little hope. Which is my way of getting around to saying: I blocked a guy on a website and it led to one of the worst few months of my online life. But it also ended up with me getting some really good sex last week. Funny how that works, sometimes. I admit freely to being trigger-happy with my block buttons, sometimes. If a guy is rude me on Manhunt or Adam4Adam or somewhere, I’ll hit the button that hides him from view, permanently. If a guy dicks me around or is a no-show, he’s blocked. If he’s too persistent after I’ve gently turned him down, or if he shows any signs of insanity, I hit the button. I block because life is too short to have to put up with incivility and weirdness on the internet; I block because even when I say no, some guys don’t know when to stop wheedling. At any given moment, my list of blocked men is three times the length of my list of friends. A couple of months before I originally started this journal, a guy from Adam4Adam contacted me. He thought I was hot and wanted to get together. What did I think? I checked his photos, which were of a furry older guy—decent shape, for a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Sure, I told him. If we could work out a time, I’d be happy to hook up with him at some point. What followed was about two weeks of constant harassment. I’d log onto the site to check my mail and within seconds I’d have three or four letters from him. Are you looking for NOW?, they’d say. I am looking for NOW. Are you MAN enough to meet??? At first I’d reply to say, no thanks, I’m not available now. Then, after a week of the importuning every damn time I logged on, I explained patiently that usually I preferred to set a date in advance, and that only very rarely was I looking for an instant hookup. When the Can you do it NOW?! letters kept coming, however, I began to ignore them completely. The problem was that if I ignored him on Adam4Adam, I’d get emails from him on Manhunt. Maybe you didn’t see my message on A4A but are you looking for NOW? Or BBRT. I messaged you on A4A and Manhunt but I am looking for NOW or are you playing games with me?! So I blocked him. On every site. That should’ve been an end to it, but instead he created a second profile on Adam4Adam so he could ask me why I had blocked him. I blocked that profile. He created a third profile to shriek at me that I was a game player and he was going to make sure the world knew what a vile human being I was. I wrote back a final message saying, quite calmly, that I’d asked him not to nag me for ‘now’ every time I logged on, and since he had proved incapable of it, I didn’t intend to talk to him any more. And I never did. However, what followed made for a miserable few months. I started receiving messages online from people I didn’t know asking things like, Dude, what did you do to ______? When I checked the harasser’s profile, I saw that he’d posted a little rant using my screen name saying that I was a game player and an evil son of a bitch. Well. I contacted the site’s help desk, and reported it as harassment. Apparently they sent him a letter of warning or something, because within a day his profile had been amended so that my profile name was no longer in it. Instead, there was a long rant in all capital letters about how some people on the site were evil and needed to be stopped because they were obviously crazy and out to get everyone in trouble. For a month I had to do this shit. He’d start a profile, use it to rant about me, and then I’d report it to the site administrators. He’d get a warning, and then he’d write another screed about crazy freaks who were out to harass him. Things came to a head when I made a trip to visit my dad in Virginia. I changed my Adam4Adam profile to reflect my new location. I woke up in my old twin bed the next morning with a mail account stuffed full of messages from Richmond guys. I hear you’re a game player, they’d typically read. I’m not down with game players, so don’t contact me while you're here. Or, I heard you were bad news but you sure have a great cock. Are they even your photos? I didn’t have to wonder for long why the sudden spate of mails, because down in my box was a message from the freak himself. The message said that he was writing all the men of my dad’s hometown to inform them that a game player had come to town, and that under any circumstances they were not to meet me, because I would agree to hook up with them and then block them, just for fun. Furthermore, he had heard from a reputable source that my photos were not of me, and that I was lying about my age and my weight, which he had heard was considerably above two hundred pounds. He finished with a flourish in all capital letters that warned people to keep away from me or suffer! Yes, in his zeal to send out the word about me to everyone with an Adam4Adam profile in Richmond, the dumb-ass sent his mass email to me, too. The letter was written in a mixture of capitalized words and multiple exclamation points common to the crazy and the schizophrenic. I very calmly forwarded it to the Adam4Adam people and requested they do something about it once and for all. They very kindly deleted all the guy’s profiles, and banned him from the site for what turned out to be several months. You’d think it would’ve stopped there. But no. The guy lay low for a while. He removed any references to game-players from his descriptions. He stopped viewing my profile. It was a few weeks later, though, that I started getting messages from another guy on BBRT, a southern fellow named Mel with a genial face and a beard. He said that he was a friend of my harasser and that he had heard I lie about my HIV status. I wrote back a blast of an email that informed Mel that if his friend wanted to slapped with a slander suit he should by all means feel free to keep spreading that rumor. Mel immediately sensed he was in the middle of something bigger than himself; he had the good sense to realize, also, that he’d been used by his friend to try to get at me. Over the course of a few weeks our talks became more cordial. I stopped regarding him as an instrument of the devil. He conceded that his buddy had an issue with alcohol. It was a slow adjustment for the both of us, but once he allowed that his buddy had a bit of a problem, and once I stopped associating the hostility I had for my harasser with my much more neutral feelings for Mel, we actually started to become friends. And then, as friends on BBRT do, we had sex. More...