TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Every time I post a Reader Asses feature, I get a deluge of comments and emails and tweets, all saying, Post MY ass already! Gentle readers, fear not. Your asses will be plucked out of my mailbox and slammed up on my blog wall, where they'll be spread out for everyone on the internet to see. Pardon me while I wipe this perspiration off my brow. I got a little excited, writing that last paragraph. The Reader Asses feature, of course, is what happens when I demand my loyal fans send me photographs of their hindquarters, and they willingly and gratefully obey. I tell you: the world would be a much simpler and pleasant place if everyone listened to me. There'd be a lot less lube available, but everyone would be happier. I am still happily collecting asses for the feature. If you'd like to contribute to the project, please read my original post and follow the guidelines as set out within. And I swear—I'm posting the photos in the order in which I received them, more or less. If you haven't seen your butt up on my blog, don't worry. It's coming. So are several of my readers, I suspect, after this week's batch. E. When I said 'more or less', about posting images in the order I received them, this is where I meant 'less.' Faithful butt spotters may remember young Master E. from the Reader Asses #4 feature, in which he sported a vibrating dildo up his tender young hole. Master E. wanted me to know he was an underwear fetishist. When he sent in these juicy photos to prove it, well. I thought I owed it to my followers to share the new photos of an old favorite. The kid is beautiful, I think you guys will agree. NovaStorm Regular commenter NovaStorm shared this photograph of himself posing in his favorite position. All right, posing in my favorite position. That is one fine rump he's got—and I love the shot of the balls, swinging freely below. Great work there, NovaStorm. Duane [/url] Faithful reader Duane has sent in three photos that tell a story of sorts. The oldest story of all. First we see him being fucked, then we see the load dripping out of his hole, and then we see his sexy body laying back, enjoying the fruits of good sex. Duane's a hot one—and I know nothing about him save that he's got a sexy, furry butt and a body built for fucking. Sometimes knowing that is enough. TomRyan Know what I love about TomRyan's butt? Well, quite a few things. For one thing, it's round and full; it's the kind of ass into which I could bury my face and never come up for air. I like his trim waist and big balls, swinging between his legs. I like that little flip of hair we see peeking up over his shoulder. But mostly I love that furry, inviting cleft. Your photo gives me wood, Tom. Tom is a loyal reader who says my blog has made him laugh, cry, and get horny. I'd say we've already run the gamut together, buddy. Let's consummate the deal. BritBoy My reader BritBoy wrote me a nice email in which he said that he was from Merrie Olde England, and that he liked to read my blog after waking up, with his morning tea. I had a picture of a quaint British gentleman in his pajamas and dressing gown, and then he slammed me with these photos: Holy fuck, BritBoy. You can't DO that to a guy. Now I'm going to have to make that trip to the UK, just so I can get a shot at that incredible ass. Are you a porn model? You really ought to be. That first photo alone is going to make many of my fetishist readers very, very happy pups. Thank you to this week's asses! Of course, all of this week's reader asses are pretty fantastic in their own ways. Let's give each and every one of them a round of applause for exposing themselves like this. And remember: Send me your asses! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here On a street of crowded bungalows, his stands out. Every other address on this street is enumerated with the same cheap brass numbers from the local hardware store. The numbers by his front door are of hammered black metal in an arts and crafts style, special-ordered to match a sleek black door lamp of the same material. His deep front porch is covered with Adirondack chairs and period lanterns, his front windows illuminated by stained glass, instead of the blue-white glow of a flat-screen TV. I park in the front, remove my coat before I lock up the car, and jog up the driveway. The entrance to his back yard lies behind a trellis in a vaguely Chinese style. I pull open the latch, slip in, and take the stairs up to his deck, and then the door that leads into his kitchen. I wipe my feet on the mat of cut pebbles within the door. The basement stairs are to my right. I follow them down, into the depths of the cellar where the only light is coming from a window in the laundry room. My destination is across from the bottom of the stairs, however. Two ovals are cut into the door of an old fruit cellar there, both slightly below waist-high. I see a hand beckoning me forward. I step up to the larger of the two holes, unzip, pull down my shorts and push down my jeans to my knees before I ease my semi-hard meat into the darkness beyond. He takes over from there. I’d told him in our messaging that I find it difficult to come from a blow job. It’s sad, but it’s true. In a public sex situation like a bookstore or restroom I generally have no problem. One on one, even in a private gloryhole situation like this guy’s got, I find myself over-thinking the experience. I like it. I like the sensation of his wet mouth on my meat, of his lips pursing forward as far as they can to take it to the root. I love the light sensation of his teeth sliding across the shaft as he slurps, making me grow rigid in the dark recesses of his throat. I can’t get enough of that. But this is where I run into problems: most cocksuckers expect me to deliver, and to deliver quickly. They want the load as fast as they can get it, and I’m not exactly wired like that. My dick responds to ass, yes. It swells and pulses inside the tightness of a wet hole in a way it never can inside a mouth, no matter how delicious the feelings. With an ass, I usually have the option of varying the angle or the position if it’s not working for me. I get to speed up if I need, and to repeat the sensations that make me tingle. With a mouth, I’m at the cocksucker’s mercy. If he’s good, I’ll enjoy myself. If he’s not, I’ll start to feel self-conscious. I’ll worry about the guy’s jaw, and wonder how he’s holding out. I’ll fret about him thinking me a jerk for holding out on him. If he gets really impatient and starts whacking at my dick as if it’s a pound of insensate meat, that’s usually my cue to say something polite and leave. I’ve told all this to the guy, this unseen face on the other side of the gloryhole. The reason he convinced me to come over? Because he wrote, in all sincerity, If you cum, that’s cool. If you don’t, that’s cool too. I just want to suck that hot dick. And suck it he does, all the way down. He plays with my balls roughly, grabbing them in his hands and tugging at them as he slurps his way up and down my shaft. My hands reach down and encircle my balls as he sucks. With my fingers I can feel a fine stubble on his jaw; he has a goatee of some sort, and a narrow, pronounced chin. I can feel his fist around my inches, but he’s not bruising it, or yanking the skin off. He’s just squeezing it to nurse out the squirts of pre-cum I produce so liberally. I can hear him hungrily enjoying every drop. At the top of the wooden wall he’s screwed in two antique door handles. I grab onto them and thrust my hips hard against the wood. I’m not going to shoot, I realize. He’s going to be disappointed, no matter how polite he was about it. But still, his mouth feels good, so I’ll let him suck for a few more minutes. Then he reaches out through the hole. His fingers tickle the area behind my balls, then snake their way to my hole. I can feel the underside of his forearm providing a shelf of support for my balls, my taint. His finger only tickles lightly outside my asshole, but it’s a new sensation that makes me groan aloud. I grab onto the handles at the top of the wall for dear life. I’m not going to shoot, my mind repeats, over and over. My body’s responding differently, however. It’s shaking hard, up and down, fast as a jackhammer, while the stranger’s hand still toys with my hole. Even as my brain denies it, my orgasm arrives. It’s relentless, and hard, and feels less like a flush of pleasure than a cauldron of molten lead coursing from my veins. My body can’t stop shaking. Even after I’ve released all the sperm I’m going to produce, and he’s withdrawn to leave my dick full and hanging just outside the hole, I’m still shuddering and twitching and trying to collect myself. I fasten my jeans, and twist my baseball cap back around so the brim’s in the front. It’s not until I’m outside, and refreshed by the cold blast of winter air that my hands stop shaking enough to allow me to zip up my sweatshirt. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A couple of years ago I got a message on Manhunt from a guy who (surprise!) wanted me to fuck him. I remember it was one of those nights on which I’d been searching online for some time, and only when I was about to call it a night and hit the sheets did I get the guy’s email asking if I was looking. I was, I told the guy, but I think I’d better get to be bed at this point. You’re in my zip code, he told me. We can’t be far. My boyfriend’s away for the night. Come bang me hard. I asked the guy his closest major cross-streets, and was a little surprised when they turned out to be mine. Through mail on the site we danced back and forth a little, until we at last determined that the guy couldn’t really live any closer—on the street behind mine, in fact. My heart did a little palpitation there for a moment when I learned that fact, since I hoped and hoped it was the back-yard neighbor on whom I had the crush, before he moved. But no, this guy wasn’t quite that close. He lived on the other side of the street to my north. It was at about a quarter to midnight that I found myself pulling on some shoes and a jacket and jogging out into the cold past the four houses it takes to get to the cross-street, over a short block, and then up another three houses to the address the guy had given me. His front door was unlocked. I slipped inside the bungalow and found him upstairs, as he’d promised, sprawled on his bed in a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs. He hadn’t had anything beyond a murky chest photo in his Manhunt profile, but I’d overlooked that because of his proximity. He was a stocky guy, built well but definitely on the husky side, with a nice, full round butt. The house was expensively furnished. I remember being more preoccupied by the details of his bedroom—the framed photography, the recessed lighting illuminating the glazed pottery, the neat rows of expensive designer shoes on a rack in his California Closet. The fuck itself was fairly good. Not spectacular. Not so memorable that I found myself begging for more. But decent. I left him dripping with a load, pulled my meat back into my pants, and jogged back home. It was about three weeks later that I got another message on Manhunt. Hey neighbor, it began. I recognized neither the screen name nor the again-murky chest photograph. Want to come over? My boyfriend’s in Chicago. Oh, I realized, after some confusion. It was the guy from the next street over. With a different screen name and profile. Well, okay. The previous fuck had been nothing sensational, but I was horny and he was close. I told the guy I’d be over in a couple of minutes. He told me that great, he’d be upstairs in bed waiting. Once more I grabbed a coat and some shoes and slipped into a cock ring and ran out into the cold night to the guy’s house. I slipped inside, padded up their carpeted stairs, and took off my coat and pants when I reached the bedroom. This time, there was a figure between the sheets, his head resting on a pillow, as if he were asleep. I pulled off my T-shirt and slid in beneath the blankets next to the warm body, where I pressed my hard dick against. . . . . . . someone completely different from whom I expected. Though the man in the bed was of roughly the same build as the first neighbor I’d fucked, he was a little narrower and younger. Plus his hair was a light brown instead of black. The guy must’ve seen the confusion on my face. “You fucked my boyfriend a couple of weeks back,” he said. “Now I want some.” “Well, you might have told me,” was my entirely legitimate response. “C’mon,” he wheedled. He planted a kiss on my neck, which is my weak spot. “I’m better than he is.” I couldn’t really pinpoint the source of my mild outrage. The whole setup seemed like some kind of fishy bait-and-switch, though I couldn’t say that the boyfriend was a dud, by any means. He was downright cute, in fact—and more attentive, as he went down on me. “Well, all right,” I graciously conceded, as I lay back and started to enjoy the head he gave me. “Just this once.” The sex, I am happy to report, was good. It was about a month after that I heard from the first guy, the one I’d originally met. Again, it was late at night. My bf told me you gave him a good pounding, he wrote. Let me remind you what I can do. I didn’t say no. I kind of took a perverse pleasure in fucking both men for the rest of the winter and spring. The only time they’d contact me was late at night if I happened to be on and the other of them happened to be away on a business trip, or tending to the cottage they kept across the state. The weird and unexpected thing that happened over the course of time was that both of them got increasingly sluttier. The first guy, who’d been relatively restrained when I’d met him, loosened up and got more and more verbal every time I fucked him; the second one wanted me to teach him how to be pissed on, and took some preliminary fisting work. At the end of any session with either of them, though, they’d ask the same question: “Which one of us is a better fuck?” “You are, baby,” I’d say, regardless of who asked it. Because any answer that started with “Well . . . “ and ended with lots of pauses and consideration was not going to be well-received. I just knew. I stopped seeing the guys after about six or eight months. They sold their cottage because of the recession, and their respective places of work cut down on the travel time. It never seemed to occur to them to invite me over while they were both there; they only wanted me for themselves. Sunday afternoon, Spencer came over to spend the evening. I’d planned to make him a dinner of roast chicken over hummus and almond rice, but since the hummus (and most of a bag of blue corn chips) mysteriously disappeared while I was taking a shower, we had to make a quick trip to Trader Joe’s down the street. It’s only a few blocks, and the extra daylight was night, so we walked. And surely enough, although I’d not seen either of them in over a year and a half, who should be walking down their street and across the road that divided us, but my slutty neighbors. I saw them coming and knew we couldn’t avoid meeting. One of us would have had to turn around in our tracks and wheel back in the direction we’d come, for that to happen. They were walking a prissy little dog. I was walking . . . well, a six-foot-one long-legged dancer. I decided to bite the bullet, when they crossed the street and paused a dozen feet in front of us while their dog investigated a fence post. “Hey guys,” I called out. They turned and stared at me blankly. Only then did I realize that I could’ve gotten away with saying nothing. Neither one of them had recognized me outside of the context of their bedroom. What’s more, they seemed very surprised to see me with another man. “Hey,” they said. I watched as they silently put the puzzle pieces together, remembered who I was, and why I seemed so familiar. They looked at each other, and then at Spencer, who was also investigating the fence post. Unlike the dog, he wasn’t peeing on it. Just using it to stretch out his leg. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while,” I said, trying to sound friendly, but not to give away too much. “Hope all’s well.” We made a little bit of small talk about the neighborhood and the weather, but all their attention was focused on Spencer, who preoccupied himself in the polite way people do when their friends are talking to people they know. They both kept staring at him as if they were imagining me doing to him what I’d once done to them. At last we parted. Spencer and I walked on to Trader Joe’s—him blissfully unaware, me feeling slightly dirty. When I looked over my shoulder, I could see the pair of them watching us, and then pretending to each other they weren’t. “Friends of yours?” Spencer wanted to know. “It’s a long story,” I replied. Then, because I knew I’d get to hear him laugh, I shared it with him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I was a kid and Daylight Savings Time was only a small portion of the year—not the majority of it—I always enjoyed the night we'd set forward the clocks. Sure, it meant that the next day I'd arrive at church half-asleep, and that I'd spend roughly a week waking up for school in the dark and feeling like something one of our multiple cats had dragged in, but more importantly, it meant that I could stay outdoors in the sunlight an extra hour. And I loved the sweet, hot Virginia evenings in the summers, when the cicadas would provide a steady huzz, and the dry leaves on the trees would rustle in the breezes beneath a blue-purple sky. And when I could stay out late, ankled pinned to my ears, as guy after guy would pop his load into me where I lay on the local park picnic table. Sigh. Good times. Sadly, last night I was so out of that I didn't realize the time change was today until someone mentioned it, in the bar where I was socializing with friends. I can be so out of touch. I foresee a future for myself in which I am that one crabby old man on the street who hasn't heard a damned thing about the zombie apocalypse that has reduced civilization to rubble, and is standing on his front porch wondering why no one has delivered his paper in two weeks. I'm going to continue our Sunday tradition of rounding up questions I've answered on formspring.me, the service where my readers and friends ask anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) questions for me to answer. I always welcome thoughtful questions, and answer them in depth when they intrigue me—so knock yourselves out, guys. Ever had your dick rated, e.g. on sites like showyourdick.org...? If so, what was the outcome...? If not, would you...? the Dr. A very long time ago I took a dick photo specifically for one of those rating sites, just for the amusement factor. Within two days I had people I knew emailing me to ask, "Hey, are you in Seattle?" or "Hey, are you in Dallas?" because guys had taken my the photo I'd posted on that one site and used it in their personal ads on Craigslist or whatever was popular at the time. Then I had to spend a lot of effort trying to get some other guys to stop claiming it was them, on gay.com. I've had people steal my photos from other sites and use it as their own, but none were as rampant or blatant as that one site. Since then I've not ever felt the need to try it somewhere else. I'm fairly happy with how my dick looks; I know a lot of other guys like it as well. I'd rather be happy knowing that, than letting myself get down by a few haters who enjoy down-ranking photos. Have you ever had a desire to play with a family member? I've never really kep secret that my first sexual relationship was with a family member. Obviously the desire was there fairly early on. If I went poking around in your pantry, would I find anything that you would be embarassed to have me tweet to our friends that you have? Do you dare admit your secret and tell me what it is? please do, I'm dying to know!!! I don't have anything really embarrassing in my pantry. People are often mystified at why I have so many packages of bonito flakes in my cupboard, though. It's because the cats like them. Have you ever had sex with a little person? No, though I've wanted to with a few. I am a new reader and really enjoy you. A comment was made about your cock size at age 14. What size is it now? Hey, thanks. I'm glad you're enjoying the blog. I'm around eight inches long by about five and a half around. Larger than most, but not monster-proportioned. Just right, in fact. Oh hey man Your blog gets me off. My question is whether you would consider yourself to be living a "double life". I don't need details but I would appreciate whatever you have to say on the subject as somebody who is compartmentalizing at the moment. Actually, I consider myself to lead a very integrated life for the most part. My sexuality informs who I am; who I am shapes my sexuality. Where things get compartmentalized for me is in my blog. Although I keep a personal journal that chronicles a lot of different aspects of my life—my career, my home life, my sex life, and the inane things that pass through my head—what hits the blog is primarily the sex entries alone. It gives the blog a focus, but also leaves people with the impression that there's little to me beyond the sex I have. I assure you, that's far from the case. Just saw that you're in Michigan :/ Yes, I make that same emoticon when I think about living here, too. commando, jockstraps, thongs, bikinis, tangas, briefs, trunks, boxer-briefs, boxers, or long-johns? Of those, I tend to choose trunks and commando. Nair, Nads, pluck, razor shave, electric clipper, scissor & comb trim, machete, or jungle boogie bushman? Are we talking about pubes here? Because plucking sounds painful. I use an electric clipper to keep the bush trimmed low and the nuts smooth. So, we know you're amazing at telling the stories of your life, but I'm curious if there are any works of fiction authored by or fair blogger? Short stories? Maybe a Novel? TV Pilot? I'm a creative guy—through writing and other media. I'm very fortunate to have the ability to indulge my creative impulses on a professional level with a moderate degree of success. It's something that very few artists ever get to do. Do you like to eat breakfast food for dinner? If it's pancakes! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Earlier this week I participated in an interview with a graduate student in the UK. He's writing his dissertation on bareback culture, and bareback bloggers specifically. When he asked if I'd be willing to answer some of his questions, I was both intrigued and anxious to see where the dialogue might lead. Much of the conversation focused around the idea of community. Did I feel there was a genuine bareback community, he wanted to know? If so, what ideals did its members hold in common? I personally think any group that self-identifies as such is nominally a community, though I think even those communities organized around mutual interest (whether of barebackers, or lesbians, or housewives, or vacuum cleaner salesmen) are as diverse, supportive, argumentative, or fractious as the actual communities in which we all live. We did touch on a couple of topics that had me thinking well past the interview's end, however. While talking about the notion of bug chasing and gift giving, the much-publicized behaviors in which HIV-negative bottoms pursue HIV-positive tops, or vice versa, I brought up the opinion that while the taboo aspects of the forbidden act might make it a powerful fantasy for many, I didn't think in reality it was more than a niche phenomenon—but that more importantly, it was one of those flash points of culture that the gay community seized upon in order to divide itself. As a community—and I'm including bisexual men and women, as well as the gays and lesbians and the transgendered—we have a distinct tendency to divide ourselves up into Good Gays and Bad Gays. The dividing line and the criterion that draw it are different for everyone, but the end result is always that the speaker is inevitably one of the Good Gays, the people who are upright and moral and on the side of the righteous. Some unfortunate collection of individuals other than the speaker, on the other hand, is going straight to hell. For many in the so-called bareback community, for example, it may be that those who religiously practice sero-sorting when choosing their sex partners are on the side of the pure and true, while anyone who crosses the pos and neg streams is a fucking embarrassment. What these gentlemen might not remember, however, is that within the gay community itself, safe sex advocates think themselves the moral crusaders, while anyone who barebacks is regressing the entire gay movement a hundred years. There are other schisms. Every time Pride rolls around, I hear men and women bemoaning the necessity of Pride fairs and parades. Their refrain is always the same: Pride doesn’t accomplish anything but allow the local news to broadcast images of men in leather and shrieking queens prancing around in next to nothing. It's an embarrassment, they mourn. Such behavior only makes the straight population think we're all like that. And it’s not! It’s just the freaks! These men believe that what we should be doing, as a community, is blending in. Playing nice. Obscuring our difference, rather than celebrate it. We have the guys who worship the cult of masculinity—who cringe with embarrassment in the presence of whisper-thin twinks wearing dyed hair and jumping to Lady Gaga. Those fucking queers who drop purses from their mouths whenever they open them should be rounded up and dumped off the edge of a cliff, they'll say. Fucking mortifying, they are. Or drag queens—what's up with those freaks? Why should they have a place at the table, when there are so many other less scandalous souls waiting to be recognized for their worth? It's said, I think, when we automatically label ourselves as the normal, good people, and brand anyone not like us—or who revels in being something we most fear might be true about ourselves—as deviants. We all have our preferences, sure. I might not be attracted to men who eat poop, but as icky as I might find the act, I recognize that some enjoy it, and know that some of the things I enjoy might disturb them. I'm not personally attracted in a sexual way to cross-dressers of any sort, but I love my drag queen and cross-dressing sisters for pushing the envelope and always being on the forefront of the gay rights movement. You go, girls! Yes, I actually said that. I tend to be very careful about slapping a derogatory label on broad classes of people. The only Bad Gays in my eyes are the assholes, and those who go out of their way to act like dicks. I’m uneasy about calling other people shameful, or sociopaths, or abominations, because I know in so many ways I’m a freak myself. I think that when we're conscious about the ways in which we divide ourselves into the Good Gays and Bad Gays, and when we’re aware of how easily we can be seen to fall on the wrong side, we tend to be less likely to indulge in that kind of crap ourselves. So for this Friday's open forum, I'm throwing out the question—what schisms do you find in the gay community in your own life? You may have been on the receiving end of someone else branding you a Bad Gayl. Who lumped you into that category, and what were they overlooking about themselves that might have made the whole thing ironic? Or more bravely, where do you draw the line yourselves, when you designate your own categories of Bad Gays? These open forums are really fun for me, because I get to hear your opinions in topics rather than beat you over the head with my own. I'm anxious to discover your thoughts on the topic. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Spencer lets himself into my house at about eight at night, while I’m pulling plates from the dishwasher and storing them in their cupboards. He’s carrying a bag with his late dinner in one hand, and a small bag of laundry from the gym and studio in the other. He’s too burdened to offer me more than a quick kiss in passing as he steers himself in the direction of the dining room table. Once he’s free, he shimmies out of his coat and takes a look in the den. When he looks at the bundle of leopard-spotted fleece balled up in a corner of the sofa, he stops and instantly assesses the situation. His head tilts. He lets out a soft sigh, suspended somewhere between amusement and sympathy. “Your Snuggie is out,” he says. “Oh dear. It’s been that kind of day, has it?” It’s no secret that I’ve spent the last five months feeling lost. Like a small craft with a cut line, there are days I feel adrift with no course, no one at the tiller. Some days I approach my temporary bachelorhood with a sense of adventure and excitement. Others—well. All I want to do is hide beneath the comforting folds of my leopard-print Snuggie and wish the world would go away. (Shut up. I love my Snuggie.) “It might have been,” I admit. His shoulder slump as he looks at me. He wears the kind of expression that could make a man melt. What am I going to do with you? it reads. At the same time, it’s nothing but unalloyed affection, and the desire to make things better. He doesn’t have to ask me to explain myself. He doesn’t have to hear the words. He knows how I’m feeling, just at the sight of that hideous long-armed blanket monstrosity. When he steps forward in my direction, arms outstretched, I know it’s to give me comfort. He wraps me in hug so strong that I can’t breathe. I feel my spine stretch, and then my feet leave the floor. Spencer lifts all six feet and three inches of me into the air as easily as if I’m one of the tiny dancers with whom he shares the stage. I laugh and protest wildly, afraid I’ll break his back. When finally he sets me down, it’s gently, so that my feet don’t so much strike the ground as approach it, caress it, and lovingly press into it, as gravity once more gives me weight. “Turn around,” he says. He pushes me down over the kitchen counter. His hips connect with my ass. At the same time, his fingers surround my neck. Their tips dig into the muscle there, squeezing and releasing. They travel from neck to shoulders, to the round pads where my arms join. They dig beneath my shoulder blades and down my spine, teasing out and for the moment banishing the aches. “Oh, god,” I say, giving in to his hands. I love to be touched. I love it more than fucking, sometimes. “You don’t have to—” But he shushes me, and continues. Beneath his breath I hear the faintest of hums as he strokes and squeezes my back, soothing me with his talented, strong hands. It’s a rare treat that continues later in the evening. When he joins me in bed, moist and warm from the shower, he spoons behind me. His public hairs tickle against my ass as gently he forces me to hug my pillow, and his fingers roam over my bare skin. In the darkness he silently performs his skillful ministrations, kneading at me, relaxing me in a way that few men ever try. It lasts for long, blissful moments as the both of us drowsily fall toward our slumbers, with the slow and lazy arc of a last autumn leaf descending from an empty branch. The last glimpse I have of that night is of the night sky through my open window—not of the limbs of the tree overhanging it, or of the power lines, or of the other rooftops on my quiet street. But of the stars in the indigo sky. Stars upon stars, arrayed as if just for the two of us. I wish this sensation, this fading kitten’s-paw touch at the base of my spine as his breath deepens and he sleeps at last, could be as infinite as their numbers. When we’re in the darkness together, Spencer and I, I feel like we’re two lost boys in the wood, with leaves as our blanket and only our two bodies for warmth. On the nights he spends here, we fall asleep clinging to each other. He comforts me. He gives me an anchor when I’m adrift in the darkness, a place to moor myself, for a time. What do I give him? Some nights, it’s tough to imagine. It's not enough. But he’s here. For his hand on my waist, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft breath on my neck, this lost boy is grateful. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I am up to my elbows in ass. Okay, sometimes I mean that literally. Tonight, however, I'm talking metaphorically. Thanks to my original call for photographs of your backsides, I've received so many of my readers' asses in my mailbox that it's almost overflowing with juicy, round, full, rimmable, fuckable ass. By all means, don't stop sending in those photos. I'll keep posting them as long as long as I keep receiving them! Let's see what we've got to display, this week. Be sure to thank this week's participants in the comments! Boiboi21 There's something about the basic, all-American jeans drop, isn't there? It's reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA album cover, crossed with the back half of Michelangelo's David. And Boiboi21 here has the perfect specimen, don't we agree? Playpigtop August members of this week's ass safari, I must ask you to lower your voices as we round this next corner. We have a rare sighting of a top man bending over and showing what lies between his cheeks. Shush, for the slightest noise may send him scampering back into the forests from whence he came. Aw, who'm I kidding? I see tops showing off their asses in photos all the time. Of course, by the time they send me those photos, they're usually not looking to be tops any more. Playpigtop, thanks for sharing your hole with us all! SirLancealot In days of yore, knights of olde would . . . hrm, no. Get a load of HIS round table . . . no, let's not do that one. How'd you like to plunge your sword between them sto . . . eh. Just stare at SirLancealot's beautiful ass so I can skip the cheesy Arthurian puns, would ya? Ian Ian is 29 and hails from Northern Ireland. He was very specific about the fact that as an unschooled American, I am misspelling the very British arse as ass. It sounds much dirtier as arse, doesn't it? However it's spelt, Ian sports a nice one. I love that ridge of fur running down its length. Thanks for the arse, Ian! Sleazy Jake I know, with a name like 'Sleazy Jake,' how can the ass be anything other than spectacular? Jake lives up to all expectation, too. He wanted me to share with the world how sleazy he is, and how much he craves sperm deep in his guts. Um, I'm packing my cock rings and my bag, Jake. See you in a few hours. If you'd like to see more of Jake's photos, they're available online. I know I've spent many a pleasant moment looking at them already. Thanks to all this week's participants! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Over the weekend an old student of mine invited me to attend an event of his in Ann Arbor, that city of university students and the aging hippies who are still trying to hang onto their student days. The student—let’s call him James—had been in a college workshop of mine four or five years ago. He’d been in his late teens at the time. I remember him mostly as an impossibly skinny kid who was basically a bundle of sticks wearing the same denim button-down shirt week after week, with a belt barely holding his gray pants. I remember the denim shirt well, because he usually wore it unbuttoned about halfway down. When in the classes he’d lean over to read, or screw himself sideways in his seat to think as he chewed on his pen, I’d catch glimpses of his tiny, hair-fringed nipples, clinging to the perfectly smooth skin stretched taut over his ribcage. James had a white-boy Afro of curly blond hair that probably weighed more than all the rest of him. It seemed his one point of vanity. He didn’t mind wearing the same clothes week after week (they were always clean, to his credit), but he seemed enormously proud of his hair. He kept a pick in his back pocket; at random points throughout the class, usually when someone else was presenting a project and talking about it, he would absently rummage for the plastic device, run it through his hair, and then give his head a pat-down. I don’t even think he knew what he was doing. Every time I teach, I have certain students—male and female—who become fascinated with me. I think most teachers at and above a certain level would report the same. The young women have a tendency to hang around after workshops as I try to abandon the classroom and detain me with high-minded talk about theory and asking me for reading recommendations. The boldest of them will on occasion will tell me there’s an exhibit at the Institute of the Arts she’s been itching to see, and hint furiously that if I had any interest in going, well. . . . The boys are much more direct. James was one of those. While visiting me during office hours, he’d lounge in the doorway clutching an armful of books in a way that didn’t inhibit his shirt from falling open to the nipples, and shoot out rapid-fire questions. Did I have a long commute home? Oh really? How long? Where did I live? Oh really? He went there all the time. He’d just had dinner with his friends at a Mexican restaurant in the downtown area of my little town, and then went to a bar afterward. I wasn’t much surprised when the bar he named was the area’s most popular gay bar. These boys think they’re being so slick and casual, but if they knew how many of their peers through the years have used the exact same approach . . . well, there truly is nothing new under the sun. “I’ve heard that’s a nice place,” I told him, neither rolling my eyes nor letting it register that I realized the significance of what he was trying to tell me. The poor kid left that day with his imagination raging and his boner unsatisfied. I’m such a bastard. In class he was just as relentless. All my participants in that workshop were constantly presenting their work to the rest of the students. When James’ turn came, I knew right from the first sentence he spoke what was coming. I was right, too—his first piece was of such rich obscenity that I could see the hairs curling all around the classroom. It was not only profoundly sexual and explicit in detail, but managed to throw in references to bondage and leather, as well as gay imagery that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Tom of Finland retrospective. Now. It wasn’t particularly good. A lot of it was sex for the sake of shock; a lot of students, particularly in college, think that writing frankly about sex is a shortcut from the kiddie to the adult table. An awful lot of it, though, is the artistic equivalent of a third-grader on a dare running into a roomful of adults and yelling, at the top of his voice, “FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK!” It might be designed to shock, but art it’s not. So at the end of this homoerotic piece—which was most subtly about a student being raped, bound, and left gasping and covered in various bodily fluids by an older male professor—I put on my blank artist’s face, managed not to smirk, and gave him a frank and impassive critique. Oh, I did a good job of pretending to be Captain Oblivious. It felt a little cruel to give a vigorous assessment of what was essentially a Valentine to me, but I did what I had to do. At the end of the workshop, a girl who was James’s friend at the time managed to sum up how I saw the situation pretty well when I overheard her saying to him, as they walked out together, “Good Jesus Christ, why don’t you two just get a room?” Poor James. He had some talent, but it really only showed up after that day, when I gently made him stuff his dick back into his pants. When he invited me to his event via Facebook last week, though, I was curious enough to drive out to Ann Arbor to see how he’d progressed. The event took place in a gallery near the city’s downtown, a well-lit white box trying to give off a Chelsea bouquet on a Two-Buck Chuck budget. I slipped in very late, right before the proceedings began. I’d been hoping to remain incognito. Those hopes were dashed, though, when a young guy waved furiously at me from the second row while the first artist was presenting her work. It was James, of course. I almost didn’t recognize him. Gone was the outrageous head of hair—completely shaved, that mane was. He’d left nothing but a very thin layer of stubble on his head that was a golden gleam in the late-afternoon winter sunlight from outside. Throughout the afternoon, I watched as he ran the palms of his hands over it. Friends still make fun of me because of an incident years ago, after a concert in which one of my buddies was involved. It had been a terrible, excruciating concert during which the audience disappeared during intermission to fortify ourselves with shots from the bar next door—no lie. After the last deafness-inducing song had faded, my friend came bouncing up to a bunch of us, eagerly wanting to know what we’d thought. The people I’d come with all lied prettily. Then it was my turn. My friend looked at me with expectation. “You know what?” I asked, a big smile on my face. Then I told him, quite truthfully, “That is one nice shirt you’ve got on!” Nice shirt! has been something of a catchphrase in my circle, ever since. And while most of the artists would get a nice shirt! from me, James’s work wasn’t half-bad. He’s not fully baked yet, as an artist. He’s still working on figuring out who he is. If he keeps at it, though, he’ll get there. When James bounced up after the last applause had faded, all golden energy and still as skinny as a couple of chopsticks in Gap clothing, I gave him a hug and immediately told him his strong points, then congratulated him on how far he’d come. So much for making a quick getaway. He practically lapped me up with his puppy-dog eyes, then bounced up and down and told me how glad he was that I’d come. Then he plucked someone out of the nearby crowd by the shoulders and pushed his companion squarely in front of me. “This is my boyfriend!” he gushed. “And this is my old teacher,” he told the boyfriend, while I tried to pretend that he meant an instructor from my not-too-distant past, not my doddering and aged professor. “Nice to meet you,” I said pleasantly to the boyfriend, who was a young Latin man of twenty-four or twenty-five, dark-haired, wearing a tasseled scarf indoors, and midwestern enough to think a fauxhawk is still the shit. The boyfriend narrowed his eyes at me, allowed me to shake his dead-fish hand, and icily intoned, “Oh, this is him?” He then gave me the once-over, taking in my jeans, my sneakers, my T-shirt, and my sweater. He seemed to find me wanting. “I’ve heard about you.” “All good stuff,” James hastened to say. Then, almost like a rebuff, to his boyfriend he added, “It was all good stuff.” “Oh yes,” declared the boyfriend. He crossed his arms, then jutted out his hips to the side. They were as sharp as a switchblade. “Of course it was good.” There was certainly something in the boyfriend’s tone that left me unsettled. He said the words almost as if I were some rival for his affections. Or as if James forced him to roleplay Reluctant Student Raped By Professor Breeder, when their apartment door was shut. “You must be proud of James,” I said. “Hmmfph.” The boyfriend narrowed his eyes at me a little more, then gave James a long and ostentatious kiss that involved more tongue than really necessary. Then, with a glance of triumph my way, he flounced off in the direction of the wine being handed out in plastic cups. I managed to disappear quickly only because James was waylaid by some other admirers, but I left Ann Arbor feeling both amused and curious. Amused, because clearly the boyfriend thought I was some kind of opponent I really wasn’t. Curious, because I wanted to know how he’d gotten that way. Did James begin too many sentences with, “I really hope my old teacher comes!”? Was I the topic of a late-night conversation? I used to have this old teacher I really had the hots for, but it never went anywhere. There’s a whole story there that I’ll never be told. But sometimes life is a little richer from the wondering. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Frequent commenter and previous contribute FelchingPisser, you might recall, is the good and infrequent kind of friend who invites me to just about all his gang-bangs. But he's a smart, educated, and well-read guy whom I know on a different, less sexual level as well. Which is one of the reasons I've been letting him contribute to my blog from time to time—he's that perfect combination of sweaty sex pig, articulate intellectual (sorry, FelchingPisser, but I've blown your cover), and all-around nasty hot guy. Today he's writing about one of his favorite Chicago watering holes . . . in more than one sense of the term. Let him know in the comments how much you appreciate his contributions! I know I do. FelchingPisser writes: <blockquote>When I wrote about MAL, I really only lived up to half of my chosen moniker: I got to felch a lot, but I only delivered one load of piss. This story will equalize things a little…but first, a word about piss play… Piss play, for me, is all about one more hot liquid coming out of a cock. But it’s piss, not urine. Most guys I know, want a clear, hot stream. This, at least with my body, means starting to ingest fluids a good two hours before play. Juice or a sports drink first. Then more water than you would ever think. (I only like beer once it’s recycled…) And I constantly recharge during play. I want to be able to piss every 15 minutes or so for long stretches and with minimal uric acid left in the tract. It seems to me there are as many different ways guys are attracted to piss as there are guys. Some want to drink from the tap—that feel of a never ending cum shot gets me terrifically hard (watch Dawson’s penis as he drinks from Brad Maguire in Meat Rack.) Many guys want to be covered—the piss dripping from their hairy pecs or ass cracks. Some at the party want to be covered, clothes and all—that hot liquid making the underwear cling to their erection is a huge turn-on. (Once a guy wore the rental tux from his brother’s wedding!!) Some want to wallow--several pigs always stay in the inflatable pool where guys who aren’t playing at the moment just come over to relieve themselves. Some want it used for humiliation. Most just love a hot liquid pouring over their body. A few boys want piss up their ass—once again, like a huge cum shot, filling them and raising the temperature of the canal. And for that, they almost universally come to me. I can piss hard and keep right on fucking… So— I am parking my car on the street behind the bar in Chicago. And I have to piss. I mean REALLY piss. Shit. I angle in, not feeling very close to the curb with all the snow around. There is no one on the street. I unzip my military flight suit which covers my attire for the party. I haul out my cock, reach for my travel mug and piss a long steady stream. Damn, it’s gonna overflow. I will myself to stop, chug most of the mugs contents and let fly with the rest. Damn, I can still taste the sweetness from the Gator-Aid. Some boys are gonna love this…. I walk down the side streets and into the bar. The outer bar is dim, with only a few men at the bar. I check my winter coat. I’m in combat boots and the flight suit. It bulges bigger than George W. Bush’s photo op…The guys look at me. One, headed to the same place I am, smirks, gets up and starts for the back bar. There is already a line—no one wants to miss a drop. At 5 o’clock we pay our $25 members fee (which covers all our drinks and the cleanup) and head into the back bar. It’s all ours for the next 4 hours. I strip down in one fast motion and stuff the suit into my gym bag. I am now in my yellow jock, a left leather wrist band (as if they didn’t know I was a top), and a braided black and yellow one for my right wrist…’cuz with most anything related to piss I’m versatile. My cock ring is beginning to show some rust… I check my bag, refill my water container at the bar and I’m ready. I sit on a ledge behind a high wooden screen that separates us from the bar. A TV is playing a Dick Wadd video relentlessly. I drink deep and eye the men undressing. The first person I see, bent over, stripping off his jeans is this former model from somewhere south of the Rio Grande. He is hot now in his 40’s and must have been jaw droppingly gorgeous in his youth. He is there with his Master to get every drop of piss he can and to be used as a total pig. The Master and I have a standing agreement that I can do anything I want during the parties to Nick, his boi. Nick stows their gear, makes a beeline for me, giving me a hug. “Please, Sir, may I suck your cock?” I nod and he is on his knees. He inhales the jock—feeling and smelling the wetness from the remains of the car piss and makes a contented grunt. He mouths the jock until it is sopping. And only then removes my hardening cock from the confines of the material. With a swift gulp, I am lodged tight in his throat. It’s my turn to sigh. He’s one of the best…I tilt his face up slightly to look me in the eyes. My voice is low and intimate: “Do you want my piss, boy?” He can barely make a sound. But I know. I let fly with a huge piss load. He backs off a little so he can feel it run over his tongue. He does not miss a drop. I finally have to stop him suckling my cock after it’s dry. I pull him up and we kiss deeply. He whimpers again and looks over my shoulder at his Master who has watched it all, stroking his own thick cock. I send him on his way with instructions to find me any time he takes a cum load in his ass. We will meet countless times over the next few hours… The crowd is now about 50 to 60 guys all drinking, lounging, talking, sucking cock, pissing on or in each other, and, behind the screen, having a little more intense sex. I greet a tall, thin guy about my age who likes to have guys hose him down. He kneels near me. A couple of other regulars move in. A hot bear starts to piss—aiming at the pecs of the guys on his knees. As one stream ends, the next begins—this from a young man dressed in a jock and waders. He directs his stream onto the now erect dick of the man on the floor. The pissee lets out the most passionate sounds as the second one hits. A third guy from behind us, hoses the guy’s back. I’m sure it is coating his ass crack. I am surprised that I can add anything to his scene after so much went down Nick, but my prepping pays off...I start hosing on his cock, direct it up to his pits and pecs, then down to his cock again. He thanks us and heads to the bar for more beer. Lots of other guys dip and sample my cock; some just for a chance to suck my dick, others wanting some piss. A cute young one (average age here is close to 40--this one must be almost 30), dressed in briefs and sandals, kneels on the wet floor and begins to suck. His cock emerges from his waistband as he gives me some really excellent head. He comes up, we kiss. I hunker down to suck his dick through the wet fabric, get his cock out and easily deep throat it. He moans and with no warning gives me a mouthful of piss. I swallow, wait until he is done and rise. I kiss him again. He opens his mouth for my tongue and gets most of his own piss load. He squirms and gurgles as it goes down and almost cums... Another of my Chicago faves arrives just as they lock the door at 7pm. He is a young pig with ginger hair and a voracious sexual appetite for sex of all sorts. A nice enough body, but oh, what he can do with it. He waves as he checks his clothes, naked except for tennis shoes. He grabs a beer and comes to where I am standing at the bar and pulls me behind the screen—always a good sign. He doesn’t even suck my cock, he just bends over, leaning on the ledge. I get the first taste of his ass—beautifully fresh scrubbed. Suddenly there is a stream of piss cascading down his crack, onto my waiting tongue. I swallow. I push some into his hole. He’s moaning loudly. We attract others. A second stream is added as I rim. I can’t keep up. I’m swallowing and sputtering and gasping for air. My cock is rock hard. I stand up and enter him. He gasps. A new stream of piss hits his back and runs down onto my cock so I am fucking it into his hole. A hot, shaved head bear with a PA is stroking as he watches us. I’m pretty sure he was the first pisser. He leans in and kisses me across the boy. I offer him the ass. He slides in. I piss on his cock as he fucks the boy relentlessly. He pulls out and I slip back in. The difference between our cocks is perfect; long and thick vs. shorter, thicker and PA’d. The boy has turned slightly now to get some faceless man in his mouth as well. The other top clambers up on the ledge and sticks his fresh-from-ass cock in my mouth. Heaven. I plow. The boy groans around the cock which is now giving him piss in his mouth. The top bucks into my mouth and shoots. He leans, spent, against the wall. I stop and kneel behind the boy and reverse felch the load into his ass. He grunts his approval. Nick’s Master pushes me aside and drives his cock into the gooey mess I’ve left in the boy’s ass. He adds a load in just a few strokes. I let the boy clean the Master’s cock as I felch the two loads mixed with piss back out. The PA top jumps down, pulls me up and kisses me. We exchange the two loads in one of the hottest snowballing moments I’ve had. I need to get off. Now. But the ginger haired boy is sitting down on some other cock. I hunt for Nick. He’s parked under the bar, drinking piss from every man who orders a fresh beer. I pull him up. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I used to live in a place where, in March, the weather actually seemed spring-like. Not so here. Instead of above-freezing temperatures and crocuses poking their heads up from the ground, I'm staring out at another three inches of snow that fell Saturday night. Great fun, these northern climes. I have about a week's worth of sexual activity to catch up on, after this week's reflection on my Blogiversary ballooned into a longer series of essays than I anticipated. Tomorrow, though, we'll be having a guest blogger. And today we'll be doing the usual thing with questions from formspring.me. You know the drill by now. Head over there. Ask me some provocative questions, and see if I have anything interesting to say, would ya? Do you think money is important? I tend not to think it's the most important aspect of life. But my bill collectors do. Don't you ever feel bad that you are carrying on with all these men, potentially receiving various STDs (I'm sure you have HPV by now, it's simply improbable that you don't), while your wife doesn't know? Don't you ever feel bad? Don't be a pussy, answer. Merely because a site allows anonymity doesn't mean you should abuse the privilege by being a dick and calling someone names, or throwing your prejudices at him. Your question is laden with judgment and assumptions—assumptions about sexually-transmitted diseases and their transmission, about my health, my relationships, and my state of mind. Not all of your assumptions are correct, or even close. The pussy here is you, for acting like a bully. You are, in all honesty, the shit. I know, right?! (I'm assuming this is a compliment, by the way.) How old is the oldest virgin you ever had? Like, any 40 (or older) year old virgins? That's an interesting question. I know that I gave a guy in his early fifties his very first top experience (his first anal experience, period), about a decade ago. I don't think that's what you're asking, though. I think the oldest bottom virgin I've had was a guy who had a reputation as a pretty hard-hitting top. He was in his late thirties when I fucked him for the first time. He claimed he was a virgin. From the tightness of his hole, I have no reason to doubt him. I was also the first-time fuck of a guy who was part of a married couple I was seeing. He was 35 his first time. Man, I love your smile. Can you post more pictures of your adorable grin just for me? Have you seen this one? Or how about this? Do you have problems taking compliments? I do indeed. Does it show? Usually I attempt to thank people nicely without attempting to make the compliment-giver feel badly for having said anything. "Gaydar"... Is it a myth? On the contrary, I think some people are very, very good at reading the signals that indicate a man's interest in other men. Instead of things like effeminate characteristics, however, gaydar is a matter of reading the guy's body language, the places his eyes travels, the way he responds to the presence of others. It's a subtle art. How old were you when you realized your cock was turning out a lot bigger than average? I was about seven and a half inches when I was 14. That would be when I glanced down between my legs while sucking dick in a marathon session at the park and realized that I was already longer than most of the grown men I was blowing, and bigger than anyone in my family as well. At that age my dick was still a lot thinner, though. I didn't get to about my full size until I was sixteen. I'm good at massages... can I give you an all-over with my tongue? Man, I wish you would. I love and crave that kind of treatment, and get it so damned rarely. What do you construe as cheating? Every relationship has its own rules. In relationships in which the partners have agreed to remain monogamous, cheating might consist of any sexual advances or contact with any other people. In a relationship in which the couple has agreed to play with other individuals together, but not on their own, cheating may consist of seeing someone without the partner's consent. In a relationship in which anything goes, but the partners agree to tell each other everything, cheating may consist of withholding details of an encounter. Cheating's definition varies from couple to couple, and depends on what the couple has defined as its limits and boundaries. I don't hold to an absolute definition of the word that applies to everyone in every situation. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In a hotel room that smelled of old cigarettes and Lysol she lay, supine upon a bed as flat and hard as sidewalk. She blinked and squinted in the axe-edge of light spread by the door opening to the afternoon sun. I caught a brief glimpse of her, pale in the dark, caught by the sudden intrusion of brightness like a theatergoer blinded by an usher’s torch. Beside her sat the man we’d come to meet. He and she both raised their hands against the light, exposing their palms and casting their faces into shadow. Like her, he was naked. The hairs on his chest coiled like springs between his flaccid breasts. A layer of thick stubble covered his jowls. His knees were spread wide, exposing his dick in the shaft of light—rigid it was, and still wet, a curving stubby rod that seemed almost thicker than it was long. I balked at the sight, and stood motionless. “Christ, come in and shut the fucking door,” he barked. Earl, my mentor, pushed me within, then closed the hotel door behind him. I heard him toss the key onto the table. My eyes were so bleached from the sunlight that in the near-darkness, I could see nothing. I felt Earl’s hands on my shoulders, guiding me forward. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. I knew what he was thinking, as surely as he knew my own mind. He’d realized how surprised I’d been at the sight of the female, when he’d unlocked the door and pushed me through. Another of Earl’s surprises, she was. Frightened as I was, I knew what Earl meant by that steadying grasp on my shoulders. He was there for me. And more importantly, I wouldn't be going anywhere. I was fifteen. By this point I was firmly enthralled in Earl’s spell. Whatever he told me to do, I did without question. I put my legs into the air on command—not only for him, but for whomever he told me. I submitted to strange men blindfolded. Gagged. Collared. With my wrists and ankles restrained in a variety of creative and degrading ways. Until that point, though, all my sexual experiences in front of and away from Earl had been with men. She was definitely not a man. She was curves, and hollows, and recesses hidden by overhanging limbs. I didn’t know what to make of her. The strange man had risen from the bed at our entrance. I sensed, rather than saw, him shake hands with Earl. Then I felt a thick hand on my head that ran down my face and chest. It skipped down to my groin, and grabbed my dick and nuts in a way that almost made me yelp. Earl’s still-firm hold on my shoulders kept me from going anywhere, though. “The kid’s never fucked pussy, huh?” he asked. “Nope.” Earl’s voice rumbled soft and low. “You gonna get a piece?” “Not today.” Earl managed to sound bored, but I knew his voice well enough to sense his voyeuristic anticipation. He let go of me and strode over to a spot in the darkness where I could hear the metal feet of a chair skid across the linoleum. “Just helping the kid pop his cherry.” I still was having problem seeing anything in the room. I felt as if I’d been suddenly stricken blind with no hope of recovery. The pounding of my heart and the thickening of my blood from fear and panic probably wasn’t helping. I felt the man loom over me as he continued to squeeze painfully at my groin. “I thought you said he’d lost that a long time ago.” “Not with a girl,” drawled Earl. From behind me, I heard the sound of his zipper. The man’s hands were all over me at that point, squeezing at my nipples, grabbing my ass, poking and prodding my barely-concealed rib cage. “You ready to get your dick wet?” he leered, his spittle decorating my ear. As if I couldn’t do it myself, he tugged at my shirt to pop open the buttons, undid the snap of my corduroys. He yanked down my white briefs. With my shoes still on, my pants around my ankles and my shorts at my knees, there was no way I could do anything but fall face-forward onto the bed, humiliated. I felt the man’s fingers jamming their way into my hole. Sparks danced before my eyes, but I didn’t protest. When I opened my lids again, I could see the vaguest of shapes and forms in the darkness. She lay on her back, head turned in my direction, watching my violation without expression. With the cover no longer covering her naked body, I could see how slim she was—long and skinny, like me. The man’s breasts were bigger than hers; save for obscenely plump nipples, her chest looked almost like a boy’s. I heard Earl’s chair shift, and felt then a pair of hands loosen free me of my shoes, and then my pants, and finally my underwear and socks. Then Earl sat back down again. “Go for it,” the man commanded, shoving me forward. I rose onto my knees, understanding what I was supposed to be doing, but not really wanting to follow through. “You need a demo? Hell, I’ll show you how.” I could see well enough by this point that I wasn’t at all surprised when the man stomped over to the bed’s far side. He grabbed the female’s ankle and yanked her to him, leaving her long brown hair in a trail where her body slid over the sheets. Without foreplay or preparation, he shoved himself inside, grinding into her with his fat dick. It was an obscene sight, closer to the unashamed necessity of wildlife animal sex than any of the lust-charged escapades in which I’d taken place. She received him without protest, her eyes closed at the suddenness of his insertion. Then her lips parted in a moan. Her hips gyrated. Her back arched as she pushed forward to meet him with sexual desire. I watched him grunt into her for a little while until at last, grudgingly, he pulled away. “Your turn,” he informed me. I wasn’t ready, not by any means. This wasn’t something I wanted. Still, I was aware that Earl was watching, and that Earl had brought me here for this purpose. I allowed the man to position me between the female’s open legs. His own dick was a steely, wet-tipped probe against my spine as he reached down and grabbed my cock, squeezing it lewdly to make it hard. It didn’t take much to make me hard, when I was fifteen. “That’s it,” he said in my ear. “I’ll guide you in.” It took a few attempts until I found the sweet spot, even with him guiding me there. “She’s beautiful, huh?” he kept growling into my ear, as his fist pinched tight my cock’s head. “You want her bad, don’t you? She’s going to feel real good around that boymeat.” I’d been so petrified from the moment I’d stepped into the hotel room that I honestly didn’t know if she was beautiful or not. I’d only seen naked women before in the pages of Playboy and Penthouse—painted women of exaggerated proportions, kneeling in Daisy Dukes in a pretend barn, or straddling an oversized glass of champagne, or wearing nothing but a pair of high heels and a good string of pearls. She was none of those things. She wore none of that makeup, had none of the props. Her face was somewhere between plain and pretty. Her hair was long and straight. But she was real, and waiting, and her eyes half-shut as at last I slid into her. I know my eyes closed, so I could shut out everything but the feelings. The sensation wasn’t bad. If I’d been left to my own devices, I might have enjoyed it. But I had the man’s half-whispered urgings continuing in my ear, a constant radio station of filth and obscenity that never ceased. I had him poking me, shoving his fingers in my hole as I tried to move in and out of the warm wetness, telling me when to move faster, when to slow down. A couple of times he bodily lifted us, still connected, and repositioned us on the bed. Throughout it all, I could hear across the room the slight jingling of Earl’s belt buckle, as it bobbed up and down in time to his self-pleasure. My dick tingled in a way it hadn’t before—not when I masturbated, not when I’d fucked Topher. It almost felt as if the flesh down there had melted away and left only phantom sensation behind, a prickling and a sense of heat that was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I wanted to see where that sensation would take me, but I didn’t get the chance. The man pulled me out of her and wrapped his hand around my meat, then beat it roughly, urging me to shoot. Pure mechanics powered that orgasm—the mere fact that he beat at a high enough speed with firm enough pressure guaranteed the hydraulic release. He jerked my body over the female’s, forcing me to spray my load over her tits, her face, her belly. Her eyes closed reflexively to keep out the flying semen. Her glance rested not at the man who’d mated me to her, but upon me. I hadn’t looked at her during the exercise. I’d been worried that kind of intimacy might put me off, might make me lose my hard-on. Women laughed at men who lost their hard-ons, I’d heard. Her expression was hard to read. Not that I had time. My body was still wracked with the aftershocks of the orgasm when the man shoved me down onto the rough sheets and wretched hardness of the cheap hotel bed. I felt the weight of him, then saw bright flashes of light as he shoved himself into me with very little lubrication. Then I endured the man’s brutal thrusts as he used and flooded my hole. It wasn’t pleasurable; he was rough and almost clumsy, but my body reacted as it always did when cock entered it—my own dick hardened again, my hips pushed up and out to accommodate the man, and I moaned. I wondered if her reaction had been the same—automatic, Pavlovian, almost—when he had fucked her for me. When it was over, I felt as if I’d been battered, but my cock was rock-hard. She saw it. I almost felt ashamed. She and I never spoke to each other. I didn’t learn her name. In a way I didn’t need to. We both knew each other for what we were, what we’d agreed to be, that afternoon: currency to be spent, to be passed between the man who held my bank book to the man who no doubt somehow held hers. More...

To nuts everywhere, I humbly apologize. I am particularly fond of pecans and testicles, and realize how badly I have demeaned them by comparing them to lunatics. I will make amends by going into simile rehab.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve spent the last two days looking at the weird and the ugly sides of a year of sex blogging. Today, nothing but the unalloyed good. 1. I’ve had such a lot of fun opportunities this year. When I write on nearly a daily basis about sex, I’m always looking for sex to write about—if that makes sense. For the last twelve months, when faced with the choice of, hmm, what shall I do this afternoon, go looking for ass or sit around watching Earth 2 on streaming Netflix?, I’ve been more likely to leap on the chance of a sexual encounter than to sit around on my ass. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ll do something sexual—follow a guy into a restroom, for example, or hook up with someone I might ordinarily perceive as way out of my league—simply so that I could write about it for you guys. I know. My journalistic dedication to my readers’s happiness is nothing short of breathtaking! Writing has made my readers reach out to me for hookups as well. I had a handful of those throughout the year and loved every single one of them; there’s something very sexy about connecting with a guy who knows that I’ll be writing about him afterward, and that I am very probably composing the entry in my head as I screw him. Hearing his reaction afterward, when the entry is posted, is also quite gratifying. If I have a goal for the next year, it would be to have even more of those kinds of encounters. I can’t overlook, however, the other sorts of opportunities that arose over the year because I blogged so well. I had a blast writing for a week in a study that might see publication later this year. (I can’t divulge details yet. We’ll see what happens when the book comes out.) And the good people at the really excellent and Anal Magazine solicited a story from me for the pages of their high-quality publication. 2. I’ve written about things I’ve never addressed before. When I started writing A Breeder’s Journal, I thought I’d have several topics that would be forever off-limits. One of those untouchable topics I breached almost immediately with my Mikey posts; the issue of my sexual assault I tackled mid-year. Like many assault survivors, I made the assumption in the weeks and months after the incident that if I didn’t talk about what happened to me—if I never mentioned it or recorded it in my diary—that the silence would gradually elide it from memory and history alike. Unfortunately, that’s not what happens. Maintaining hush over something so heinous doesn’t erode its harsh edges. The vacuum only preserves them in all their lethal sharpness. Writing makes one brave, though. It really does. It gives one the confidence to address what should be unspeakable, to reduce to human proportions what might feel overwhelming and out of reach. It sorts out the jumbled. When an incident is so terrible and wicked that the person involved seems almost an incidental character in an unstoppable tide of events told coldly and without feeling, writing and becoming the narrator, lets one take control of the story—and one’s life—once more. I’ve known these things about writing, all along. I’d never before thought to apply them to my own experience with assault. I’m glad I did. Here’s something I haven’t confessed in public, before. A couple of years ago I thought I’d learned my lesson about blogging on difficult topics. On another, more mainstream blog that I maintain, I’d written a longer series of pieces about the awkward and abortive attempts of mutual seduction between my sixth-grade homeroom teacher and myself. They went over, I was dismayed to find, like a lead Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity. I stumbled away from the wreckage convinced I’d never write about any adult topics ever again . . . and look what happened. I spent a year writing in a public space about almost nothing but. That’s progress. 3. The people. Hands-down, the single best reason to keep blogging. Making the acquaintance of so very many good, smart, funny, strong, handsome people has been my greatest pleasure. Over the last year I’ve made new friends from all walks of life and from all over the world. A few of you have become very close; although we might not have met in the flesh, I still think of many of you as very good friends. I’ve always been somewhat astonished how very open and kind is the vast majority of my readership. In my comments you often astonish me with your insights and your praise, even as undeserved as I think it may often be. (This is not, by the way, an attempt to fish for compliments.) When I receive emails from readers with unexpected gifts—by which I mean your good wishes, your unsolicited photographs and videos, or photos of your asses—I’m always touched and moved, and feel a little bit like a giddy kid on Christmas morning. When some of you have reached out with long emails containing your entire life’s history, or with questions or heartfelt sorrows and troubles, I’ve felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of it, but touched and honored by the esteem that it betrays. My readers are great people. Not everyone always agrees with me. Not everyone indulges his sexual whims in the same way I might. Almost all my readers read me thoughtfully, however, and respond with respect, understanding, and with consideration to the opinions I throw out on a daily basis. I couldn’t ask for anything more beautiful than that. I honestly couldn’t. Despite all the weirdness of the last year, and all the ugly moments that made me wonder about the futility of it all, the good stuff is what keeps me returning to my keyboard, day after day. The good stuff is thanks to you guys, my readers. The good stuff is you guys. All I can do is thank you for a great first year, and hope that we can keep it going, together. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here On the occasion of my blog's one-year anniversary this last weekend, I'm taking a couple of days to reflect on some of the things I've learned and experienced over the past year. Tomorrow we'll be looking at the good stuff. Yesterday, we looked at the weird. Today: the ugly. I'd like to point out before I begin that I'm listing these things not to whine about them. I'm not trying to elicit pity, or whip readers into a frenzy of anger against those who have wronged me. I'm definitely not trying to portray myself as a victim, here. I'm also aware that given the popularity of this blog, writing down some of my complaints about keeping it will sound a little like those songs rich pop stars write for their sophomore albums that can be summed up with, damn, life is hard in front of the paparazzi when you're a poor little rich pop star like me, can't you just leave me and my entourage of thirty alone? I have learned, though, that certain things stress me out more than others. They're pretty predictable, too. For example: 1. No matter how much I give, people want more. If I post photos, people want more photos—more graphic photos, bigger photos, photos that show me from the left side instead of the right, photos that show my feet, photos that show my face, photos that show my face and my feet together. They want me to post photos every day, or more photos than I choose to post, or to send them photos out of the blue, on demand, to their email. If I do that, they want more photos, whenever they ask, of more variety of subjects. If I post a video, people want to know why the video isn’t longer, brighter, more graphic, less shaky. They want more videos, videos of me self-sucking, videos of me fucking, videos with better sound, a tripod, an entire sexual encounter from beginning to end. I have to get on cam for them, right then and there, when they ask for it. I have to send them emails when I get on cam, to let them know I'm online and stroking. I have to use Skype, have to give out my phone number, have to respond to their text messages in a timely manner and be prepared to cybersex with them when they demand, or else I’m a disappointment. If I share within the blog certain details of my personal life outside, it’s never enough. People want to know exactly what I do for a living, where I work, what my brother does, where I live. They want to know the ins and outs of my relationship—its duration, nature, and intimate details. They want photos of myself, of my family, of my loved ones. They want to see photos of Spencer, photos of Scruffy, or to obtain their emails or profile names so they can ask them questions themselves or see what they look like. I post almost daily. If I take a day off, people bitch and complain. They whine at me that I’m ruining their day by withholding posts. Or they might complain that I’m not posting the kinds of things that they want to see. I should post more porn, my photos, more videos, less boring shit. And you know what? If there are points at which I quietly draw the line, these people get upset and hostile. It’s almost as if I owe this particular bunch of readers anything they ask of me—as if I’m some kind of mechanized vending machine that dispenses pornography at the punch of a button. I don’t even get any damned quarters out of the deal. I’ll tell you. It’s wearing. It’s frustrating. And it’s more than a little insulting. I enjoy sparking people’s curiosity, I appreciate it when people enjoy my entries, and I love interacting with my readers, but please. Use some common sense. 2. Apparently I am supposed to be a doormat. A typical example: a few weeks ago I got an email from an incensed reader. He’d originally said that I was a liar who made up everything in my blog, and when I’d (rather calmly, if icily, I thought) responded that I pitied a lack of imagination and experience that made my blog seem like the stuff of fiction, he blasted back that OH, my MASK had SLIPPED OFF and that my VENOMOUS REPLY showed me for the EVIL, BLACK-HEARTED VIPER with the FOUL TEMPER I really was, and that my OUTRAGE meant that SURELY SOMETHING was amiss! FURTHERMORE, he was NEVER GOING TO READ ME AGAIN now that he knew the TRUTH! But you know, here’s my stance on my outbursts—even the even-handed ones like the one I’d made to this guy. I’m astonished that people seem to assume that I’m not permitted to defend myself in the space of my own blog, even if I lose my temper. It is, after all, my blog. My anonymous blog. I'm not a public figure who is required only to be mealy-mouthed and even-tempered in response to allegations against him. I'm not a politician, hoping for anyone’s vote. I'm not your priest. No one here supports my income in any way, or pays a subscription fee to read me. I do not have to fear the loss of reader patronage in order to keep food on my table. If I want to be venomous, I can be. I have been in the past, and no doubt I will be in the future. I have not signed a contract to be nice to everyone. My readers are not my customers, and they’re not always right. I told the guy that I was sorry he felt that way, but that if I was losing a reader, at least I wasn’t losing one that was particularly loyal or even good. But I get this stuff all the time. Over the last year I’ve been insulted in all kinds of ways. I’ve been called not only a liar, but an adulterer, a harbinger of disease, a tool of Sarah Palin. I’ve been informed, quite seriously, that I deserved to be sexually assaulted. I’ve been told I need psychiatric help, the Bible, salvation, penicillin. I've been informed I'm racially insensitive and culturally ignorant. I’ve been told I’m a bad writer, that I make typos (of course I do!), that there are better bloggers than I. Almost every single time, there seems to be an expectation that I should receive the name-calling with a sage nod and a promise to do better next time, and with a thank you, sir. I’m sorry, dudes, but I don't roll over and take abuse that way. If you’re rude to me, I’m going either to delete your comments or I’m going to respond to what’s offending me. When I call guys on their bad behavior, however, it’s vanishingly rare that they’ll say ‘whoops!’ and apologize. My opponents always deteriorate into flames and threats, in which they blast me for fighting back. They thought I was nice, they always say. But apparently they were wrong. I’m a generally approachable and pleasant person. But that doesn’t mean I’m a doormat. Nor does it give you permission to attempt to wipe your feet on me. To expect a stranger who writes a blog to produce only unobjectionable statements to one's liking is solipsistic at best, and infantile at worst. My world does not, and never will, revolve around hoping my readers think I'm nice, one hundred percent of the time. Particularly when insulted. 3. Some readers are determined to catch me out. I’m not talking about the self-appointed typo and syntax correctors, annoying as they may be. (I honestly don’t mind them when their intentions are helpful, but when they write me long letters telling me that a GOOD writer would know the difference between farther and further and never err with either, or who loftily inform me that I used the word frost when I should’ve used the word drizzle, like a REAL writer with a piquant sensitivity to the use of words might, I want to inform them, Bitches, that’s why I have editors in my real career.) What I mean is that there’s a certain kind of reader who has no greater desire than to prove I’m a big fat liar. Usually the reader’s grand scheme involves finding some factual error that, when poked and probed, will cause my unsteady house of cards to come fluttering down around me, like Jericho before the trumpets. Then I will be exposed as the fraud that I am! If I write about my home town in the nineteen-seventies, for example, and mention a chain store, there will be someone out there who will research on the internet and then report to me that he hopes I wasn't implying I entered a Woolco after 1983 because Woolco went into bankruptcy in 1982 and if my story took place after 1982—j’accuse!—I must be a damned liar! Or I’ll write about emailing a fellow student in college and someone will write a comment saying that given I attended college in the early nineteen-eighties and widespread email was not available until 1990, I MUST BE A FUCKING LIAR ABOUT EVERYTHING I'VE EVER WRITTEN. Even though I’m not. We had the ability to send notes to each other’s accounts on the mainframe, thank you very much. What’s the point of all this Hardy Boys detective work? I suppose it gives the paranoid and the distrustful something to do with their time. It allows those who want to have a toehold over me an opportunity to sharpen their claws. Honestly, though. It seems like a big waste of anyone’s effort. I have said until I’m blue in the face that I write about my real life here—if after that someone doesn’t believe me, there’s no amount of corroborative evidence I can present that’s going to change his mind. 4. People are way too anxious to project their own assumptions upon me. I might have covered a lot of territory in 300 entries and a year, but there are some things about myself I’ve never said. I’ve never claimed I was straight, for one—and yet I have had multiple people write me saying that if I am presenting myself as a so-called ‘straight man’ having all kinds of down-low sexual adventures with gay men, why is it there has been scant evidence of straight sex in my journal in past months, hmmm? People take the information I’ve presented here and come up with scenarios about my life that I’ve neither confirmed nor denied—though that doesn’t matter, because whatever they think up must be the truth. I’m an adulterer, cheating on my spouse. I’m secretly HIV-positive and spreading it (and every other disease possible) to my partners. I’m HIV-negative and a bug chaser. I’m a swinger. I’m in the closet. I’m single. I’m unable to commit. I have a double life. A triple life! Even if the evidence of what I actually talk about in my life contradicts any of these scenarios, it doesn’t matter. Some people believe what they want, regardless of the textual evidence at hand. And that’s because, simply put: 5. Some of y’all are just nuts. Seriously. Not many of you are outright, bat-shit crazy, but it’s amazing how one or two bad apples really make me want to take a flame-thrower and burn down the orchard. I know that most of the abusive messages I’ve received in recent weeks have been from a single, schizophrenic source—a source who was stupid enough recently to provide me with his email address, no less. He’ll appear to be on his meds often for the space of a single comment, but then it’ll all come unhinged and deteriorate into bad spelling and frothing at the mouth. There’ve been others, though—the anonymous commenters (they’re always anonymous) who want to one-up me, or who are so angry and incensed at my sexuality and the way I express it that they feel a need to let loose with all their insane fury. I’ve had people come at me with pity and scorn in an attempt to feel superior. And then I’ve had some messages (most of which I delete) that are so weird and unsettling that I’m not sure whether I should call in the FBI, or even if they were written by someone who lives on this planet. It really is a pity that sometimes these lunatics have succeeded in unsettling me to the point of pondering the futility of writing at all. I’ve several times over the last year considered not keeping the blog any longer, though after a day or so I’m usually back to my chipper self. I’ve had red-alert weeks in which I’ve had to screen all comments, or eliminate anonymous commenting, because of problem readers. I’ve had moments of anger on the road, or in public places, where I’ve had to struggle with my phone’s browser in order to eliminate freakish remarks moments after they’ve been posted. Seriously, can't you guys go bug the FOX news website? I've got enough crazy in my life. Those are some of the struggles I’ve had to face, over the last year. Writing them down like this makes it sound like a pretty onerous set of obstacles. For the most part, though, everything on this list has been outweighed by all the good things I’ve gotten out of keeping this blog. I’ll get to those tomorrow. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve spent the last two days looking at the weird and the ugly sides of a year of sex blogging. Today, nothing but the unalloyed good. 1. I’ve had such a lot of fun opportunities this year. When I write on nearly a daily basis about sex, I’m always looking for sex to write about—if that makes sense. For the last twelve months, when faced with the choice of, hmm, what shall I do this afternoon, go looking for ass or sit around watching Earth 2 on streaming Netflix?, I’ve been more likely to leap on the chance of a sexual encounter than to sit around on my ass. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ll do something sexual—follow a guy into a restroom, for example, or hook up with someone I might ordinarily perceive as way out of my league—simply so that I could write about it for you guys. I know. My journalistic dedication to my readers’s happiness is nothing short of breathtaking! Writing has made my readers reach out to me for hookups as well. I had a handful of those throughout the year and loved every single one of them; there’s something very sexy about connecting with a guy who knows that I’ll be writing about him afterward, and that I am very probably composing the entry in my head as I screw him. Hearing his reaction afterward, when the entry is posted, is also quite gratifying. If I have a goal for the next year, it would be to have even more of those kinds of encounters. I can’t overlook, however, the other sorts of opportunities that arose over the year because I blogged so well. I had a blast writing for a week in a study that might see publication later this year. (I can’t divulge details yet. We’ll see what happens when the book comes out.) And the good people at the really excellent and Anal Magazine solicited a story from me for the pages of their high-quality publication. 2. I’ve written about things I’ve never addressed before. When I started writing A Breeder’s Journal, I thought I’d have several topics that would be forever off-limits. One of those untouchable topics I breached almost immediately with my Mikey posts; the issue of my sexual assault I tackled mid-year. Like many assault survivors, I made the assumption in the weeks and months after the incident that if I didn’t talk about what happened to me—if I never mentioned it or recorded it in my diary—that the silence would gradually elide it from memory and history alike. Unfortunately, that’s not what happens. Maintaining hush over something so heinous doesn’t erode its harsh edges. The vacuum only preserves them in all their lethal sharpness. Writing makes one brave, though. It really does. It gives one the confidence to address what should be unspeakable, to reduce to human proportions what might feel overwhelming and out of reach. It sorts out the jumbled. When an incident is so terrible and wicked that the person involved seems almost an incidental character in an unstoppable tide of events told coldly and without feeling, writing and becoming the narrator, lets one take control of the story—and one’s life—once more. I’ve known these things about writing, all along. I’d never before thought to apply them to my own experience with assault. I’m glad I did. Here’s something I haven’t confessed in public, before. A couple of years ago I thought I’d learned my lesson about blogging on difficult topics. On another, more mainstream blog that I maintain, I’d written a longer series of pieces about the awkward and abortive attempts of mutual seduction between my sixth-grade homeroom teacher and myself. They went over, I was dismayed to find, like a lead Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity. I stumbled away from the wreckage convinced I’d never write about any adult topics ever again . . . and look what happened. I spent a year writing in a public space about almost nothing but. That’s progress. 3. The people. Hands-down, the single best reason to keep blogging. Making the acquaintance of so very many good, smart, funny, strong, handsome people has been my greatest pleasure. Over the last year I’ve made new friends from all walks of life and from all over the world. A few of you have become very close; although we might not have met in the flesh, I still think of many of you as very good friends. I’ve always been somewhat astonished how very open and kind is the vast majority of my readership. In my comments you often astonish me with your insights and your praise, even as undeserved as I think it may often be. (This is not, by the way, an attempt to fish for compliments.) When I receive emails from readers with unexpected gifts—by which I mean your good wishes, your unsolicited photographs and videos, or photos of your asses—I’m always touched and moved, and feel a little bit like a giddy kid on Christmas morning. When some of you have reached out with long emails containing your entire life’s history, or with questions or heartfelt sorrows and troubles, I’ve felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of it, but touched and honored by the esteem that it betrays. My readers are great people. Not everyone always agrees with me. Not everyone indulges his sexual whims in the same way I might. Almost all my readers read me thoughtfully, however, and respond with respect, understanding, and with consideration to the opinions I throw out on a daily basis. I couldn’t ask for anything more beautiful than that. I honestly couldn’t. Despite all the weirdness of the last year, and all the ugly moments that made me wonder about the futility of it all, the good stuff is what keeps me returning to my keyboard, day after day. The good stuff is thanks to you guys, my readers. The good stuff is you guys. All I can do is thank you for a great first year, and hope that we can keep it going, together. More...

Thanks, Belfast!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Since Sunday was the one-year anniversary of A Breeder's Journal, I'm taking a couple of days to reflect on some of the things—the good, the weird, and the ugly—I've learned in a year of sex blogging. Today we'll be tackling the weird. 1. People I know read me. I knew when I started posting entries online that the chances were good that the realms of my everyday life and my blogosphere would probably collide and intersect, to some degree. It’s still a little bit unsettling when it happens, however. Look, if I wanted to remain completely and one-hundred-percent anonymous, I could do a much better job at it. I could use false photos of myself, rather than shots that show my body and half my face. I could claim I lived in Poughkeepsie. I could delete links to sex profiles I maintain on hookup sites (profiles that contain my entire face, sometimes). I could avoid photos and details altogether—there are plenty of blogs that manage that way. I know that guys in my area, or in the places I might have lived or in which I have extensive acquaintances, might be able to connect the dots and figure out that the blogger who writes this salacious account of his life is the guy they might have seen in the bar, or with whom they hooked up. I know that people with whom I have online relationships, perhaps from other blogs I’ve worked upon, might be reading this project as well as another. So basically, I’m never surprised when I get a nudge-nudge, wink-wink email from someone with whom I’m acquainted, letting me know that they’re in on my little secret, I do get a momentary sense of dislocation. Then I shrug and get on with my day. 2. I have to realize that my partners sometimes might read me, too. I’d made a decision very early on in my blog that I wouldn’t use it to bad-mouth my sexual partners. Mine was not going to be the kind of blog in which I glorified my own ego by putting down a playmate by talking about how ugly he might have been, or calling him a fatty; life’s just too short for that kind of nonsense. True, if I have an outstandingly bad encounter, I’ll write about it—but it has to be a really big cock-up before that happens. I’m not going to waste my time, or my readers’ time, on a bad hookup unless it sheds light on some bigger issue. I learned my lesson fairly early on in my sex blog career, when I wrote up a hotel gang-bang in which I’d participated. After I posted my impressions, the guy who’d thrown the event (our old buddy, FelchingPisser, who’ll be returning with another guest entry later this week) commented on the entry that he was glad I’d come. Apparently he’d been a reader for a while at that point, and invited me without mentioning that fact, curious to see if I’d write it up. Well, the discovery threw me into a panic. How was I supposed to know he read me? I ran back to the entry and scoured it for anything that might have been uncomplimentary, or unfair. There was nothing, of course, but the event was enough to keep me on alert. I’m not going to whitewash my words when I write my entries. But I’m going to focus on the positive parts of an encounter, for the most part, and not denigrate my partners. If I do stoop to writing about you in a bad light, well dude, you shouldn’t have called me a nordic alien. 3. Sex blogging is its own weird form of celebrity. A very, very minor celebrity, to be sure. I mean, your municipality’s dog catcher has more genuine celebrity than your average sex blogger. When I see other bloggers trying to cash in on their so-called notoriety, it makes me scratch my head and wonder how seriously they take themselves, and why they cling so desperately to an online bad-boy reputation. I view the whole experience as some kind of giddy lark. I’ve been featured on enough websites and gotten attention enough to attract fans who regard me with a kind of awe that trust me, I don’t think is justified. Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re actually talking to me! You, of all people! they'll respond when I reply to one of their emails, or answer one of their instant messages. I’ve had guys offer to put me up in their homes when I travel (more of you can do that, by the way . . . I might take you up on it!). I’ve had men pay for my underwear, simply because they want to have a pair of shorts used by the fellow who writes this blog (and has the dick that propels most of its action). I’ve gotten used to men of all ages sending me videos and photos of themselves, and offering sex so that they can see themselves in the pages of my blog. (I could definitely use more of that, too—but you’d need to be local.) I’ve had a couple of men fly in to meet me, because of my writing. It’s all fantastic, of course. But weird. Because every single time it happens, I keep thinking to myself, Me? Really? Why? Tomorrow: The Ugly! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It was on February 27, 2010, that I made my first entry in A Breeder’s Journal. Exactly one year and three hundred posts later, and here we are. It’s been an interesting journey, as I’ve scrambled up the ranks from an audience of basically myself alone, to almost half a million unique visitors. The site now gets between five and six thousand different readers a day, more or less. The numbers humble me. They’re not record-breaking by any stretch of the imagination, but when I consider how very modest an audience I expected when I started writing, they’re pretty amazing. Keeping a record of my daily life, even a record of my sex life, wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision for me, last February. I’ve been doing it for years. I first started keeping a journal when I was seventeen. Call it a thirty-year habit or call it discipline, but I’ve been scribbling down my thoughts on a more-or-less daily basis ever since. Over the decades it has been rare for me to go for more a couple of days without running to my notebooks to record my experiences and thoughts. I’ve also posted in my blog about the obsessive, coded records about my sex partners I used to scribble in my teens. (Apparently there’s some kind of bookkeeping gene in my ancestry.) Sometime after I started keeping a diary, the two activities merged. I began to write, in very veiled language, about a few of my encounters. As I grew older and more confident in my abilities, both in and out of the bed, the accounts of my sexual exploits grew less mawkish and more accomplished. And I started to realize something. Not many people write about sex as it actually exists, out here in the wilds of the real world. In my journal I felt like an anthropologist charting a culture previously unrecorded, and it somehow struck me that such a record should be shared and given voice. Culturally, we tend to find expressions of sex that are often so far removed from the reality that it’s remarkable we recognize it at all. On television and in the movies, sex is something that the beautiful leads get to do, under exquisite lighting, on expensive sets, accompanied by sexy saxophone music. We like our beautiful people to be deeply in love with each other. If they’re fucking, our pop culture likes them committed, or soon to marry, and unlikely to stray. It’s about as erotic as the sanitized for your protection strip on a hotel toilet seat. Conversely, our society likes to punish those who enjoy sex. As a culture we brand celebrities who have extramarital affairs, or who enjoy the company of more than one partner, with the spurious label of ‘sex addict’—and do the same for men who hope to enjoy sex on a daily basis with a partner or spouse, or who masturbate to work off their normal, excess horniness. We slap the Scarlet Letter on those who transgress; we envision them justly riddled with both disease and regrets. I don’t buy into either end of that cultural dichotomy. I’m not a sinner, nor a saint. Nor do I find my own experiences belong to the narratives of porn culture, where everyone is pretty and super-fit and in which people are reduced to a series of interlocking body parts. Sometimes my sex feels like that. But quite often with my partners—partners like Spencer, or Scruffy—there’s a genuine connection and emotionality one doesn’t find in outright porn. There’s a tenderness that one doesn’t find in a skin flick or a nifty archive story. And there’s a carnality based in the real world that one doesn’t find in a traditional romance. Even when there’s no emotional connection between me and the partners I describe in here, there’s always something very real that I make as my focus. It might be a moment in which my partner opens up to me with a story or a moment of unexpected closeness. It might be something as simple as a gesture, or a sensation I want to remember. It might be a moment of awkwardness, of embarrassment, or even of insecurity and shame. It might simply be a funny story with a punchline, or a laugh shared during the sex act itself. The sex I have is often good, and hot, and connected, and intimate. Sometimes it’s bad, or messy, or unpleasant. Sometimes the guys with whom I hook up are weird, or turn out to be assholes. Sometimes the sex is inappropriate but hot nonetheless. My point is that I really haven’t seen much writing about the kind of sex that I have on a very regular basis. Sex had by someone who was reflective, and self-aware, and honest—by someone whose agenda was not to promote himself as the ultimate sex god. Sex from the point of view of a simple, (sometimes) humble man who enjoyed his life and took advantage of its opportunities. I already wrote from that perspective in my personal diary. Sharing those entries, and giving voice to that perspective to a wider audience, was my original goal. I simply didn’t expect it to become as popular a destination as it has become. Tomorrow, with your collective indulgence, I’ll be talking about some of the lessons I’ve learned over the last year: the good, the weird, and the ugly. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here First of all, let me apologize for the brief hiatus I had to take, the last couple of days. I came down with a chest cold in the middle of a week of snow. Nothing to exacerbate a cough than having to shovel the driveway in the frigid air every couple of hours, let me tell you. I seem to be on the road to recovery, though. Thanks to those on Twitter who've been sending me good wishes and virtual chicken soup, all week. Secondly, I'd like to thank those of you who added my special profile as a friend on Facebook over the course of the week. I went from zero buddies to over eighty of them in no time flat. I usually post special notices as well as notifications of blog updates on my account, so if you haven't added me yet . . . you know what to do. Once again I'll be rounding up some of the questions I've answered over at formspring.me, this Sunday. If you've got questions you'd like answered—something personal about me, or advice you'd like to hear, or just some oddball query about my personal habits—bop on over to my profile there and let loose with your queries. I'm always happy to answer them as long as they're not abusive or super-repetitive. (I've told everyone how big my dick is, several times, thanks!) With Earl you mentioned being bound and gagged and fucked in his sling. Do you do any of that to your bottoms? I don't own a sling. I have bound bottoms, yes. And I've fucked restrained bottoms in other men's slings. Do you think your wisdom could be effective in moving our race forward? I think the amount of wisdom I possess could probably fit into a good-sized thimble and would barely be effective in moving forward a potato sack race. But thanks for your confidence in me. Do you have any issues with body image? (Looks, weight, features, or anything else) if yes, what is it and have you done anything to deal with it? Yes, often. I have issues with my looks (they suck!), my weight (I'm huge!), my features (they turn the unwary to stone!), and just about everything else (it's all tragic!). And I more or less have had them all through my life. What I basically do to cope is to recognize that any spiraling negative thoughts I might have are overcritical and, in the end, not really relevant to the quality of my life as it now stands. Then I try to be a little kinder to myself. For the most part, when I manage to do that, I'm happy with myself as I am. Does your friend Felchingpisser have a blog i can follow? Nope. That's why I let him post his experiences in mine. He'll be posting a new escapade later this week, in fact. Hmm... if legality wasn't an issue what's the youngest age you'd have as a bottom? Legality is always an issue in these types of questions. From my own history, I can state that I was happy to have started when I started. I recognize, however, that my precociousness doesn't suit everyone--and there are men of double the legal age who are still not suited to be having sex. Have you ever had someone who totally worshipped you physically? What special things did he do to show you, or was it more for his own enjoyment that he did it? The men I've met into cock and body worship have varied in talent and skill, but I've had a couple who were very, very good at what they call worshipping. Usually it involved total oral and manual attention to every inch of my body for very long periods of time, alternated with a lot of outright piggy sex. I like those men. Do you still swim and play tennis? What else do you do to stay slim? Thank you for thinking I'm slim. My ego appreciates the strokes. Despite my father's best efforts to turn me into a killer tennis partner and college tennis player, I always hated the game. So no, I no longer play tennis and never will. I enjoy swimming. I walk a lot in good weather, and occasionally do yoga. Mostly, however, I watch what I eat. What would it take for a guy to get to top you? 1. A lot of attraction on my part. 2. He'd have to inspire me to trust him. 3. He'd have to be willing to take it easy on me. It's been a while. And most importantly (and maybe even contradicting #3), 4. There'd probably be a point at which he'd simply have to hold me down and just do it. What if a guy wanted to lose his virginity to you, topping and bottoming? Would you let him? Since I haven't had the opportunity to do that before, I find that idea very attractive. i need to be fisted now, never had it before, help me in Atlanta. I know that in Hotlanta, that partyin' town, there are plenty of fisting tops who'd be more than anxious to help you out. You need to find one who's worked with first-timers before, however, and you need to communicate with him your experiences and limitations so that he can work with you. Fisting's not always a 'now' activity. It's one that requires some experience and training, and a lot of preparation. If you're willing to put in the effort, however, I know that there are men who are willing to work with you. Would you lick my feet while you fuck me? I have done that with guys, yes. If your sex life is normal, why would 400,000+ read you? Your writing may be OK, but so are too many other gay sex blogs to count. I believe people read me because I'm relatable, approachable, and because I help them put their own sexual experiences into some kind of perspective--at the very least, they know that their impulses and desires aren't unique. They know that it's possible for someone to appreciate them for their sexual desires. It's precisely because I communicate the normality of my experiences, while celebrating the unique moments that make them, that keeps my readers coming back. And above all, they read me because I write about these things well. My writing is much better than OK. I know my strengths. Don't be such a Bitter Betty. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In all my life, I’ve only spent the night with four people—and I’m talking about the entire night, sleeping in the same bed, not some late-night screwing followed by a pre-dawn scurrying home. There’s my spouse, of course. There was a man a little over a decade ago for whom I had deep feelings, and with whom I spent a romantic night in which he lost his virginity . . . as a top. There was a reader of mine who offered me shelter on a long drive home. And then there’s Spencer. There’s only me rattling around my house these days, so I couldn’t begin to count the number of times Spencer has stayed overnight. He knows he’s welcome anytime; all he has to do is announce his intentions. We have a rhythm to our evenings, now. Most nights of the week he’ll drop by after he’s finished for the day at the studio. I’ll leave the side light on and the door unlocked for him. He’ll park in front, let himself in, kick off his shoes, and come find me wherever I might be. It’s always a genuine pleasure for me to see him. Even in his winter coat and his head half-covered by one of his outlandish hats, the sight of that square, dimpled chin and scruffy jaw, those tea-brown eyes, always sets my heart thumping. He’ll shoot me one of those slow, easy smiles, and we’ll embrace, and kiss. He’ll make himself something to drink as we talk about our days, or he’ll head to the pantry and help himself to some of the snacks stockpiled there. Some nights I prepare dinner for the both of us. I miss cooking for others. Having someone to take care of comforts me as much as it does him. I’ll stir-fry some curry noodles with vegetables and chicken and crushed peanuts on top, or I’ll grill some salmon and vegetables, or a chicken breast with rice. Or we’ll simply grab a bag of chips, a tub of hummus, and head for the den. We watch television on the sofa, him at one end and me at the other, our legs entwined. Over the course of the night we’ll swap positions several times. Sometimes he’ll have his head in my lap, and I’ll absently stroke his hair while we watch the screen. Or he’ll pull me down so that I’m reclining on him with his big arms around me. We’ve watched our way through seven seasons of The X-Files this way, and all of Full Metal Alchemist and several seasons of silly sitcoms from Comedy Central. Lately I’ve gotten him hooked on Doctor Who. We’ll pause the playback frequently to discuss what’s on the screen, or go off on a tangent together, talking, snacking, and companionably spending the evening hours. It’s cozy and warm, like napping beneath a warm blanket on a winter’s night. It’s a domesticity with Spencer that I know I can’t always have, but is still as sweet as honey upon my tongue. Even as it’s happening, I know that I should be storing up the sensations and the memories, saving them for lonely nights in places I don’t know. Then ten or ten-thirty will roll around. Either he’ll stand up and stretch and announce that he should get home, or he’ll turn, give me a smile, and say, “Want a sleepover?” My answer to that question is always yes. This is the part of the night I like best. He’ll put his cups and glasses and plates in the dishwasher while I turn off lights. Up the stairs he’ll climb. He leaves his clothes in a trail to the bathroom—a shirt on the bedroom dresser, his jeans draped over the upstairs hall railing. Socks on the bathroom floor. Save for the one time I saw him in long johns, he doesn’t ever don underwear. He’ll turn on the shower and collect his things—he has his own face wash, his own soap and shampoo. The toothbrush I’ve given him, he’ll into the stall with him, and disappear into the clouds of vapor billowing over the shower door. It only takes a few moments for me to ready myself for bed. I brush my teeth and take out my contacts, then leave the bathroom and slip into bed. I sleep naked. One of the great pleasures of winter for me is feeling my nude body against the soft flannel sheets, contrasted by the cool cotton weave of the pillows. In the low light I’ll wait as I listen to the sound of splashing water. It’s followed by the rush of the faucet as he turns it, and then the roll of the shower door on its rails. Through the heating vent between the bedroom and bath I can hear the soft noises he makes as he towels himself. Then he’ll pad into the bedroom, cocking his head as he walks and giving me a goofy grin. Sometimes he’ll be wearing an athletic tank top with straps that accent his pecs and strong shoulders, and show off his big arms to their best advantage. It’ll cut off just above his round, pert dancer’s butt, which gyrates cheek by cheek as he pads to the bed. Sometimes he’ll come out of the bathroom still steaming, naked and unashamed of his body. He’ll pop his iPod into my clock radio, and start his sleepytime playlist. Into the sheets he’ll slide, his butt snuggling firmly against my dick. We spoon together well, Spencer and I. I’ll insert my left arm beneath his pillow and let my arm hold him tightly around his chest. I’ll slip my hand beneath his tank top and run it over the firmness of his abdomen, the broad muscles of his chest, the soft planes of his nipples. Then he’ll turn his head and kiss me over his shoulder, long, slow and deeply. “I like sleeping with you,” he’ll always say, in the softest of voices. “I like you being here,” I’ll tell him, as I run my hand down his side, past his knife-sharp hipbone and around the soft peach-like globes of his ass. Often at this point we’ll make love. Sometimes we won’t; we’ll just cuddle, and talk in low voices. But this is what’s vital, on the nights he sleeps over, what I really want to remember: the warmth of his damp skin against mine, like a stoked furnace. The smell of him, all soap and shampoo and astringent. The unguardedness of his voice, as we murmur in the darkness. The cat, settled between our two sets of feet. His mouth against my ear, his hands on the back of my neck. The gentle strains of music from the speakers, playing a lullaby. And finally, the heavy breathing coming from between his lips as the motion of the day slows to a standstill, and he falls asleep, protected in my arms. It’s not fucking. But it’s important. I want to store up as many of these nights as I can, while they last. And I want to remember them in all their simplicity and beauty. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A couple of weeks back I requested that my readers send me photos of their beautiful asses, so I could share them with the world. You guys responded with an avalanche of ass. I got—and still continue to get—so much ass that for the first time in my life I can almost say I have too much ass. I had to designate a special email box to hold it all! This week we've got another four asses on display. Beautiful butts, all of them. I hope you guys will share your enthusiasm for them in the comments. And if you've sent in your ass and we haven't gotten around to it yet . . . don't worry! It's not because I haven't found your ass worthy of inclusion. All ass photos I receive will get included in here, eventually. I'm merely displaying them in roughly the order in which I've received them, so don't feel slighted. E. Young Master E. is a southern boy whose ability to handle a vibrating dildo is unparalleled. (Either that, or he has all of the business end of a garden hose up his rear.) I've seen his other photos and guys, this young man is a looker. Definitely an Ass I'd Like To Fuck. Lucas There's just something about those asses with a just-paddled look, isn't there? The redness just makes me kind of want to get in there and add to the damage. Or fuck the hell out of the butt. Or something. Lucas' beautiful butt already makes me horny, but that red welt is the cherry on the cake. BtmBeef BtmBeef is one of those brave readers willing to share his email (which I've linked to his name above), for those readers who'd like to contact him directly. I'm also proud to say he's a fellow blogger. Follow his perfect ass at the iSuck uFuck blog (and do...because he's good). Versatile RAW Piggy Bottom Last, but definitely not least, we have frequent commenter Versatile RAW Piggy Bottom showing off his assets. It's hard to tell how versatile he is exactly, from these those, but I'm definitely getting the raw bottom vibe, somehow! That's a beautiful ass, Vers RAW, and I'm proud to have you visiting here. Let's have a round of applause for all these fine butts! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “No one else makes me feel the way you do.” Scruffy looked up at me from only inches away as I drove my dick deeper inside him. The sensation of my hardness parting his hole and popping open the next ring made his neck drop. He stared through the slats of the blinds for a moment, jaw slack, the legs hooked over my shoulders the only thing separating our chests. Then he raised his head again and, with great effort, looked me in the eyes. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.” It’s the kind of thing every top wants to hear. Hell, it’s the kind of thing any man wants to hear, as he’s slamming his third load into a quivering, helpless hole. I’d heard from Scruffy earlier in the week. It’s been almost four months since I saw the kid last; we’d had a brief exchange of text messages around Christmas and the new year, but the trip never materialized that he’d planned to my area from middle of the state, where he’s currently living with his mom. He told me Wednesday that he was planning to visit his ex in my city while he checked out a couple of job opportunities. My Saturday was his, I’d told him. He showed up around five, after a day of visiting with the ex and driving to various potential employers. Scarcely was he in the side door when he bolted into my arms. Our mouths devoured each other. His teeth raked against my lips, my jaw, my chin, as he tried to inhale me all at once. I shoved him against the stairwell wall, causing his breath to huff out in a rush. For long, long minutes we made out in the dusk without saying a word. “I missed you,” he finally said. “Fuck, did I miss you.” “I did too, kid,” I replied. His face was clean-shaven. Without the layer of scruff and fuzz he normally wears, he looked like an all-American kid—curly-haired and blond, freckled, and blue-eyed, the kind of boy every suburban moms dreams her son will grow up to be. We kissed some more until he pushed me away and gasped for air. Those Delft-blue eyes bored into mine. “Am I still your boy?” he wanted to know. “Yes,” I answered. “Of course. You’re still my boy.” He responded by melting into my arms. Once we were upstairs, we rolled around on the bed for long minutes, kissing and grinding our denimed crotches against each other. He didn’t want to talk much. He didn’t want to catchup, or tell me about his job hunt. He wanted my mouth on his, my beard on his neck, my hot breath on his ears. He wanted me pushing my hardness into his own, and my hands down his pants with my fingers teasing and probing at his hole. When I pushed him against the pillows and yanked up his shirt to rake my face against his tender, white skin, he smelled of soap and body spray. I knew he’d sprayed himself with that stuff because he’d known I’d smell it it on him, and tell him how nicely scented he was. He flushed with pleasure when I did, and I had a sudden mental picture of him in his ex’s bathroom, showering for me, washing his most private places. Spraying himself with Axe where he knew my face and lips would travel. Primping in the mirror. Selecting his clothing, knowing that I’d remove every piece. The care he’d taken flattered me. I repaid it by undressing him. He obediently lifted his hands over his head while I removed his shirt like I was undressing a little boy, then raised his hips for me when I unfastened and slowly pulled off his jeans and shorts. He murmured with pleasure when I laid my clothed body atop him, roughing up his soft, pale skin with my denim and my stubble. My nails raked across his nipples, causing him to gasp. And then I sucked him, slowly and carefully, savoring every drop of pre-cum that began to ooze from the tip of his thick meat. Scruffy managed to gather enough force of will to roll out from under me. I allowed him to unbutton my jeans and to pull them off. On his knees, he removed my socks and rolled them together. Then he settled back onto the mattress and took my dick in his mouth. “Did you miss that dick?” I wanted to know. “So much,” he gasped, releasing it momentarily. “Fuck. I needed this dick. It was made for me. Your dick was made for my holes.” “Good boy,” I whispered, and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck. Over the year and more we’ve known each other, Scruffy has learned how to suck me—long, slurping strokes with a minimum of teeth and just the right amount of pressure. He’s had me close to coming many times, with his blow jobs. That’s more than most men can say. Saturday he was doing something different from before, however. Like most guys, Scruffy can get most my dick in his mouth, but the last two inches are a little bit of a challenge. Saturday he decided to try out some newly-acquired deep-throating skills. He would take as much of my dick in his mouth as possible, then push down onto my fuckspear to impale his own throat. Every time he did it, I’d feel the effort it would take him. Then I’d feel the delicious tightness of his deepest muscles around the head of my dick, and the feeling of his lips around the lowermost base of my shaft. For a moment, he’d struggle to control his choking. Then he’d back off, breath in heavily through his nose, and try it again. I let him deep-throat me for a long, intense few minutes, and then I pulled him off my dick. He stared at me with what I could only interpret as adoration. Tears were streaming from both eyes; his face was streaked, wet, and red. “You okay, boy?” I asked him. “I want to make you feel good,” he rasped out. “You are.” I cupped his chin in my hand. “But are you okay?” “Yes.” My dick couldn’t have been harder if it had been carved from diamond. There was great need in his expression. I released his chin and let him go back to deep-throating me. “Show me your ass,” I said a few minutes later. He let my rigid tool drop from between his lips. If his face had been red before, it was now bright scarlet from exertion. The tears he’d cried had made him look like a beautiful mess. I slapped his butt once he’d knelt on the mattress and turned around. The impact made him shout, then groan. I could see the vaguest of imprints from the impact on his white skin, darkening where I’d struck. When I parted his cheeks and let the tip of my tongue flick out, his gasped; his back arched, and his dick stiffened and pointed toward the wall. I ate his hole like a starving dog, gnawing at the cheeks and leaving behind reddened flesh and bite marks. I didn’t care. When at last I had him ready, I lubed my meat and drove in the first two inches. I wanted to shove it all inside, but I paused, and instead threw back the question he’d asked me upon greeting. “Are you still my boy?” He whispered in the half-dark, “I’m always your boy.” “How bad do you want this dick?” “I love your big dick,” he whimpered into the pillow. “I’ll do anything for your dick. Please. Please, just give me your dick, sir.” He sounded sincere. I drove it home, causing him to yell, to grasp at the pillows, and to clench his teeth and hiss with pleasure. We fucked for a long hour or more. I topped him slowly and deliberately, humping on top of him with long and slow strokes while he craned his neck over his shoulder so that our lips might meet. He received my first load with thanks and tears. My second load I pounded in from behind again, but had him kneel on the bed’s edge as he shoved his butt in the air. And the third load, long in coming, arrived as I fucked him face to face, with his knees hooked atop my shoulders. It was in that position that he made his astonishing confession. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.” I stopped for a moment. “Do you mean that?” I asked. It’s the kind of thing guys say in the heat of the moment, to keep the action hot, to make the moment seem more real and romantic than it might really be. The tears on his face might have been left over from the deep-throating he’d attempted an hour before, but I suspected they weren’t. “You know, the first time I came over here, my legs were shaking so bad that I could barely walk to the door, I was so excited about getting you. You give me exactly what I need,” he whispered in a rush. “Nobody else does that.” Again, he was sincere. “Thank you,” I told him. I stared into his eyes. I’ve known Scruffy a long time. I can’t say I know him well. He doesn’t open up to me in the same way Spencer has. We don’t have a lot of long, in-depth conversations about his thoughts, his hopes, or his likes and dislikes. What I do know about him is very little, outside of what we do in bed. But when we are in bed, and when we are connected dick to hole, I know he’s giving his all. He’s right there in the moment with me. And that’s rare. “Thank you for saying that.” “It’s true,” he said, his beautiful eyes open and wide. “I wish it could go on forever.” My hand brushed the hair from his eyes. “And I wish I could make everything bad go away from your life.” He stared at me, then blinked. His mouth raised to offer me the sweetness of his red lips. My hips took over. I couldn’t help myself. That moment of perfect intimacy swelled my desire, and I fucked him hard and without restraint. When I came, it was almost painful—as if I slammed into a wall of sensation with such force that it wracked my entire body with sensation. We weren’t done, though. Not by a long shot. While Scruffy played with himself, I positioned him so that his head hung over the bottom of the mattress. Then, my forearms resting on the bedroom dresser, I squatted over his mouth with my ass, and lowered it up and down on his face. I talked dirty to him and told him to eat his daddy’s hole while he gulped and grunted and groaned. When he came, I was basically wiping my ass crack over his face, moving back and forth to as my dick and balls dragged over the kid’s forehead and nose. His orgasm was noisy, and explosive, and seemed to last for long minutes. Then he subsided, and on trembling legs I lowered myself to the bed beside him. We lay curled up next to each other for several minutes, not talking, but holding and touching each other as the last of the sunlight faded. Then he stumbled to his feet and we both dressed in the dark. “Sorry I’ve gotta go,” he told me, as he pulled on his shoes at the back door. “I’m supposed to go out to dinner with a couple of friends and the ex.” “Where does he think you are?” I wanted to know. Scruffy always stays with his ex while he’s in town; they seem to have a good relationship as friends, though no longer as lovers. “Oh, he knows where I am,” Scruffy laughed. “I’ve shown him your photos.” My eyebrows raised. “Really!” “Oh hells yeah.” Impulsively, Scruffy pulled my face down to his. “No way I’m not going to brag about getting you. Are you shitting me?” When he left, I had the biggest grin on my face. He’d flattered and surprised me yet again. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here You guys kept asking. Because I don't already sink enough hours of my day into my blog and into Twitter, or into answering your emails, I've gone ahead and this week created a Facebook account for my readers to befriend. And please, feel free to do so. You won't find me playing Farmville on there, and I promise I will never ask you to join my Mafia family. You might get the occasional hello or update, though! I'd like to say I appreciate everyone's patience last week, when I was out of town for several days. And I very much enjoyed reading your comments on this week's open forum. The topic of age difference seemed to strike a chord with a lot of people. One of the things I've been liking about my open forum topics is that although it sometimes seems as if we've all had different experiences, most of us can still come to a mutual appreciation of where we've been and how we've gotten there. To me, that's golden. As usual, I'm taking this Sunday morning to round up some of the questions I've addressed over on formspring.me, that website where you can address anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) questions to your favorite (or not-so-favorite) people. If you've got questions, please feel free to ask them. I'll answer anything that's not super-repetitive or outright obnoxious. Do you only play with guys or have you been with other women as a married man? While I find it easier to hook up with men, enjoy the simplicity of a no-strings man-on-man encounter, and am more attracted to men in general, I have many times been with women in the last twenty years--primarily with married couples. Just not lately. If you started dating someone, and later found out that he had an extensive sexual history (only from before he was with you) would this end the relationship for you? under what circumstances would this be a problem or ok? Jeez, I'd hope he would have a history. The guys who do are usually much better in bed. When you lost your virginity did you bareback? Indeed I did. Have you ever fucked a guy as agile as Spencer? If I have, he didn't use that agility during sex. He should have. I like it. Dude, I love your blog, is that your cock in the pic? If you mean the photo at the top of the screen, yes, that's me. On your blogs banner picture (which is pretty friggin hot, btw), is your wedding-band-hand showing on purpose? I'm not sure about on purpose, but it is showing. I don't usually remove it, but that's about the height of mental calculation that went into its inclusion in that photo. do you wanna lick christiano ronaldo's body? all of his body? I had to look him up, I'm afraid. No, not really. I want to get fucked for the first time, any advice? I would suggest that you look for a guy who's going to sensitive to your virginity, for one thing. The first time's always different from how you might imagine it, and someone who's going to be aware of your needs, and who'll also do what's necessary to get the job done, is probably going to give you your experience. I would also suggest playing with toys, if you aren't already, in order to get used to the strange sensations. And finally, make sure you're clean for your first experience, so that it's pleasant for everyone. Of the $530 you deposited (The Bank Book - 12/9/10) - what was your average take and/or how many men did that represent? And how long did this pimping of your services go on? I know I'm looking forward to more stories. That initial deposit was from the first couple of parties I worked for Earl. I'd usually be in a dark bedroom, available for use; there was a tip jar by the bed for men to drop bills into after they'd dropped loads into me. I'd guess that the initial amount would've been from parties attended by a total of about 15-20 guys--some of whom tipped more than others. The pimping of my services by Earl lasted until I went away to college when I was 17. The pimping of my services in general still happens, from time to time. :-) How do I add an 'ask me' box like this on my blog? If you go to 'settings' on the formspring site, then select 'widgets,' you'll get instructions how. On average, how long do you spend writing a blog entry? Are they written on the fly, or days before you post them? Do you have any writing "routines" i.e. Favorite place to write, time of day, etc...? The only time I've written blog entries days before I post them is when I've known I'll be on the road for a solid week. Usually I write the posts the afternoon or the evening before they appear, and post them so that they appear in the early morning. I try to take no more than an hour to write a blog entry, but some of them have taken considerably more than that. I usually write in my den, on my notebook computer, earbuds in, music loud. You mentioned you like Treasure Island videos. Do you have a favorite video? Which TIM bottom would you like to fuck? "Breeding Mike O'Neill" is my favorite TIM flick. From start to finish, an excellent film. If I had to bottom for any guy in the TIM stable, it'd be Jesse O'Toole. He'd make me yell, I know, but his fuck technique is highly attractive. "Breeding Ian Jay" is a close second in my favorites. Ian Jay and Christian would be the top TIM stars I'd enjoy fucking. Have you ever had sex in your room at home? Did you worry mom would hear? When I was younger? Yes. During my college years and the couple of years after when I was in graduate school, my room in my parents' house was in the basement. It had a separate entrance. At night, after my parents were asleep, I'd sneak guys in through the cellar entrance and very very quietly let them bang me in my bed. It was a naughty thrill, and a big turn-on for many of the men. More...

Boycunt, I'll agree with you that nudity and going commando aren't inherently sexual. Barebacking, however, is the essence of sexual. All three are natural, I agree!

So does that mean I can come visit and stay nude?