TheBreeder

For me, the confidence is what's sexiest, Tainted. Experience generates confidence, and therefore a lot of the guys with the sexiest pig attitudes are the ones with years of experience behind them. Once in a while it comes in a younger package. I just take 'em as they come.

No way did I think you were suggesting that, Euro! I was just trying to avoid sounding like I was full of myself! (Well, more than usual.)

@Belfast-Bottom: Thanks for the compliment! I'm vain enough to love it. Like you, I think guys get better looking as they age, when they take good care of themselves. (And by that, I mean a minimum of teeth-brushing and good grooming, not an excess of gym time.) I used to think I had a cut-off point in my mid-sixties, but then I had an affair with a guy a decade older than that, which was pretty intense. So I've learned never to say never! @eurotop: Your experience parallels mine pretty exactly. I'm not going to boast that I can get any bottom I want, any time, but I can certainly pick from a number of young bottoms when I'm horny and available. There really are that many young guys out there who want a daddy breeding them. Since I'd been taught that gay men should pretty much hide in a cave for the rest of their lives after about thirty-five, it was something of an eye-opener to discover otherwise. @RawPozLust: Amen, brother. If someone's going seriously to be so limited as to let something like age (or race, or what have you) put them off a guy, the chances are pretty good I'm not going to find them engaging enough to play with, anyway. And you're looking good there, mister. @squaredolphin: I agree with you. If the chemistry's there, everyone has fun.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve seen them online as long as there’s been an online to cruise—those guys with handles like lookin4yung or boilovindaddy. You have, too. You know exactly what those profiles are going to say even before they read them. Successful older gentleman looking for younger companionship. My birth certificate might say I’m a certain age, but I sure don’t feel it! YOU: Should be under 25, slim/swimmer’s build to muscular, no overweight. VGL only. And of course, they’re accompanied by a photo of a gray-haired chubby guy with unkempt facial hair, and bad teeth. In his pill-covered cardigan, he’s got an appearance roughly as stimulating as that creepy elderly uncle of yours who drinks too much at family holiday gatherings and farts secretly into the den sofa. I look at these profiles and think to myself: Sad. Ever since I’ve been in my twenties myself, I’ve always told myself I wouldn’t be one of those men. I didn’t think there was ever a chance of it happening, for one thing. When I started having sex, all the guys were older than me. (When you’re thirteen, everyone’s older than you.) In my college and grad school days, I was every sugar daddy’s boy. In my mid-twenties I was still chasing after men in their forties and fifties. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I really even chose to have sex with other guys my age—and frankly, they never scored that well on my post-coital report cards. The moment I turned thirty, something curious happened. I became invisible to a vast percentage of the gay population. Older guys who liked getting banged by young stuff overlooked me when that first digit changed from a 2 to a 3. And younger guys didn’t even seem to see me. I remember on several occasions accompanying grad students in my department at the time out to a club or bar, and noticing that when their peers would come over to chat and introduce themselves, they’d shake hands and introduce themselves to all the other twenty-odd-year-olds, and completely skip over me. It didn’t even seem a deliberate omission; it really was as if I was invisible, a ghost, a phantom occupying no space, over whom their eyes could glide without notice. At the time, it was a bit of a shocker. I thought to myself that if I’d ever wanted to make it with younger guys, well, that time had passed. And then I hit my forties. There’s something about a man of moderate good looks in his forties that has proven to be irresistible to a lot of guys in their late teens and early twenties. I honestly can’t explain it. One of my favorite young correspondents recently commented that he was in a ‘daddy phase’—and maybe that’s simply what it is. I’m not going to question the phenomenon. I’m just going to revel in it. The problem is that I when I think about how many pretty young things who’ve slipped between my sheets since I turned forty, I think I might as well stop trimming my nose hairs and get out that pill-covered cardigan. Because I suddenly feel like that guy. You know. The creepy one. I feel like I should be assuring people reading my profile that I don’t look forty-seven, and that what is age but a number, anyway? Look at the facts. A boy half my age has been occupying most of my time of late; he sleeps over half the time. Scruffy was even younger. Most of the guys with whom I hook up online are under the age of twenty-one. If I strip down and show off on a web cam, most of the guys cheering me weren’t even born when Marisa Tomei won the Academy Award. The only saving grace, I think—and trust me, I cling to it—is that I’ve never been one of those you must be 25 or under! chappies. I take ‘em as they come, pretty much, and still like a variety in my sexual diet. Older men I find very attractive. Younger guys (and when you’re forty-seven, everyone’s younger than you) I also enjoy meeting. I have great encounters with men around my own age, for the first time in my life. It’s not that I can’t afford to be picky. I’ve just learned that discrimination based on specious criteria is silly. Secretly, though, when I go out at night with Spencer to a restaurant where other gay couples are eating, I see them look at us and size us up. And though on a certain level I think they’re admiring Spencer and then regarding me with envy and thinking, Lucky dog, part of me worries if mentally they’re consigning me to that corner of the sofa with the creepy, farting uncle who paws the boys and is a general embarrassment to all. So in this edition of the open forum, I ask my readers: what’s your opinion on the issue of age difference? Do younger men have a daddy phase? Are older guys automatically creepy because they have a parade of younger studs in their bedroom? Or in these free-for-all days, am I being super-sensitive about it? I’m honestly curious to hear your opinions. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I step into the men’s room, Monday night, the familiar scent of urine and floor cleaner assaults my nostrils. I breath it in, letting it fill my lungs, and inflate my dick. I’m already half-hard by the time I’m unzipped, and pissing into the closely-spaced floor-to-waist urinal. Once I’m done, I shake, and stroke, and wait. It doesn’t take long until I hear the tentative creak of the door leading to the parking lot, and the sound of footsteps. New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home. My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break. When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night. He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth. He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes. Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles. I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods. I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward. His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder. His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck. Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling. There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick. My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on. “You fuck bare?” he whispers. I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back. “I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers. Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take. “Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.” When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor. We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time. I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon. Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Two things intimidate me: wealth and muscles. This man had both. His apartment building at a good, recognizable address had an actual doorman—a stout, bearded fellow who, when I supplied a first name and an apartment number, nodded me on my way to the elevator. The eighteenth-floor lobby of the older building contained a lacquered table that sported out-of-season flowers exotic enough that I didn’t recognize them. I rubbed their cold and rubbery petals between my fingers to see if they might be real. They were. I always feel outclassed by displays of wealth because, frankly, I don’t make that kind of money myself. Nor, in my professional capacity as a working artist, am I likely to. Whether it’s displayed as real estate or tasteful and expensive decor, or whether as a flashy car or tailored clothing, money always throws into sharp relief my imagined shortcomings. When I walked down that hallway, with its plaster carvings along the walls, trimmed in gold enamel, I could feel myself shrinking inch by inch. I respond similarly to men with muscles and looks. When they approach me online, as this one had, my initial reaction is always a confused, Why? In the harsh exposure of ripped pecs and defined abs, what self-confidence I have withers like a night-blooming flower in the sun. A man with the beauty of a model, when he asks if I’d be interested in having sex with him, doesn’t validate me; he makes me want to cringe and beg off with timid excuses, and makes me hope that any passing—probably drunk and/or hallucinogenic-inspired—interest he might have in me evaporates. It’s stupid, I know. Even as I have those initial reactions, I’m already telling myself the same things I’ve told myself time after time, for years now. People with money need dick just as badly as the rest of us. And guys with porn star looks can sometimes be attracted to me. I can’t always prevent my instinctual, knee-jerk reactions, but I can mitigate the extent to which I let them rule my thoughts and behavior. So as I walked down that hallway and pushed open the cracked doorway, I threw back my shoulders, held my posture high, and regained the height I’d seemed to have lost in that long walk down the expensive runner. I almost lost that stature the moment I stepped into the room, though. The door awkwardly bounced for a moment against the long latch that had held it open. As I slid it shut, the first thing I could see what his ass. That beautiful ass, rounded by hours of squats, pointed directly at the door. The man’s living room was lit only by candles and the lights of Manhattan filtering through the gauzy blinds of the many windows. It was enough for me to see him clearly, however, bent over the low-backed, richly-upholstered sofa. He knelt on the parquet floor, knees separated to expose his hole to the air, thick thighs spread, narrow waist bent. The elaborate tattoos running down one side of his back ran parallel to the ceiling above. His hands and head rested on a chenille spread he’d thrown down to protect the sofa’s fabric. Between them, his fingers sported four rings. All gold. All heavy. It was a stunning sight. He looked back over his prone shoulder to look at me through the darkness. I took off my jacket and let it slide to the floor. In my jeans and Converse and my cheap Old Navy zip-up sweater with the racing stripes, I felt decidedly low-rent. Yet when he said “I want you, buddy. I wanted you since I saw that dick of yours,” his voice betrayed his need. At that moment, he didn’t give a shit how many gold cards I carried in my wallet, or what I drove, or how often I worked out. He knew what he wanted. I had it. All I had to do was deliver. I kicked off my sneakers as at the same time I unzipped the sweater and let it fall into a heap. I shimmied out of my jeans and shorts. By the time I reached him, I was naked. My dick was three-quarters hard, squeezed and full by the chrome cock ring in which I’d stuffed my junk. He eyed it hungrily. “Fuck,” he said. Then he repeated the word. “Fuck. That’s gonna be in me?” I nodded. “Fuck.” Without hesitation he swiveled from his spread-eagled kneeling position over the sofa to face me. I’d thought he’d intended to gobble down my dick, but instead his brawny forearm reached up and a massive hand curled around the back of my head as easily as a grapefruit. He pulled my face down to his, and drowned me in a deep, sloppy kiss. I’m a man of six feet and three inches. Although this man lacked a full half-foot on me, he outweighed me by a good four pounds of sheer muscle and looked as if he could bench-press a bus. He made me feel tiny. No small feat. When his enormous lips finally released mine, I had to resist the impulse to wipe my face with the back of my arm. His dark eyes glittered in the night as he stared at me. His face was as handsome as it had been in the photographs—even more so, perhaps. His body was perfect. Sculpted in a way achieved only by men who make their looks their life’s mission. He’d poured a huge chunk of his life into creating that body. Soon he’d be giving it to me. “You kiss good,” he growled. “Damned good.” I thanked him. “You fuck as good as you kiss?” I inclined my head to the side and nodded. My dick had been hard the moment our mouths connected. I spread some spit on it and let it slide through my fingers with a slow, overhand stroke. “Show me.” I positioned myself behind him, both of us on our knees. I’d already discovered during our make-out session that his hole was pre-lubed so heavily that two of my fingers slid in without resistance. I knew I wasn’t going to have any problem entering, but he clutched the back of the sofa with such grit and determination that one would’ve thought he was bracing himself for a Civil War battlefield amputation without benefit of anesthetic. He certainly made enough noise as the tip of my meat pressed against his hole and drove home. On my side it felt like slipping between warm, wet curtains. He made it sound as if I was popping his virgin cherry. He grunted, and groaned; he dug the top of his head into the cushions and let out a roar into the seat. I felt him adjust his legs and spread his knees further apart. I didn’t bother going slowly at first. He didn’t need it. I fucked with a deep and steady rhythm, pulling nearly all the way out and then plunging back in again. I let him feel the ridge of my cock’s head stretch and rip at his ass lips with every stroke. The repeated sensation made him tense his shoulders. His back muscles flexed, rigid and defined. Absolutely stunning. I picked up the pace and fucked him more vigorously. My nuts slapped against his skin until he reached down between his legs and grabbed them, manhandling them as if trying to coax out the load. With another deep, chest-vibrating grunt, he lunged off me and landed on his back on the throw. He lifted his tree-trunk legs into the air, inviting me to continue, and urging me to do it quickly. I thrust myself back into the warmth, the wet depth of him, and felt his heels dick into my shoulder. He slapped his pecs and pinched the dark smudges that were his nipples as he stared into my eyes. The man wasn’t just porn-star quality. He acted like a porn star, the porn star of his own apartment, his own film currently shooting in his mind. He bit down on his lower lip and clamped down me. From time to time he muttered the word fuck to himself, his eyes half-shuttered and his face increasingly taut. Mostly, though, he communicated in growls and grunts and with an insistent bucking of his hips. If he’d not been still grabbing onto the sofa’s back as if fearful of falling, and if he’d had an extra pair of hands, I know he would’ve pulled me in deeper and deeper still. He hadn’t touched his dick the entire time we’d been playing. It wasn’t the biggest dick. It didn’t need to be. It was a good five inches of thick meat that slapped against his flat belly as I fucked. And just as I began rounding the corner and getting close to shooting, it began to unload. My eyebrows rose as it began to spew out rope after rope of sticky fluid that decorated his sculpted chest. He watched first his dick with a smirk of satisfaction, and then my face as as watched his cock jump and spit. His tongue darted out obscenely, as if trying to snatch some of the sperm on his pecs. He then licked his lips and urged me on. I didn’t need much urging. The sight of him shooting without touching was stimulus enough. I grabbed hold of the marble pillars that were his thighs, and attempted to yank myself deeper into him. My cock shuddered and twitched. I unloaded into him, feeling his prostate nudge against my head with every shot. “Fucker,” he growled, still running his fingertips over his nipples. “You fuckin’ fucker. You know how to fuck, don’t you? Yeah. You do.” I nodded, trying to gather breath and senses alike. I knew how to fuck even wealth and muscles like him. When I exited the building another load and forty-five minutes later, the doorman’s fingers brushed the front of his cap as I smiled and nodded in his direction. I stepped out into the city street and for a moment didn’t notice its clamor at all. Then I turned and walked in the direction of the train, feeling three inches higher. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Readers, I got back from my jaunt to the east coast late last night, and have to hit the ground running with some projects today. I might not get around to much of a post until tomorrow. On the plus side, I did return with a few new adventures to share. And a quick administrative note: for those of you who've sent in butt shots for the Reader's Asses features, don't worry! I'm getting around to you! I'm posting the butt shots not in the order I find them hot or anything. I find them all hot! I'm posting them roughly in the order in which I received them. And since I received a lot of them, and am only posting four or five guys at a time, it might take a couple of weeks for me to get around to posting your ass. But you know my motto. I will always make time to get around to your ass. See you guys later! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I hope you guys don't mind, while I'm out of town to visit the family, that I'll be sharing a Valentine's Day round of reader asses with you. What's that? You like asses, too? See, I didn't think anyone minded overmuch. My reader ass feature, of course, is when I take the photographs my readers have sent me of their beautiful rear ends and share them with the world. If you'd like to participate—and I hope you do!—please read my original post and send me your photos as instructed within. And of course, please let the men who've been brave enough to share their dirty photos with us know how much you appreciate each and every one of them. Because I surely do! Christopher Christopher, Christopher, Christopher. This photo is designed from the ground up to incite a top man to do damage to your hole. The submissive posture over the unmade bed, the towel, the nuts dangling between your legs . . . mmmm. What the Breeder would do to you! Lucky My new friend Lucky is 25 and lives in Wisconsin. Apparently they make other fine things than cheese, there. Actually, after viewing these photos, I'm not really sure who's lucky--me, the 25-year-old, or the guy dicking him? Amazing photos, Lucky! Spaniard Spaniard, under another nickname, is one of my frequent commenters. English is not his native language, he tells me, but then he writes comments with a fluent command of the language that outshines mine. And then he has the nerve to have a PERFECT ass—meaty, lightly hairy, and slightly red from my handprints. Okay, that last part was my imagination working overtime. But you can see how the photographs inspire it to do so. Eddie Eddie is another reader who's spoken to me off the blog, on my Adam4Adam profile. He gets a lot of compliments on his ass, he tells me. Gee, I wonder why? It's just one of those typical round bubble butts that makes me lose control of my salivary glands, right? But then he had to go and dash my hopes by telling me he wasn't much of a bottom. Eddie, my friend, you might not be much of a bottom. But you've sure got a hell of a butt. Many thanks to all my readers for their butts, in this latest edition of the Reader Butts project. We'll have another installment next week, sometime. Happy Valentine's Day, guys! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm still on an out-of-town jaunt today, but you know how I am. I can't leave you guys alone for very long. We'll be having another round of Reader Asses tomorrow for your inspection—and trust me, there are some particularly good ones in this round. (And still more to come!) But today, as usual, I'll be addressing some of the reader questions I've gotten in the past few weeks on formspring.me. The site's a place where you can ask me anonymous questions about which you might've been curious. I've answered hundreds of questions so far, so I know it's difficult to know exactly what's been asked and what hasn't—but I'll answer anything that hasn't been asked ten times before, or isn't too rude or invasive. So hit me up. You might be surprised by an answer. And of course, you can always ask me via email, if you'd like a more personal response. I try to get to all my emails sooner or later. If someone says something hurtful to you are you able to ignore it or do you believe it and feel bad? Or do you handle it differently? For many years, if someone were to say something hurtful to me, I'd do all of the above—namely, I'd pretend to ignore it as if I hadn't heard the remark, and then I'd proceed silently to believe it and feel badly about what was said. These days, however, I'm confident enough that if someone says something outrageously hurtful, I'll point out how the remark hurt, speculate on the intentions behind its making, and suggest that the person who uttered it refrain in the future. If someone makes enough rude remarks, I'll remove them from my company on a permanent basis. Have you ever experienced someone using sex for bartering while playing a board game? I have not! However, I did once play strip gin rummy. I won. Did you ever have sex with someone you really didn't like? Yes. Once because he irritated me so much that it was easier to have sex with the guy than to carry on a conversation. And also because I was pretty sure he'd go to sleep afterward and free me from his company. Which turned out to be the case. I enjoy your blog and appreciate your questions and answers. Any tips for helping me become a better cocksucker? Thank you. My basic advice would be to watch your teeth, to work on your lasting power, and to swallow. Always. On a broader note, though, I tend to prefer cocksuckers who remember that I'm the one being serviced, and who follow my rhythms and desires—not the guys who want me to pop a nut in three and a half minutes because that's when their jaw gets sore. If I feel that the cocksucker is rushing me or is on a deadline, I get turned off immediately. Are you loud and verbal when you fuck someone? When you cum? Verbal, yes. Loud? Not always. I can whisper a stream of filth into a guy's ear while I'm pinning him down just as effectively as I can shout it. If you could change the age at which you lost your virginity, would you? Would it be younger or older and why? I'm happy I lost my virginity at the age I did, and to the person who took it. It was a positive experience, so I wouldn't trade it for anything. Ever had sex in a public park? Starting when I was twelve, yep. What would you do if someone made a movie about you based on this blog? Demand my cut of the profits, then sit back and watch the pennies roll in! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A recent posting in the always-provocative Mr. Gloryholejunkie’s blog got me thinking over the weekend about nudity around the house. And it got me thinking, as Mr. Gloryholejunkie’s posts often do, about my own stance on the subject. I’ve mentioned several times that my parents were proud liberals, politically, and pretty progressive sexually. My dad proved to be a pretty cool cat when faced with irrefutable evidence of my teenaged whoring, and a decade ago was the prime force in getting his mainstream protestant church officially to become one of those rebel congregations that dared to welcome gays and lesbians into its pews. My mother, when she was alive, was enormously popular with my college friends because of her frank advice about contraception. The day I walked into a female friend’s dorm room and found my mother there, surrounded by a gaggle of sophomore women, with a cervical cap in one hand and a contraceptive sponge in the other, is one that’s going to be difficult to erase from my memory. Together my parents were kind of an unstoppable homespun Masters and Johnson who developed a Sunday school curriculum examining sexuality and the Bible. I remember sitting in the corner, wishing myself invisible, while they relentlessly examined everything from ancient circumcision rites to masturbation to homosexuality to prostitution. This was for a high school Sunday school class, mind you. Apparently no one in the church knew what was going on until toward the end of the year, when a minor scandal arose because my parents had refused to adopt a stance of The Bible says DON’T DO IT on all the good stuff. But by then, the class was almost over. When it came to nudity, my parents’ approach reflected the sexual liberation of the late nineteen-sixties and early nineteen-seventies. Nudity around the house was pretty standard. It certainly wasn’t enforced, as in the nudist camp fantasies many men seem to have. It wasn’t really discussed as a lifestyle choice, or even recognized as one. It was simply casual and commonplace. If my parents had to change from around-the-house clothing into their work duds and I was talking to them in their bedroom, for example, they wouldn’t shoo me away. My mom frequently would take her early evening bath and then stroll around the house in the buff, cigarette in hand, as she tidied up or looked for where she’d left her murder mystery. My dad would putter around naked after he’d gotten up in the mornings, moving from bedroom to his morning pee in the bathroom, down to the kitchen, where I’d find him munching on toast with his legs crossed and his balls dangling. My mother once scandalized some fourth-grade friends of mine by nonchalantly strolling through the living room wearing nothing but a skimpy yellow bikini bottom, a pair of Jackie O. sunglasses, and an open book pressed against her naked bosom, on her way to a topless sunbathing session on the patio. And the first time my spouse accompanied me for a visit home, twenty years ago, my father sat on the edge of the guest bed wearing nothing but a fishing cap talking endlessly about his recent appointment to a museum board. They were innocents, really. Both my parents tended to assume that everyone else saw nudity as they did—simply as nudity and nothing more. They found no erotic context to it, no threat of sexualizing the home. Just something that, if it happened, simply was what it was, with no hidden meaning or intention. I naturally went through a period of extreme modesty in my early adolescence, particularly in that awful stage in which boys experience spontaneous erections that won’t quit, at the slightest puff of wind. (You know, that awful stage that lasts from roughly eleven until the mid-forties.) But something of their philosophy stuck, because I tend to be of the same mindset as they were. If I’m nude around the house—and I often am—it’s simply because I took my clothes off for a shower, or have just risen from bed (I’ve slept nude all my life), and haven’t bothered to put anything on yet. In front of my loved ones I’ll walk upstairs and down in the buff, not really thinking about it. My household always used the hot tub in the nude. On hot days, inside the house with the fans on high, finding me or anyone else topless or bottomless or the combination of the two isn’t really that uncommon. For me, I’m more often bottomless than topless. I simply tend to get cold, otherwise. Either way, it’s just nudity. Nudity was fairly common when I was a kid at the YMCA, where I learned to swim. The sexes were strictly segregated using the swimming facilities in the nineteen-seventies, when I first was dragged there for lessons, everyone from the wrinkly old men to the youngest boys took their clothes off in the locker room and didn’t put anything back on until they left. (Was there anything else in the YMCA other than the pool? I certainly don’t remember anything.) We’d slap our feet across the wet tiles of the locker and shower rooms, down the half-circular stairs to the pool area, and splash around in the water like happy nude little otters. It was giggle-worthy and weird the first couple of times, but after that, none of us gave it a thought. A decade later when I was the instructor of some of the boys’ swimming classes, it was the same—though I heard the local Y changed their policies a year or two after I moved from Virginia. A couple of months ago, in a group of men roughly the same age as I, I mentioned the nude swimming and was met with cries of incredulity. None of the other men had ever heard of such a thing. And if they had, it was weird. Worse than weird. It was depraved, and perverted. And that’s when it occurred to me how far our culture has swung in the last two or three decades. We can’t separate nudity from sex, not even in the most innocent of contexts. A simple tale of swimming without trunks becomes, in these times, fraught with implications about who might have been looking at what, or thinking dirty thoughts, or planning terrible, nasty deeds. The mental associations I have with the concept of nudity are fairly sunny and innocent, but in these days people regard them as rimmed with dark shadows where lurk the perverted, with their even darker motivations. So I ask my readers: issues of self-image aside, what were your experiences with nudity growing up? Did you see your parents nude often, or was it something so unimaginable that my tale of bohemian innocence seems utterly foreign to your sensibilities? Did it influence you as an adult? I’m curious to hear your responses. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here And the ass keeps coming in. I asked for photos of your butts to share with the world—or at least that small portion of the world that visits my blog—and you guys have been responding with some of the most mouth-watering, juicy photos of your rear ends that I've had the pleasure to see. I'm hoping to keep this an ongoing feature, so please! Keep sending in your photos! See my original post about the project and send me your butt. Anonymous Person This unnamed New Englander tells me that the top in the photo is a former regular fuck buddy whom he misses. You know what, anonymous? If I was fucking a butt like yours on a regular basis, I'd probably miss you right back. Isn't that a beauty? HornyCub A bottom who knows how to finger his hole is always a good thing. A bottom who knows how to finger his hole and has low-hanging big nuts is even better. Let HornyCub know how hot that butt is, guys! Dirty Dave Now, I have to confess something. I am fascinated by what I am assuming is Dirty Dave's closet. And by fascinated, I mean that I'm utterly jealous of all the walk-in space he has for his clothing. But you know what? I didn't even notice that closet the first four or five times I stared at Dirty Dave's photo, because I was mesmerized by his beautiful butt. That is one ass that I would love to work over. AJ AJ is one of my Twitter buddies, and I can confidently say that the rest of him is just as hot as the butt he's bending over and showing here. One of these days, AJ, I am going to visit and mount you. One day very soon. I'm going to be on a personal trip over the next few days, so we'll have another round of reader asses this next Monday. Tomorrow, we'll have another open forum topic on the subject of nudity around the home. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This post is a continuation of last week's The Other One.) The Topher sprawled on his back before me in Earl’s living room, back in my teens, resembled the Topher I’d known from the community theater a few years before. His face was still round, but the skin was no longer creamy-smooth; he had a mild case of acne spotting his cheeks. His hair had once been precision cut with the roundest of kitchen bowls. Now it was stringy, and greasy, and hanging in ribbon-like lanks around his head, spread out on the rug. Like me, he was skinny, and pale. His little dick, however, was brown and soft, and lay at an angle across his thigh. His eyes were bleary and barely open as he continued to stare at me. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, his speech slower than he probably realized. “I thought you were one of those . . . goody-goodies.” He snorted at his own joke, then shared it with the strangers sitting on the sofa, over his shoulder. “He was one of those goody-goodies.” The other men chuckled, though not so much at his joke as the fucked-up state Topher was in. He was obviously high, had been high for a long time, and intended to stay high for some time to come. Jim laughed loudest of all the men. He seemed delighted at the random stroke of chance that had reunited me with another kid from my past. My panicked brain kept imagining him quizzing Topher after the party, pumping him for every bit of information about me that he could, gleaning for tidbits he could use against me later. “He’s not such a goody-goody now,” Jim was smirking already. I have always been stubborn enough not to acknowledge the taunts of those trying to irk me in public; I ignored Jim and swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to consider what to do. Fleeing would only let Jim know that Topher’s presence bothered me somehow. It would make me look like a coward. Besides, there was Earl, who was still standing beside me, his hand on my bare shoulder. I wasn’t going to let him down. “There’s a difference between being a good kid and a goody-goody,” he said, squeezing my neck. All the other men in the room nodded, as if Earl had said the wisest thing in the world. It was his party, after all. His house, his rules. The words were all the encouragement I needed. If Earl wanted to see me make it with Topher, I’d make it with Topher. Although I didn’t really want to. Normally with Earl, I had enough guidance that when I was thrown into an unknown situation, I could play along and know fairly confidently that what I was doing was right. If I was tied to a bench with my hole exposed, for example, I knew that I was simply supposed to serve up my ass to Earl and whatever guest he was hosting—to keep quiet, to endure, and to thank them afterward for the loads and the dicks they’d given me. If I was servicing multiple guys with my mouth, Earl’s hooked finger in my collar would indicate to me which dick I should be slurping, on, and for how long. Here, though, there was no such structure. He didn’t tell me what to do, beyond pushing me gently in Topher’s direction. I stumbled forward, staring at the stoner in his supine position. It seems impossible to me that Topher could have been conscious enough to summon the emotion, but I thought I detected challenge in those slitted eyes. Probably, though, he was as scared as I. The men sitting around on the living room furniture were mostly masturbating themselves, though not with any real vigor. It was the sort of masturbation men perform out of idleness, or when they’re trying to keep themselves erect. A couple of them had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Most of the men were in their late thirties, forties, and fifties; not counting Topher and myself, Jim was the youngest guy there. Their eyes glittered as I stood over Topher and lowered myself down to him. I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I let my instinct take over. Some distant part of myself acted as observer, and tried to imagine what Earl and the others would like to see. I lay my body atop Topher’s, surprised at how warm he was even in the air-conditioned breeze. Then I pressed my lips against his and made out with him. From around the room I heard the sounds of stirring as men sat up and leaned in, the better to observe. I knew I was doing something right when from deep within chests emerged grunts of approval and arousal. Topher’s breath carried the acrid stench of stale weed. He wasn’t really a good kisser at all; he pursed his lips too much and when his tongue emerged, it was with the tentative motion of a turtle peeking his head out of a shell and just as quickly withdrawing. The guys watching didn’t care, though. Jim didn’t care. Earl didn’t care what either of us was actually feeling. They were simply engaged by the illusion of it. They wanted to see two boys in lust with each other, and as mutually reluctant as Topher and I were, we were close enough to the fantasy that that they never glimpsed our mild repulsion. All I had to do was put on a good show, I realized. I didn’t really have to enjoy myself. This understanding freed me from my fear. If all I had to do was put on a good display of wild sex, that was something I could do in my sleep. I’d done it every time I’d pretended to enjoy a fuck in the park that had been average. I’d done it every time I’d told some deeply closeted married dude that his tiny dick had been the biggest I’d ever seen. And now, tiring of trying to get Topher to open his mouth and take my tongue, I did it by going down on him. Topher’s dick was nowhere near as big as mine. He was a small boy, far shorter and slighter than I, though we were the same age. He didn’t harden in my mouth, either—but he didn’t really need to. I went down on his meat like a starving boy and kept my mouth on the base as I tried to ignore the strong smell of weed in his pubes. I grunted and groaned and gasped as if he were choking me, though he wasn’t. I ate him like he was my last meal, and the men around the room nodded and watched with hard, aroused eyes. “Sixty-nine!” Jim barked out. “Sixty-nine each other!” Jim wasn’t the man who gave me orders. When I looked up at Earl, my mouth still on Topher’s dick, his nod was barely perceptible, but it was there. He wanted to see it, too. My mouth still concealing Topher’s soft dick, I swiveled my body around so that my own dick was positioned over the kid’s mouth. I had a perpetual hard-on during my teen years. Into it or not, if it involved sex, my dick was cooperating. I felt Topher’s lips latch onto me. When they did, his own dick began instinctively to swell. After a few moments, we genuinely were sixty-nining each other. I didn’t have to fake sucking on his dick any longer. I suspect that, like me, Topher was simply not used to anything outside of his usual bottom role. He was probably uncomfortable and ill at ease at having to meet the kid who was ‘the other one’ to him—what’s more, the rival who got Earl’s bedroom and bed at the parties. The favorite child. Somehow I knew all this and pitied him a little for it. It made me feel a little tender-hearted toward him. “Now fuck,” Jim commanded. Topher and I backed off each other’s dicks and looked at each other. He looked as confused and unsure as I. I’m not sure how we got through the next few minutes, frankly. Neither of us was a natural top. I’d never fucked at all, before that moment. I’d been on the receiving end and knew in theory how it worked, of course. But it was like years later when I learned from my father how to drive. Though I knew the routes to take from years of sitting in the back seat watching my dad chauffeur me places, when it came for me actually to steer the wheel, it was tough to remember where all those streets actually went. I took a turn at inserting my dick into his hole and pushing it in and out, but I didn’t get any actual pleasure from it. When I sat on Topher’s dick and bounced up and down on it a little, he actually softened again and I ended up having to grind and fake intercourse. The men around us were more visibly excited, now. Some of them were masturbating each other, or openly sucking and playing while keeping their eyes on the performing boys in the room’s center. They seemed satisfied. Jim, however, wasn’t. “That’s not how you fuck,” he said, lunging from his seat and pushing me off Topher. He grabbed the boy’s ankles and hoisted them into the air. Topher, caught off-guard, hit his head against the floor with an audible thunk. Jim shoved his dick into Topher’s hole and pistoned in and out with a jackrabbit motion. Topher was stoned enough that he didn’t really seem to know what was happening; he still looked at me, where I knelt several feet away, as Jim popped his little dick in and out of his hole. Eventually one of the other men did the same with me. Topher and I lay next to each other on the living room rug. On our backs. Legs in the air. Used. For how long it went on, I don’t know, but it was what I wanted. I was back to what I enjoyed. This is what I remember most about that afternoon, however. At some point after the living room free-for all began, I remember drifting out of a fuck-haze to find Topher’s hand resting on mine. At first I thought it was a casual accident—his hand had simply landed somewhere, and it happened to be on the back of my hand. I let my own hand remain where it was, though, and soon after I felt his fingers twine through mine. Together, for what felt like the longest time, we held hands as we allowed ourselves to be fucked and filled. We hadn’t clicked when we’d been urged to go at each other, but there was something simple and sweet about his hand in mine. The men changed places, but we remained connected. Maybe it meant nothing to him. I don’t know. Maybe, in his haze, he didn’t know whose hand he held, or that he held a hand at all. To me, though, all these years later, with Topher gone and Earl and Jim vanished into the past, I like to think it was his way expressing something—perhaps gratitude at helping him through a difficult situation, during a tumultuous part of both our lives. I feel the ghost imprint of his hand on mine even through the years. I like to think it meant something. I wish I'd known then exactly what. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve been writing lately a lot about my power-bottom experiences in my teens. There are certain things about those days I remember vividly. My pulse still quickens at the memory of how my heart would pound at the sight of a toe tapping beneath a toilet stall, as if it were trying to escape from my ribcage. My dick twitches when I recall the looks of invitation on men’s faces, or their intense stares as they unzipped and proffered their dicks. I remember the deeds themselves, and a surprising number of the men with whom I performed them. What I don’t remember much, however, is actually receiving pleasure in the act of being fucked. As I've written about before, my unfortunate run-in with sexual assault more or less erased all that from my memory. It shocks me to think how long it’s been since I successfully had a dick in my ass. It’ll have been nine years, later this year. Now, lest all my bottom fans run frantically around, frightened that the sky is falling and that I’m wanting make a late-life flip from top to bottom, I’d like to assure you that nothing of the sort will be happening. I’m one of those guys who’s wired to fill hole. Fucking as a top occupies my fantasies. It’s what I assume I’ll be doing when I meet a guy—even when the guy is another top stud. I’ve always been sexually adventurous, however. If an opportunity for fun presents itself, I’ll rarely pass it up. So a part of me is a little sorry I’m not a bit more versatile, if only in case a hot man somewhere wants to flip-fuck with me. (I’m nothing if not accommodating.) And there is the occasional guy whom, when I see him, makes me want to bend over and offer my hole. The last man who had me was one of those. It was almost nine years ago on a cruise ship in Alaska—a gay cruise. I’m honestly not convinced that if one’s going to take a gay cruise, it should be to Alaska. Though it’s fun to be in the company of a huge number of party-hardy gay guys in a floating hotel in which the booze flows freely and there’s a party every night, I actually think it might be best to do so when the destination allows the party boys to remove their clothing. Sure, there were a few shirtless men circulating in the sixty-degree weather and the tepid sunshine as the ship pulled out of Vancouver. A few of them kept up the brave front as we sailed further and further north, appearing in nothing but their trunks out on the decks in the nipple-hardening chill the next morning. After we’d navigated into an endless fog bank that lasted for the rest of the trip, however, out came the hoodies and the puffy parkas and the blankets handed out by the ship’s personnel. For the rest of the trip, all the hot-bodied gay men did nothing but shiver beneath layers and layers of wool while huddled beneath heating vents. When we landed in a fishing town where the salmon were spawning and struggling to get their egg-bloated bodies upstream, the seagulls were casually swooping down, picking them up with their beaks, and dashing them onto the sidewalks and docks below where the tourists were walking. It was like one of the more bizarre Biblical plagues, visited upon hordes of shrieking and scattering gay guys. Some of us haven’t been able to eat salmon since. (Okay, I’m talking about me.) Anyway. There were several cruising spots on the ship where men would hook up for sex. One of them was the steam room in the spa—but there were so many men crowding in there to escape the pervasive cold that I never found it very appealing. Another was supposed to be the ship’s nude sunbathing deck—an elevated deck at the back of the ship that wasn’t overlooked by anything, and was supposed to be off-limits to kids during the ship’s regular excursions. The area was pretty much off-limits to anyone who wanted to keep warm during the Alaska trip; at night it was totally dark and fairly deserted, save for the shadows of the men lurking and looking for someone to take back to their rooms. I met Max there the first night of the cruise. It was difficult not to notice him—at six-foot-six, he was taller than even I. In the inky darkness of the Pacific night he was a long and lanky shadow dressed in denim. In the murk I could only make out a few distinguishing characteristics. He had a furry face. That much I could feel when he pulled me roughly to him, pressed his lips against mine, and thrust his tongue down my throat. His head was bald, I discovered when I pressed my cold palms against it. It was cold and windy and loud up there. When he shouted into my ear, “You’re comin’ back to my room,” I knew from the rich accent that he was Australian. I wasn’t disappointed when I followed him from the deck into the light below. Max was a handsome fucker. He was at least a good twenty years older from me, tall, muscled, and arrayed with an elaborately-groomed set of mutton chops, a long wild-west mustache, and a biker’s pointed beard. A spike jutted out on both sides of his nasal septum. He was hot. When we passed guys in the hallway, they’d stare at his imposing figure and their eyes would linger with respect and yes, lust. He was actually so hot, in a sexy-daddy way, that I was slightly afraid he would attempt to ditch me in the labyrinth of hallways on the way to his cabin. He didn’t, though. Once we were alone in his room, he shut the door by shoving me against it and giving me another of his tonsil-exploring kisses. His hands clutched my shoulders, as if he was afraid I might try to squirm away. “Damn, boy,” I remember him saying, after we both emerged from the kiss gasping for air. “I am going to enjoy you.” He stripped. He wasn’t wearing much—a much-distressed denim jacket, a pair of tight, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. The boots took some maneuvering to remove, but the rest came off in a few fluid motions. He stood before me, naked. That’s when I saw he was inked from his neck to his ankles. There was barely a square inch of skin that didn’t have some tracery of the elaborate, body-encompassing blue-green design upon it. It was tribal in influence, and had elements of snake-inspired art. When I stared at him the first time and took in that mobius strip of a tattoo with no beginning and ending that encircled every limb to the wrists, every hollow and crest of his musculature, he looked almost as if he was standing in front of a projected slide of some conceptual line drawing. Only his head, his hands, his dick, and his feet were white and untouched. My dick had been hard since we’d kissed up on deck. When he ripped off my clothing and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, I was even harder. The first thing he did was to kneel between my legs and chow down on my dick like a madman. It was some of the most aggressive and hottest head I’ve ever received. I buckled and snorted; he grunted and slobbered on me so determinedly that my nuts were slick and wet from his drool. When at last he backed off me, pinching his own eraser-sized nipples as he stared me down, my dick was swollen and red, and as thick as if it had been in a vacuum pump. “My turn,” he said, in that accent that had charmed my socks off. He spent the next few minutes giving me a vigorous face-fucking. His dick was uncut and as large as my own. He didn’t waste time trying to let me accommodate it in my throat, or get my lips accustomed to the girth. No, he was in there and in all the way, right from the beginning, choking me, or seemingly trying to. Then I found myself on my knees, ass up in the air, and his face buried between my cheeks. He ate me as vigorously and deeply as he’d sucked me, until I was nearly unconscious from pleasure and whimpering more than I was breathing. Then I felt cool air on my hole as he stood up, followed by the tickle of his warm cock head against my opening. Normally at this point I protest, but he didn’t give me a chance. “You are so damned fuckable,” he said in that Aussie accent, melting me. “You a top or a bottom, mate? Not that it matters. You’re my bottom tonight.” Then he went in. There was pressure, and a sharp, hot sliver of pain like a splinter passing through flesh. Then, miraculously, there was nothing but pleasure, and my desire to be filled. When I masturbate and think about bottoming, I think about that night with Max. I think about how he made me want him inside me without my even knowing I wanted it. I think about how he simply took me at the right moment, and made it work. I even think about how he made me ride him at several points. Even when I was bottoming regularly I hated sitting on a guy’s dick and bouncing up and down on it. The fact that Max made me want to do it, and to like it, is remarkable. Max fucked three loads into me that night, and I was grateful for each. The last of them he did outside, on the balcony of his stateroom. It was frigid outside and I was naked and hate the cold. I had the metal bar of the glass wall cutting into my chest as he bent me over and pounded me against it, and I dislike the touch of icy things. I was being fucked, which normally I don’t like. My head was out and over the water, from high above, and I’m not fond of heights. On either side of his stateroom balcony were men watching us in the dark, observing as the naked, pierced, tattooed giant held me down and drove his dick into me. And I hate being watched. (Oh, who am I kidding? I love being watched.) Somehow, though, all those little things I normally don’t like combined into one giant ball of love. It was, in a lot of ways, the best single fuck I’ve received. Especially when, afterward, he bundled me up in a blanket and made out with me on his bed, to warm me up again. I was Max’s little toy for the rest of the Alaskan trip. I ate at his table. We went on excursions together. Max’s buddies were mostly men into leather who referred to me as ‘his little pup,’ as if I was some teenaged twink Max had hired for the night. Some nights I’d fuck Max. Most nights, Max fucked me. “You’ll remember me,” he predicted when we parted in Vancouver again. Then he gave me one of his grins, ruffled my hair, and marched off with his backpack. He was right about that. I certainly do. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Spencer describes himself as a lover of dance and not a performer. He doesn’t live for the spotlight on the stage, he tells me, quite seriously. He loves the discipline of the art—the rehearsals, the countless runs of the routines, the quest for perfection in a form that’s so fleeting and ephemeral. From the way he describes his passion with dance, I always get the impression he’d be perfectly happy stretching and exercising and running routines from day to day, without ever stepping foot onstage. But oh, what a performer he is. It’s Saturday night and I’ve forgone my usual frivolities to attend the second performance of his I’ve seen. The skies dumped four or more inches of snow on the area in the short space of time in the afternoon. The freeways were in terrible condition still. Only a single lane had been passable the entire twenty-five miles I’d driven. The audience is pretty sparse. Many of the middle-aged women who comprise the vast majority sitting in the little theater are still shivering in their woven scarfs and wooly knitted hats. Then the show starts, and for a couple of hours, we forget about the mountains of snow outside. We forget about winter’s bite, or the long rides home we’ll all have to make. There’s just the music, the dancers, and the light and the darkness. I’ve told Spencer many times that he has a face made for the stage. His features are sharp, but broad. Every nuance stands out on his face in the dreamy, comedic piece in which he first appears. His seated body sways with the other two dancers onstage, gyrating slowly to the bossa nova rhythms. All three move and swivel in unison, like riders on a turbulent bus, but it’s Spencer that steals all the focus. It’s at his quirked eyebrows the audience laughs, at his comic reactions that a wave of enjoyment sweeps the room. They’re emotions that would be lost on finer faces, but on Spencer’s, they could be seen in the very back row. There’s pure joy in his stride when he leaps across the stage and lands nimbly on his foot. He uses a metal folding chair in his choreographed moves, brandishing it skyward and twirling it through the air as gracefully as any human partner. When he at last sets it onto the ground, it connects to the floor without a sound. I marvel at that kind of control. Then he’s up and over the chair, his hands gripping its sides as his legs stretch and extend in the air, then descend in a display of artistic athleticism to which I could never aspire, admire it as I may. His right palm lies flat on the floor; his right foot connects several feet to the side. His left leg and arm rise high in the air and stay there for what seems an impossible amount of time. Not once do they waver. His flesh becomes rigid, rooted to the stage, until at last on a downbeat he swoops back into the dance, part of the trio once more. He’s breathtaking. Two hours later, and another twenty-five miles of snow-covered roads, we’re together again. I’m naked between the flannel sheets, warm below layers of blankets. There’s a cat at my feet, already asleep. From the bathroom Spencer pads in, straight out of the shower. He’s nonchalant about his nakedness as he tosses his clothes atop the dresser. When he slides between the sheets, the temperature rises dramatically. He’s moist, but the sheets absorb the extra moisture quickly. “Hi,” he says, with a little boy’s smile. “You were amazing tonight,” I tell him. He pretends to ignore the compliment, but I can see the corners of his mouth lift. He snuggles closer, next to where I’m propping myself up on an arm. I enthuse about his musicality, his long lines and fluid movements. Whether or not he dances in order to perform, his performance moved me, and I tell him that, too. “You make me so proud,” I finish. “You have amazing control over your body.” “That’s not true at all,” he says, his liquid brown eyes staring up at me. “You do.” My lips part to ask a question. Then I understand what he’s telling me.I turn off the lights, and slide my naked self down into the sheets, dragging him with me into the depths. I have all night for this performance. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's true: I am officially another year older today. Whether I'm wiser has yet to be seen. At an impromptu gathering of friends the other night, I received this birthday card: A 'Hello! My name is...' card featuring the scrawled words Ima Tramp about sums it up, doesn't it? However, you'd think that a tramp would've at least gotten his birthday spankings by now . . . and my butt is still waiting for that. I'm still accepting submissions (so to speak) for the Reader Ass feature—we'll be having a couple of them later this week. If you're not averse to showing off your butts for thousands of guys to see, click the link above, follow the instructions and share your photos of your ass with the world! If you'd like to share your butt with me . . . well, it's cold and snowy where I am, but my sheets are flannel and you're more than welcome. As is our Sunday custom, I'm rounding up responses to questions I've been answering on formspring.me, the service that allows you to ask anonymous question of your friends without having to feel like a fool for asking. I'll answer just about anything that's not super-repetitive or super-silly, so if you're looking for advice, need an ear, or are just plain curious about something let 'er rip. My question is: What is your take on religion? I'm not a fan of organized religion, quite honestly. At its worst, it tends to be used as a tool of oppression and an excuse for ignorance and inaction. I do like the little ideals that religion is supposed at its core to hold true: kindness to each other, belief that the union of people can produce all manner of good out of the reach of any single individual, and of providing help to the needy. Those can be appreciated by even the most atheistic soul. Which writers inspire you? You remind me of a pornographic of Bill Bryson (that is a compliment by the way) Thank you. I'm not familiar with Bill Bryson, and had to Google him. I've listed some of my favorite writers before—they include a bunch of Victorian novelists, twentieth-century satirists and humorists, and the odd speculative fiction novelist who looks at our world and sees vastly different universes that shed light upon it. I don't really model my writing style on anyone's, however. It's a shaggy mutt of its own creation. Ever done coke off an erect penis? I've never done coke, so no. When you masturbate while alone, are your major fantasys about being on the top or bottom? What is the fantasy line that gets you off the hardest? I have fantasized about both, but usually my fantasies tend to be about me topping. When I am in a rare bottomy mood, I'll jerk off thinking about taking it. Are you a size queen? If so, what's too small? Not really. Dick size is not at the top of my list of things to look for when I'm cruising for sex. I have been turned off by a couple of guys who had mere nubbins, though--but I think it was because they weren't honest with me and had sold themselves as six- to eight-inchers. Would you prefer the lights on or off during sex? I prefer the lights off. I like to be able to see what I'm aiming for, in a sense, but I find that dim lighting contributes more to my mood and makes me feel less self-conscious. What's the one thing you would do over again? (and you can't say 'nothing', that's not an option) When it comes to sex, there's a lot of stuff I'd be happy to do again, and only a handful of things I wouldn't repeat. My philosophy is that I'll give almost anything a go. Letting fear hold one back from enjoyment is silly and limiting. Just saw that you're a Doctor Who fan. Do you have a favorite companion of the Doctor's? Who is it? He or she can be from the new or old series. Mine is Martha, mostly b/c that was the 1st season I watched, so Freema & David both have a place in my heart. I love Martha a lot--better than Rose Tyler, truth be told--but my favorite New Who companion is probably Donna Noble. I'm also a Rory fan. If River Song counted as a full-fledged companion, she would probably be my top choice. Of the Old Who companions, I most like Sarah Jane Smith and Peri Brown. Although Leela kicked butt. How many Christmas presents did you return this year? Absolutely none. I don't think I've ever returned a Christmas gift. Who has the better English department, U Conn or U Mich/Ann Arbor? You ask almost as if you think I have a personal reason for knowing the answers. I'm not really aware of how good U-Conn's departments are, but U-M has a very good department, if you're thinking of applying. If you found out that you were positive, would you stop fucking guys bareback? When I meet someone for sex, my partner's serostatus is always a part of the negotiation process, regardless of my own HIV status. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here During the first three or four months of my relationship with Earl, during my mid-teens—and by extension with his boyfriend, Jim—I always felt as if I were in competition with the unseen entity known as ‘the other one.’ There were a few hard facts I’d gleaned about the other one, just from how he was invoked in casual conversation between the two, from time to time. I knew he was roughly my age. I gathered he lived in the same vague area of the city, when they would talk about how it was a ten-minute walk from their place back to his home. And I guessed from Earl’s comments about how I was his blond-headed boy that the other one was probably brown-haired. I can’t say the jealousy I felt when the other one was mentioned was anything more than theoretical. I knew Earl liked his boys. Back in the nineteen-seventies, I might add, the notion of an adult man enjoying sex with a sexually-mature youth not yet of voting age didn’t carry the hysterical edge or the knee-jerk cries for incarceration and blood that it does today. To most people it might have carried an unsettling ‘ick’ factor, but no more than homosexuality at large. No, it was a very different time, and I wasn’t bothered that Earl had a taste for younger flesh. After all, I was still doing anyone and everyone in the parks and restrooms, when I wasn’t at Earl’s place. Most of the sense of competition came directly from the back-handed comments Jim would make from time to time. “The other one’s more fun,” he’d complain, when ordered by Earl to take his joints to his room. Or, when Jim would mount me and stab at my ass for a minute with his hard little prick, “The other one’s a better fuck, don’t you think?” From Jim I gathered that the other one was more likely to go along with Jim’s suggestions, to flatter Jim, to curry his favor. Whenever it involved sharing a joint or popping some pills before, during, or after sex, the other one always came out ahead, in Jim’s eyes. But then again, for all I knew, Jim was equally as snide with the other one when they were fucking. Even in my teens, I could tell Jim had that kind of personality. From other men at the parties Jim would throw, though, I got the impression that I was better fuck. I knew (and still well know) that men will say all kinds of things when they’ve got something desirable between their legs, but I would get a thrill of a special kind when one of Earl’s buddies would whisper into my ear, “Yeah—you’re a lot hotter fuck than the other kid. I like the way you give it up.” Or, as they grunted into me, they might confess that they’d fucked the other one, but had saved their loads for my hole. I already cherished the thought that while the other kid was relegated during the parties to the mattress in Jim’s third-floor garrett, I was cushily installed in the master bedroom. The star role, as it were, seemed to be mine. Knowing that staved off Jim’s barbed words. Most of the time. It was on a regular weekday afternoon at Earl’s house that he asked a question of me. By then I’d worked maybe two or three of his parties and knew what to expect from them. I’d collected my money from the tip jars; Earl had helped me open up my savings account. I remember I was in Earl’s bed, legs in the air while he handled me like a wheelbarrow. He was in mid-fuck when Jim loped in, cigarette in hand. I was aware of him watching us from the doorway for a long time, and could smell the stink of his tobacco clouding the room more and more with every passing moment. Maybe he’d been warned by Earl that day not to interrupt him at his pleasures. I don’t know. I do know that unlike other afternoons, Jim didn’t interrupt the sex with his mundane observations and concerns. He waited until Earl’s cock had released a huge load of semen into my bowels and slid out, still red and throbbing, before he picked something between his front teeth and said, “So did you ask him?” Earl didn’t even look at him. “Not yet.” “Are you gonna?” Earl stared at the wall over the bed, obviously annoyed. “I intend to.” “So ask him.” “I’m going to.” “So ask him!” In my memory, Jim and Earl seemed always to be having these pointless back-and-forths that often blossomed into full-blown arguments. I always remember Jim starting them. Admittedly, I’m biased. I worshiped Earl in those days. He was the handsomest man I knew. When he paid attention to me, a blush would form at the very tip-top of my skull and travel down my spine, leaving me flushed and tingly and out of breath. Jim never had that same effect. I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him. In many ways, I felt his emotional and maturational superior. Earl sighed, though, and gave in. He fell onto his side and hugged me close. From the doorway, I could hear the faintest hiss as Jim took a long, heavy drag on his cigarette. “You know I’m having another party a week from Saturday,” Earl said. I nodded. “Some of the guys coming want to see you and my other boy.” That news didn’t surprise me. Usually most of the guys at the parties I’d done had visited either me or the other one, or more likely both. “Together,” he clarified. “While guys watch.” Oh. That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Unlike a lot of kids, I wasn’t interested so much in others my own age. My peers frightened me. They said mean, blunt things that adults never did—well, most adults, excluding Jim. People my own age saw me as awkward, socially undesirable, a nerd. Men saw me as desirable, exciting, someone they wanted to have. Kids my own age were likely to betray me, as I found out with my friend Mark. I would’ve soon as pursued sex with another fourteen or fifteen-year-old as I would have developed a fetish for humping a refrigerator. So I didn’t like the sound of it, much. I preferred thinking of the other one as someone whose path would never cross with mine, a soul confined to Jim’s bedroom when I was in the house, or who only visited when I wasn’t there. No, I didn’t want to do it at all. I didn’t give voice to the doubts, though. Instead I asked Earl, “Would you get off on it?” He nodded, his eyes locked with mine. His dick stirred against my pubic hair. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual. If it pleased Earl, it would please me. I’d learned that lesson quickly. “I’ll do it then. Sure.” From his smile, I knew I’d said the right thing. The day came of the party. My memories of the time before I met the other one that day are kind of hazy; it seems unlikely that I would’ve walked into the house and right into the other one’s waiting arms, but that’s the way I vaguely remember it. In my memory I’m naked, though—which seems to tell me that I’d at least been in the house long enough to remove my clothing and very likely play with a few guys before meeting Earl’s other boy. I do remember Earl walking me into the living room where the act was to take place, though. Some of his party guests milled in other parts of the house, too occupied with their own deeds to care much about two teenagers going at each other. There were men eating Jim’s indifferent finger foods in the kitchen, and the sounds of laughter and grunts from below stairs. And in the living room sat six or seven men. Jim sat on the leather sofa, his arms around two older and larger men on either side, his legs spread and resting over the right knee of one and the left of the other. He was smoking a cigarette and smirking. The other men regarded me with stares of arousal, blank and hungry. I was just a fuckhole to them, nothing more. I didn’t mind it so much. The other one was already in the living room, lying down on a comforter either Earl or Jim had spread on the floor. His hair was indeed dark and long, hanging into his eyes and past his ears. His eyes were a puppy-dog brown, but bloodshot and covered with the sleepy, droopy eyelids of the very stoned. His body was skinny and pale, with only a wisp of dark pubes. Earl nudged him with his foot and caused those lids to open, very slightly. The boy looked at me from his side, measuring me. Judging me. Earl introduced me by name, but the other one was too quick for him. “Hey,” he said, laughing to himself as if he’d been told a private joke. “I know you.” “You do?” Earl wasn’t often caught off-guard. He looked at me. “You two know each other?” “Yeah,” I said, looking at the boy and feeling stunned. Rooted into place, more likely. I wanted to flee, but I knew I couldn’t and wouldn’t. I looked at the boy I’d known four years before, and with whom I’d starred in an original biblical musical. The boy I’d suspected had also endured the director’s clumsy advanced, though we’d never spoken of them. I cleared my throat and attempted to sound casual. “I know Topher.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Monday I asked for ass. Your asses. And hoo, boy, did I ever get an avalanche of ass in my mailbox. Beautiful asses, too, you sent me of yourselves. It's the best February a guy could have. Because today I need to go outdoors and dig out my house from what looks like about a foot of snow, I'm going to share some of those asses with you. I'm taking them roughly in the order in which I received them, so if you sent yours in and don't see it today, don't worry. You're coming. I have got readers with great butts, don't I? Let them know how they're appreciated, in the comments. Buck Wild My good friend and frequent commenter Buck Wild was the first to respond with these salacious pics that made my own dick twitch. That's quite a furry butt, isn't it? Buck's in New York City and encourages guys to email him, if they like what they see. Jack Jack doesn't bottom—thus the Post-It notes on his hot cheeks. Of course, if I saw that hairy hole, a couple of Post-It notes wouldn't stand in my way. They're meant to be ripped off, right? Horny Cub Horny Cub, on the other hand, does bottom. And is anxious to bottom, judging by the fingers spreading his ass cheeks. Nothing is a more beautiful sight to a horny top man. Ben Ben is from London. And I've got to tell you, the sight of his beautiful butt framed by the lines of that jock is really making my mouth water. There is nothing hotter to me than a guy with his face in the pillows, butt-up, wearing a jock strap. Art Art has one of those beautiful asses into which I'd love to bury my face—round, hairy, and receptive. I love how willingly he presents it, too. I envy the man who got to take this photo. Art also maintains his own blog, which you might consider adding to your daily reading list. It can be found at themeaningofart.blogspot.com . That's all the reader ass for today—I'm heading out to shovel. I'm still looking for more asses to share in future special editions! If you've got an ass—and I'm pretty sure you do—send me a photograph of it (or heck, a drawing or an oil painting, if you're artistic) for thousands of viewers to see. Check out the details of what I'm looking for in this entry. Keep warm, my friends. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My father is an old man who seems to exist solely on a diet of refined sugar and protein. It’s difficult to keep an eye on his diet from so far away, but it seems to me that whenever I visit home, he’s got a refrigerator stocked full of big haunches of roasted meats he’s purchased at the local supermarket, from which he slices little pieces until over the course of way too long he finally consumes the whole thing. I’ll pull open the door and there’ll be a huge old ham, a roast turkey roughly the size of the one that Mr. Scrooge fed to the Cratchits, and a hulking lump of beef, sawed away on one side. Then there’ll be the sugars. Twinkies. Ho-Hos. Little Debbies of every flavor. Archway cookies—the soft kind. Tubes of Pillsbury dough that can be sliced and baked at a moment’s notice. His entire home office is a candy store, basically. Half of the shelves are devoted to actually books, while the rest exist to hold the bags of candies that he munches on at whim. To be fair, the man is in great health for his age, and is much thinner than I. My teeth, on the other hand, are in better shape. It was a few years back, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia and had a Tootsie Roll jones that I knew could be fixed with a quick scan of his office bookshelves, that I discovered his stash of porn. Most people to whom I tell this story recoil at this point. They simply can’t imagine confronting evidence of their parents’ sex life, whether it’s porn or condoms or a vibrator spied while snooping in a cupboard. I really don’t care, though. In fact, I thought to myself as I leafed through the material to see what he had, my reaction was more along the lines of wanting to high-five him and crow, Good on you, you seventy-something-year-old dawg! The only thing that could’ve made me happier for him was if I’d found some actual signs of involvement with someone other than Miss Rosie Palms, if you know what I mean. And I’m pretty sure you do. Apparently my dad is now into women with enormous jugs. At least, that’s what I’m guessing from the abundance of magazines and calendars featuring porn babes with mammaries that weren’t merely ample, but that were so oversized that it made my back hurt just to look at them. I confess to a little surprise, since my mother’s figure was lithe and boyish—in other words, she was a beautiful Audrey Hepburn look-alike in her youth, but fairly flat-chested. What surprised me most, though, was that my dad actually had porn. Hidden away, no less, though not very well. Because when I was growing up, that simply wasn’t the case. Oh, I would’ve known if he had. When I visited the houses of friends, starting in about fourth grade or so, I was a master of sniffing out their dads’ porn; I didn’t even need a dowsing rod. We’d wait until the coast was clear, and then I’d lead my innocent friend into his dad’s bedroom and produce magazines from under his bed, or at the back of his closet, in a small box tucked behind the shoes. Or maybe I’d lift up the mattress and pull out a handful of dirty photographs, carefully hidden away. The magazines were usually nothing racier than a Hustler or a Penthouse, though in a couple of instances we discovered some harder-core materials and even once a photo magazine with a definite bisexual angle, which had to be an eye-opener for my friend. The two of us would look over his parent’s porn for a little bit, wide-eyed and silent, barely making any more movement than the rapid darting of our eyes and the occasional flick of a tongue over our lips. Then we’d stuff the magazines back into their hiding places and not speak of them until we looked for them again the next time. My friends were usually too timid to hunt for the stuff themselves. I offered myself up in the role of scapegoat, though I knew I was more of an instigator, a catalyst, whose role was to put the sexually-charged sessions into motion. Some things never change, right? My father, though, didn’t buy dirty magazines. My parents were open about sex, had a lot of it together, and found no need to hide it from me when I was growing up. They had sex manuals in abundance, but I didn’t have to hunt to find them. They started handing them over to me to read at the age of nine or ten or so, and would check in periodically to see if I had any questions. In that brief window of time in which art films and pornography mingled, they’d take a night out and head down to the little foreign film theater to see I Am Curious (Yellow) or Deep Throat. My parents did own two copies of Playboy, but they weren’t squirreled away in a secret hiding place. They were in the stack of magazines beneath the coffee table, mixed in with Time and Smithsonian and Southern Living. I’d been invited to look at them when they’d been added to the pile. It was shit like this that made my parents seem like total hippies, to all my friends. I knew the contents of those magazines intimately—both were from 1976. One featured the somewhat infamous interview with David Bowie in which he discussed his bisexuality. The other was the even more infamous issue with an interview with President Jimmy Carter, in which he confessed that he had lusted in his heart more than once. I knew those magazines from cover to cover, at one point. One of the issues had a feature on sex in the movies, so I got to become familiar with a photo of Kris Kristofferson’s tiny nipples, and to become very acquainted with a glimpse of a tiny sliver of black dick in a shot from the film Mandingo. I read through all the crude cartoons, trying to decode from the slang what they might mean in the adult world of sex. I read through all the letters and articles, sucking them dry of any titillating sexual content they might have offered. About the only thing I didn’t become overly aroused by were the photos of the naked women, oddly enough. I didn’t begin to explore that side of my sexuality until my later teens. But what I fixated upon most, in one of those two issues—I think it was the Jimmy Carter one—was a two-page spread from Jockey advertising its wide variety of underwear choices. The advertisement was simplicity itself. All it did was feature a grid of photographs of professional athletes modeling Jockey shorts. Some wore T-shirts or tank tops as well; others were shirtless. Try as I might, I cannot find the two-page ad anywhere on the net, though I have found a one-page version from the same campaign. I cannot exaggerate how many times I masturbated over this Jockey shorts ad. It was the closest thing I had to gay porn for many, many years. I was sexually active by the time I first saw it, but the actual sex I was getting never stopped me from whacking off to it in the mornings before I left for school. Several times a week I’d wake up at six, shower and dress, grab something for breakfast and do the homework I’d neglected the night before over the cereal bowl. Then I’d have fifteen blissful minutes behind the coffee table, on the floor, with the magazine propped open to my two favorite pages. My little pants would have been unzipped and my shorts tugged down and around my nuts, my hand furiously working over my dick, while I gazed at those men in their Jockeys. I loved their chests—muscular and bare, or covered with cotton that let tufts of hair peek out at the scooped neck. I loved their strong, thick legs, their nineteen-seventies ‘staches, the roundness of their shoulders and biceps. But most of all, I liked looking at the mounds inside those Jockeys and wondering that they’d be like, inside me. Soon enough I’d squirt, wipe it off, and run off to the bus still bearing that chlorine-like scent of my semen back then. Fred Dryer looks pretty damned good, in the ad I found. But today I look at the ad and mostly cringe a little at the loud prints, the garish colors, the netted tank top, and especially the circus tent boxers poor Brad Park is forced to sport. At the time, though, those men were pure masculinity to me. And I still grow nostalgic at the thought. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's the last day of January. Tomorrow's February—notable not only for being the shortest month of the year, but for containing my natal day (next weekend, if you're looking to shower me with presents and spankings). And also, toward the end, for being the month I started this blog, a year ago. I know! Time flies. So to celebrate, I want your asses. All of 'em. Pony up, boys. And what's more, I want to share your asses. Well, yes. I want them in that way too. But for now, I want photos. One of the bloggers I admire very much is the inestimable Mr. Gloryholejunkie, whose frank and ribald take on the cultures of sex and public sex are always fascinating and arousing reads. On his blog he has started a feature in which he has invited readers to send in photos of their dicks. He then shares them with his readership. I know a good thing when I see one. I am blatantly borrowing Mr. Gloryholejunkie's idea and turning it around: I propose, on a periodic basis, to use my blog as a showcase for your glorious asses. All that you need do is send 'em to me. Photos, that is. Of your asses. Your beautiful, big, round asses. I want my email box overflowing with asses. I want it to smell like your asses when you're done shoving your asses in there. I want to be overwhelmed with ass. I want Yahoo to send me administrative mail telling me that my email box has too much ass in it. If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASS' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too. Because yes, I'll be posting the names or handles you give me along with your asses, and a few appreciative comments about each. And so will the readers looking at them. Right, guys? Q: My ass is too pimply/fat/skinny to appear in such an enticing and drool-worthy project. A: No, it's not. All asses are welcome. Unkind comments on anyone's ass will not be tolerated. Q: Do you want just my ass? Or my ass and my dick? Or my ass and my face? Do you want a shot of my hole? Or just my butt cheeks? A: The details are totally up to you. Share with my readers whatever you're comfortable sharing. Q: In what formats should I submit my ass photos? A: JPGs are nice. But I can work with most formats. Q: What if I know of a pretty ass I want to show you, but it's not mine? A: Nooooooo. I want to see and share your ass. Not some porn stars. Unless you are a porn star, of course. (Don't laugh. I have several porn star followers.) Q: What if I want you to take the photos of my ass? A: I am totally down for it. (Was there any doubt? Really?) Please note: When you send in a photo or photos for the project, you are affirming that you are at least 18 years of age and that the photo or photos you are submitting may be published in the very special episodes in which I share your asses with the world. Of course, if you just want to send me butt pics privately, you can do that too. But where's the fun in that? I'm hoping we can celebrate my birthday with a good ol' round of ass. So SEND ME YOUR ASS. Get crackin'. So to speak. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The dinner: sliced pomelo, salad green, pan-seared salmon, and roasted asparagus. The chef: not me! When I'm with my loved ones, I'm usually the cook of the house. I'm a fairly decent home chef who prefers to know what ingredients are going into his meals—which also means I have a tendency to bake things like bagels, breads, and cakes as well, or make my own yogurt and salsa, or to keep a constant supply of home-simmered black beans in the fridge. One isn't going to leave my table feeling like one's leaving the Top Chef set, by any means, but at least the meal will usually have been tasty, and largely from scratch. Last night, however, Spencer decided he wanted to cook his first dinner for me, in my kitchen. He arrived home with an armful of groceries and very sweetly proceeded to use every baking dish, bowl, pan, cutting board, knife, and colander I own to make a dinner just for me. I had to step in and butcher the fish for him and place it in the pan because he's frightened of raw flesh (I know . . . my mind was overflowing with things to say there, too), and I did dishes all along the way because I didn't want to have to face a mound of them at the evening's end, but over the course of the two and a half hours we ate the various courses, I got to sit back and have them served. Just because someone wanted to take care of me. It was a luxury. And very sweet. It's Sunday, and you know what that means: I catch up on more of your questions from formspring.me, the service that allows you to ask me anonymous questions—whether they're advice, or a personal query, or something that's just on your mind. I'll answer anything that's not repetitive or invasive, so long as you remember one simple rule: just because it's anonymous doesn't give you license to be a dick to me. That's not too much to ask, is it? 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. Have you ever told someone you love him, but got the wrong answer back? What did he say? I once knew a guy who was incredibly kind to me when my father was in the hospital for a series of operations. Not only did we have fairly intense sex, but he had a lot of good advice about my dad's health as well. When my dad was released a couple of weeks later, I wrote my friend a letter thanking him for his kindness and telling him that I loved him for getting me through a bad time. I made clear that I meant a grateful, friendship kind of love. However, the letter apparently freaked him out so badly that he refused to talk to me ever again. When I ran across him three or four years later, he pretended not to know me. It's a shame that the word 'love' is a burden to so many people, especially when it's offered in the spirit of admiration. Did you read the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan? I did not. Why do you ask? I take it you are a bi married guy - what's the secret to staying discreet and still playing safely and having fun? Take me as you will. I think the secret to maintaining a relationship while playing with others is simply to be considerate of your primary partner. Sneaking around, missing family events or meals in the name of sex, lying sloppily--they're all going to make your life a misery. Sex is recreational. In your list of priorities, treat it as such. So your wife isn't the least bit suspicious about your activities? *not jinxing you* This question makes a couple of assumptions, one of them being that any activities in which I indulge are dishonest, and therefore worthy of suspicion. You know how the popular saying goes about what happens when you assume something. Do you think people on twitter that you follow and that follow you back really pay attention to you or do you think they just follow to have followers? I don't think there's any right or wrong way to use Twitter. There are some ways that are more obnoxious than others--using bots to spam people who mention a product you sell, for example, or trying to lure people into joining sex sites through provocative avatars while providing little commentary or content. But people who follow merely for the hope of accumulating a lot of followers? They have every right to bolster their ego that way. I'm glad it doesn't take much to make them happy. You've made some gamer references. What have you played, and what are you still into? I am a huge World of Warcraft player, and have been for about five years. It's that game into which I've sunk more gaming time than any other. I have played a lot of consoles over the years, starting with the Atari 2600 I had in middle and high school and moving through various Nintendo products to the current day. However, I haven't spent much time with console games in the last couple of years. I tend to find my attention span is suited more toward games I can play in short, satisfying bursts--Puzzle Quest 2, with which I am currently obsessed, is an example. I'm also very fond of board and strategy games; Carcassonne is a favorite. I play it on my iPad a lot, along with Reiner Knizia's Medici and Ra. my boyfriend is younger and very dominant and has fucked me over 3000 times over the years as this has gone on I've got more and more compliant and passive to the point he does what he wants no matter how humiliating do all bottoms go like this? No, they don't. But there's nothing wrong with you or your relationship because you have. Have you ever considered adapting your writings for publication, either in book form or on a forum like "Nifty Erotic Stories"? I don't really believe that submitting my writings to Nifty is much of a step up in credibility, to be honest. I have considered collecting entries into book form. However, there's a fundamental difference between journal entries and a book format; overcoming the challenge of how to adapt one into the other is what keeps me from pursuing it actively. In retrospect, was your whoring around in your youth something that was good for you growing up, or was it overall impact your life in a negative way? I really have little to say that's negative about my youthful experiences. My teenaged sluttiness helped me mature in ways that was far beyond most of my peers, and gave me a perspective into human behavior that I wouldn't have ordinarily experienced. It helped me get a rational and sentiment-free view of sex that's served me well. In short, it made me the man I am today, and I wouldn't change that for the world. I'm aware that some people look askance at my youthful exploits and prefer to see it in terms of 'abuse' or 'molestation.' I would never apply those words to any of my own experiences, however, and I resent it when other people attempt to impose that kind of narrative over my own. So, have you tried cialis? Man, that stuff makes me sore - a noted side effect, but I think it has more to do with all the pounding you have to do with the hardon it gives you.. for 36 hours. I tried Viagra once and didn't really notice a difference in erection persistence or strength. I am fortunate not to have problems in that area, so far. I haven't tried any other erection-related pharmaceuticals. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I was an ugly kid. Now, I’m not making any great claims for myself as an adult when it comes to my looks, but for the most part, I’m fairly content with how things have turned out. In my series of Earl memoirs lately, though, I’ve been talking about my early and mid-teens a lot, and I don’t want to leave readers with the impression I was a beautiful young twink. Nope. I was a painfully skinny kid whose ribs one could count beneath his skin. My hair was bright blond, but greasy and long enough to scrape my chin. I wore very thick horn-rimmed glasses. Because I was so tall—always a head above my classmates all the way from second grade through high school—I had a tendency to hunch my shoulders when I was among my peers. My clothes weren’t the best. And oh, I felt the pain. Every crack about my greasy hair I took to heart. When a girl named Sonja told me I had ‘little bitty piggy eyes,’ I spent hours in the mirror widening my lids as far as they could go to see if I could minimize the effect. I internalized comments about my oily skin, my big nose, my lack of a chin, my skinniness, my total, unloveable ugliness. And I believed every word. Sure, it was the nineteen-seventies. All kids were hideous during the nineteen-seventies. It’s as if we were all shooting for Leif Garrett and falling short somewhere around Danny Bonaduce. When I graduated high school, I underwent a transformation of sorts. I got contact lenses instead of glasses. I bought a new wardrobe. I cut my hair shorter. I took several strides away from that ugly kid I was in my teens. Now, during all those years I kept hearing hurtful, ugly things about myself, men were giving me compliments that were quite the opposite. Earl himself used to say the nicest things about my eyes—how translucent and shifting were their colors, and how deep they seemed. Men loved my body and told me so, in profane detail while they fucked me. I had strangers on the streets cruising me, pawing me, taking me to their cars, even paying me. I discounted every single one of their compliments, stated or implied. The only things about my appearance I could hear and believe were those that hurt me to the core. Last night I was sitting across from Spencer in a restaurant, having our first frank talk about his scars. Spencer has had small areas of his body afflicted with patches of cysts, in the past. Surgery has removed them, but it’s left small areas of scarring behind. White traceries, so faint they’re difficult to see unless they’re pointed out. There’s a few on one arm, several on the outside of a leg, and one on his cheek that I can make out only in very bright light, up close. He told me about the visits to his doctor that started in his early teens, the injections, the therapies, the recuperations. He talked about the mortification he felt—that he feels—when he stepped outside his house each morning. When I look at Spencer, I see his strong jaw, his beautiful bone structure. I don’t see scarring. I see a forehead that radiates strength and serenity, and comical eyebrows that with one quirk can make me burst into laughter. I see the dimples in his smile, and the cleft in his chin, and a handsome face that makes men and women alike turn their heads when he enters a room. He sees blemishes, and imperfections, and the spots where knife has met flesh. It’s not just the scars he dislikes about himself. I hold him against me when we fuck and feel his narrow hips and his flat stomach; he mumbles about an imaginary spare tire. I see beautiful brown eyes that sparkle with life; he sees big bloodshot dog eyes. Another telling behavior: he sneezes, says “Excuse me,” and then in the same breath but a different, booming voice retorts, “There’s no excuse for you!” I asked him why he always follows up his ‘excuse mes’ with those words. He told me they were his father’s, and that the voice was his father’s as well. I tried to express my feelings to him, last night, as we ate. “You are not your acne,” I told him. “You just aren’t. I don’t think anyone sees it. Not the way you do. You are not your imaginary extra weight.” “Well I see it all,” he retorted. “And it sickens me.” “There is so much more to you than that,” I told him. “It seems to me such heavy baggage to carry, the shame for something you can’t control or change. That doesn’t matter.” But as we argued, I realized how stubborn he is. He can’t give up that vision of himself, not yet. And I’m not enough to change the way he sees himself. He made my heart ache. I have an instinct to fix things when I see people I love in trouble, and these invisible wounds run too deep to fix. I know so many beautiful, extraordinary people who don’t believe in their own gifts. It seems as if they’re stuck in some time warp, seeing visions and hearing voices of people who no longer exist in their lives, saying things that no longer have any relevance. They hear whispers that they’re overweight, or ugly, or not good enough; they look in their mirrors and instead of handsome, capable men and women, they see ungainly, pimply teenagers. I don’t exempt myself from any of my own accusations. I yesterday looked in the mirror and found myself tugging at the corners of my lids and murmuring, “Piggy eyes.” So for today and the weekend I’m opening up the comments section to you guys. What childhood or teenaged slights have stuck with you throughout your life, whether or not they’re really who you are as an adult? And how have you overcome them, if you have? Why do you think we cling to the bad things we hear about ourselves, and ignore the good? I’m curious to see if we have any commonalities between us. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This is tough for me to write about: I failed last night. I’d had a tough day. The winter days have really begun to grind me down and to make me feel housebound and logy. I’ve been feeling particularly anxious about my living situation, and feeling neither one place nor another. I’ve had an upswing in crazy associated with the blog—name-calling, diva fits, and outright rudeness—with which it’s been difficult to cope. Over my first-world problems I’d managed to get myself into one of those fretting states of mind that I took into the bedroom with Spencer. I was tired, and cranky, and cliched as it sounds, had something of a headache. And to put it bluntly, it just wasn’t working for me. Oh, it wasn’t the hydraulics that weren’t working. I don’t usually have an issue with that, knock wood. No, it was more the problem of me not being really into the moment. I was thinking more about the problems rattling around in my head than I was the beautiful boy between my legs, surrendering his butt to me. And he could tell. “We don’t have to fuck tonight, you know,” he at last muttered, somewhere down there. And I thought to myself, Oh, fuck. It shows. My head was even more crowded in the moments after. Nothing contributes more to feelings of pointlessness than having one’s sexual inadequacies highlighted during the act. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and breathed deeply as I tried to keep everything at bay. As I lay there, fretting and mentally flagellating myself, it occurred to me that maybe I could do something other than thinking about myself. I did, after all, have a young man in my bed who had needs of his own. And if I wasn’t totally in the mood to use his hole, there were plenty of other things I could do. So I did. I lifted his head to mine and kissed him deeply. My right hand traveled over his broad chest, stroked his hairy stomach, squeezed his still-erect dick. When I pressed my lips to his nipples, my troubles began to recede from mind; by the time I had him groaning and writhing on the bed from scraping my teeth and tongue across those sensitive red buds, I’d more or less forgotten them completely. I love to kiss Spencer’s body. I love the smell of him, the clean taste of his skin, the give of his stomach, the hardness of his hips. I love letting my lips trail from neck to navel, and of burying my face in his thick, spiky pubes. And I really love impaling my throat on his dick. Spencer’s dick has a point to it; his head is more of a rounded triangle than a mushroom. The shaft grows gradually as my lips travel down, stretching them widest around the base. I can take all but the last half-inch without trouble. Struggling for that last tiny measurement, however, is half the fun. Spencer gasps and moans as I suck him. This time is different from the other nights I’ve gone down on him, somehow. Usually I can pleasure him for long periods of time—and I do—but it’s pleasure for pleasure’s sake, not with a goal in mind. This time, though, he’s directing me in a way he hasn’t before. He’s thrusting inside my mouth deeper and deeper; his hand is holding the back of my neck to keep it still. My eyes water. I try to keep my throat open as his cock’s head invades it. He’s not a big pre-cummer for the most part, but now he’s dripping. I can taste it on the back of my tongue, stronger and saltier by the moment. I was pretty sure this might be going somewhere we hadn’t gone before. I felt Spencer’s hand tapping lightly at the back of my neck as I picked up the pace slightly. It felt like the slightest of taps, as if he was asleep and dribbling a basketball in his dreams. I adjusted my lips and continued to move my mouth up and down his shaft. Sometimes my fingers would lightly stroke his hairy nuts. Sometimes I’d curl my thumb and forefinger around his hard meat and let the tight circle follow the path of my mouth. Spencer’s breathing grew faster, shallower. I could see his stomach ripple with motion as he began to pant. The phantom tapping at the back of my head increased, and I moved with it, letting him direct the pace. I wanted to do this for him. I wanted him this way. And most of all, I wanted his seed in my mouth. It came shortly after. “Oh my god,” he panted. “Oh my god.” He said the words over and over, like a mantra, or perhaps a prayer. Then his hips shot upward, nailing his dick deep in my throat as he shot his load. I received the sperm onto my tongue and kept my mouth on his meat until his spasms subsided, and then a moment more. Only when he was completely relaxed did I withdraw and swallow the payload. It was strong in flavor, pungent, and slightly sweet. Most importantly, it was his essence, and I’d gotten it in my mouth. Finally. “Thank you,” I said, easing myself to his side. I had a smile on my face, large and genuine, untouched by any of the day’s cares. His voice was soft and distant. “Would you believe me if I told you that no one has ever sucked me off completely before?” “I would,” I murmured back. “You told me no one had, the second day I knew you.” “No one has,” he said, dreamily. “Until you. Just now.” “I was there,” I reminded him. And I was. I really had been there. Present. Willing. Thinking of nothing else but him, and his pleasure, and what he wanted. Sometimes out of failure grow the seeds of success. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a companion of sorts to The Bank Book.) Every few months, Earl and Jim would invite twenty or so guys to their home for a good old-fashioned orgy. Earl’s parties usually took place on Saturdays in the late afternoons; they’d last until darkness had fallen, and often until the morning beyond. Usually I’d start preparing for the event a few days in advance by telling my parents that one of my friends had invited me over to his place for dinner and an overnighter of Dungeons and Dragons and the midnight scary movie. By the time Saturday rolled around, they’d made plans for a night to themselves and would happily wave me off on my bike, knapsack on my back. Ah, D&D. The best game I never played in my teens. There was a dungeon. Just no dragons, no nerds, and no twenty-sided dice. At Earl’s house I’d lock my bike in his back yard, then allow him to welcome me and escort me to up to his bedroom. That was my domain, during the parties. Mostly after the men started arriving for the action, the more reluctant ones would sit around the sectional in the living room stroking themselves while watching others go at it. For the more experienced party-goers there was action around the sling in the basement, or fucking on the furniture. Men sometimes did piss play in the bathrooms, particularly in the downstairs bath with the old claw-footed tube. At night, in good weather, the action could move onto the screened back porch. When Jim wasn’t too busy smoking pot and bending over for any man who’d have him, he’d be in the kitchen making sandwiches and shoving trays of pre-made hot appetizers into the oven. There was booze and beer in the fridge. There were drugs on the living room coffee table. And there were a couple of boys. I knew that the kid to whom Jim would occasionally refer as ‘the other one’ usually arrived later in the evening for the parties, and got installed for the evening in the tiny closet known as Jim’s bedroom. That shithole was Baltic Avenue to my Boardwalk. I worked the master bedroom with its king-sized bed and heavy draperies, its private bathroom and own stereo system (complete with an 8-track player) and color television. An old glass mayonnaise jar sat on the bureau by the door, into which guests would stuff tens and twenties for me as they entered or left. Earl made clear during parties that his bedroom was a substance-free zone. No pot, no poppers, no booze, no coke, no nothing. I didn’t indulge in them at all, and Earl made sure no one else would either, in my presence. I would do anything else, though. That’s why I was there. For a long string of hours men would come into the room—usually singly, sometimes in pairs or small groups—drop their bills into the jar, and then grope to find me in the near-darkness, waiting, willing. I just did at the parties what I’d be doing with other men what I’d be doing at the park or in public restrooms anyway. Except I was doing those deeds in Earl’s bed, my head on the pillow where he slept, my naked body sliding between and over the same sheets that covered his at night. I would spend hours in an erotic, dozy haze, holes stretched wide, body covered and dripping with fluids. From time to time, Earl would enter the bedroom, shoo out any guys there, and make sure I ate something, or drink from my bottle of water. And then, late in the evening when all the men downstairs had either visited or were beginning to go home or collapse into sleepy heaps, Earl would come into his room, lock the door, and stay there for good. He always had one load saved for me, at least; he took great pleasure at being the last one inside me, of planting the last load of seed in my hole that night. The other men varied in their approaches to fucking. Some were rough—some were timid and frightened I’d scamper away. Earl knew how I liked to be used, though. He’d take his pleasure without hesitation, without a second thought. If he came quickly on those nights, it was I think because he knew exactly how many dicks I’d had inside me that day, and loved thinking about me servicing all those strange men. Then, when it was over, he’d turn gentle. He’d help me up on my wobbling legs and hold me until I was confident I could walk, then lead me into the bathroom. Like a mother with a baby, he’d run the tub water until it was warm but not too hot, and stand me in it. With a washcloth and soap, he’d rub away the scents the men had left on my body. He’d splash water against my raw ass and clean out the semen lingering there. He’d wash my hair and towel dry it with the rest of me, and then pour out a paper cup of Listerine so I could rise my mouth. Once he was sure I was steady and on my feet again, he’d lead me back to the bed and lay me down. I’d fall asleep in his arms. Although he wouldn’t spend the entire night with me, I liked knowing he was there when I fell asleep. In the early morning I’d bike home on legs that felt like rubber, my mind practicing the lies I’d tell if my parents asked how my dungeoneering happened to go. The next time I’d visit Earl's house, he’d give me an envelope fat with half the money. It wasn’t until after the second party that he asked me what I’d done with it. “You’re not spending it all, are you?” he asked. I told him that no, my parents would notice if I was spending a lot of cash, and that I’d put the envelopes into a drawer in my bedroom. He looked at me without speaking for a long moment, until finally he said, “And what happens if your mom or dad pulls open that drawer and finds it?” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. He and I both knew there would be a lot of questions if such a thing happened—questions that couldn’t be easily evaded with even the most clever lies. I didn’t have a job. I mowed lawns and babysat, but not enough to earn that amount of money. Earl didn’t have to argue much to convince me I was endangering our friendship by letting the cash sit around my parents’ house. “That other kid is going to smoke his way through his cash,” he said. “But you’re not like him. You’re a smart young man. You should be smart with the money. Right?” When I nodded, not really certain what he expected of me, he asked, “It could really help you out in the future if you kept the money somewhere that could earn you interest. How about we go to a bank and I’ll help you open a savings account?” We picked a branch where my parents didn’t have any business. After that first visit together, when I received my passbook for the new account, we had a deal. When I’d work a party, I’d immediately take the money Earl gave me to Southern Bank, keeping at most only ten dollars to supplement my allowance. Earl kept my passbook in a drawer in his own bedroom; though he never made a show of checking up on my accumulating deposits, I suspect he was pleased I at how diligently I set aside my ill-gotten gains for the future. It was at the back of Earl’s drawer that the book remained, tucked away through the many month I enjoyed his company. It even remained there for a long while after the panicked time later, when I had to part company with him for good. More...