TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here This entry is from the vaults—2001, in fact. But as I'm tending to an injured Spencer today, I'm not going to have a chance to write anything original. It's new material to you guys, however. Just don't think that 'yesterday' means yesterday, when in fact it refers to an afternoon a decade ago. One of the things that makes me an easy-going lover is that nothing really shocks or offends me. I was an early bloomer, sexually. By seventeen I’d experienced more kinks than a geriatric’s joints in December. At slightly more than twice that age I thought there was very little I hadn’t done at least once. Here it comes: However. I’d been invited to one of group sex thing party at the baths, yesterday afternoon. It was a nice low-key event in which there were never more than a dozen or so people present at any one time. Few enough people, in other words, that most of them were pairing off and retreating to private rooms rather than carrying on in every available corner, nook, cranny, and bathroom counter. One of the people present was a man I’ve enjoyed several times over the past couple of years. I have a mild crush on him, to be honest. He’s about six foot four (and it’s rare that I meet people taller than me, even by a mere inch), blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, furry, muscular, and handsome as hell. He’s about twenty years older than me. His hair’s gray and his bristle-brush mustache is white. He’s got those gracefully aged, rugged good looks that most movie stars would envy. If I recall correctly, he’s a judge. He spotted me instantly, and I was pleased he remembered my name. We went to a back room and began to make out. After a few minutes of foreplay, he rubbed my shoulders and leaned down to put his lips to my ear. In his deep, gravelly voice he growled, “So what do you want to do today?” “I’m up for anything,” I told him. He held me away from him. “Anything?” he asked seriously, as if making certain. “Really? Anything?” There was a brief second when I had one of those okay, what am I getting myself into? warning flashes through my head. But when I thought through it, I felt pretty sure the guy wasn’t going to ask to crap on my face, or ask me to slice up his buttocks with a bowie knife, or put me in a noose. Just to give myself a potential out, though, I grinned invitingly and said, “What did you have in mind?” He looked slightly embarrassed. “You might think this is weird. I’d need you to go take a shower.” Ah, I thought to myself. He wants me to bottom . It has been a while—a long while, unfortunately—but I was game. “Get your hair really wet,” he added, his voice getting deep and lustful on the last two words. The last little bit threw me into confusion. I had sudden visions of my having to perform a Flashdance -style routine while water flew in an arc from my wet and floppy hair. But I liked the guy, so I went to the shower and got my hair good and wet and went back to find him while I tried not to trample puddles of water through the place. “Oh yeah!” he said, when he saw my head. He sat down on a chair and spread his legs. “Now get down on your knees and start sucking.” I obeyed, and watched what he was doing from the corners of my eyes as his dick grew harder and harder in my mouth. He reached into a little black bag, the kind that guys lug around to parties to keep their poppers and toys handy, and pulled out a big black bottle. He squirted some substance into his palm. “Can I?” he asked. I had no idea what was coming next. The slightly floral scent coming from his hand just confused me. “Sure,” I said around a mouthful of cock. His hands reached out and riffled through my hair. He started to shampoo me. That was his kink. He liked to run his hands through a guy’s soapy locks while the guy sucked him. I enjoyed it a lot, actually. His fingers were strong and applied just the right amount of pressure in the right places. Being touched or massaged is something I enjoy even more than sex. He gave me a thorough scalp massage for the thirty minutes it lasted. The look of gratitude on his face afterwards would have been worth it even if I hadn’t been into it. I very much enjoy fulfilling other people’s fantasies or fetishes. I hadn’t considered the consequences, though. Here I was afterwards sporting a head covered with lather, trying to make it through the halls of the bathhouse back to the showers without anyone noticing. Impossible. Instead of looking sheepish, I just strutted by, shoulders erect, as other men stared at me and at my cap of Vidal Sassoon foam and my little chin frosting of something else entirely. I told a friend about it afterwards, and was disappointed not even to get an exclamation of surprise from him. “You’re not shocked?” I asked. “No.” “Surprised?” He quirked the corners of his mouth. “At you? No.” “Sheesh.” “Look,” he said. “After some of the things you’ve done, no matter how oddball you think Shampoo Man sounds, trust me, he's pretty damned mild in comparison.” He did admit my hair looked nice and shiny. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had over 40 entries, both by comments on my contest post, and via email, for the spunked-up pair of shorts I was giving away in honor of passing four hundred blog followers. You guys have no shame. And I love it. And the winner of this spectacular pair of crusty briefs is . . . Dogstar! Mr. Dogstar, contact me with your mailing information (my direct email's on the sidebar) so that I can get the winning prize to you as quickly as possible. And if we don't hear from Dogstar by Friday, we'll have another drawing until someone claims the darned things. Be thinking of contests I might have to celebrate 500 followers. That should be something really special, right? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here For him. Our bodies, twisted, serpentine, writhing across the sheets. A trail of cotton marks left behind, stretched and distressed from the weight of us together. My arms around his chest, grasping him from behind. His hands at the back of my head, as he sightlessly reaches up and around, armpits exposed and elbows pointing at the ceiling. Our sweat glues us, back to chest, shoulders to shoulders, hip to groin. My mouth on his. Our tongues twined together, the roots of two water-hungry trees, permanent and joined. For him. Connected. Flesh to flesh. Hardness to softness—hammer meeting heat. Together we’re creating sparks that seem to light up the pitch dark room. With every thrust, he cries out. Grasps at me. Pulls me in more deeply, craving more. Cum from his ass joins the sweat, adhering us more tightly. My pubes are soaked. The hair on his ass is matted and wet. We shift. I rest on my back. His ass rises. He’s lying atop me now, still joined ass to cock, legs spread wide, hole open, lips swollen and puffy. He’ll sting for hours after this fuck, and think of me. My hands rappel down his ribcage. Fingertips tease his nipples. Nails dig into his legs. Every sensation makes him call out, howl to some invisible, personal moon in the bedroom skies. My fingers circle his meat, lightly, so lightly. He thrusts up and through the loose circle I make, cock angry, as swollen as mine. He hates the teasing. My hand closes, grips him. Like a madman he thrusts, buckling and taking my dick along for the ride. This is for him, all for him, and I let him know as I whisper the words into his ear. I doubt he hears, doubt he can distinguish one sensation from another—word from touch, sound from thrust, or scent from blinding flash of pain and pleasure. I whisper that I love him. Hot as lava, the eruption that soon follows. Off the Richter scale is the ferocious quaking of the floorboards. He seizes, and strains. He’s not breathing—he’s heaving, and huffing, and rasping for air. His eyes are open and sightless. Twin craters form where he digs in his heels, vast and bottomless. I cannot tell where my self ends and his begins, but if I could be any deeper inside at this moment, I would. I hear him telling me he loves me. It’s the last sound I hear for some time. I get my wish, and seem to grow an extra inch in size. I cement our reunion a second time, hearing nothing more than the rush of blood in my ears, feeling nothing more than pulse, and heartbeat, and the warm blanket of him covering me, surrounding me. For him, I said it was. But for me, as well. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I first moved to the midwest I didn’t have much luck in the dating department. I didn’t have a car right away, for one thing, which limited my options to guys who either lived on the campus where I was studying, or who were willing to travel. One of the first guys I started seeing on a repeat basis was a chubby middle-aged fellow who may or may not have been married; I couldn’t really tell because he wouldn’t talk about his private life at all. The guy never gave his phone number, however, and had a tendency to show up out of the blue at the oddest times of day, as if that was when he could get away from the wife and kids. He loved for me to suck him and I would have been happy to, if he hadn’t smelled so awful down there. His genitals were clean enough. If I buried my face in his balls, they carried the scent of nothing but soap. He didn’t have any cheese beneath his crown. It was simply that his midsection smelled like rotten meat, or death, to the point that I would gag and have to hold my breath as I bobbed my head back and forth over his average-sized dick. The smell alone was enough to convince me to stop seeing him a month after we started meeting. It wasn’t until years later that I figured out, when I met someone else with a similar problem, that it arose from a perpetually unwashed navel. (So if you want to get sucked, scrub that thing out on a regular basis, would you?) Shortly after I started seeing a guy I’d met in a mall restroom. A hairdresser. A very effeminate hairdresser from whose lips spilled purses, stiletto pumps, and Barbie dolls when he spoke, and who dressed a little bit like Rip Taylor on a public service announcement for National Silk Pajama Day. These days I wouldn’t really give a flying fuck about what other people would think to see me in the company of such a flaming stereotype, but twenty-seven years ago I was a little more sensitive about it. I would walk tall with my shoulders back, whispering to myself You are secure in your masculinity, you are secure in your masculinity like some kind of mantra, while my friend would be swishing along beside until he’d stop to plant his hands on his hips, stare at some passing guy, and exclaim, “Damn, did you see the package on her?” I had a lot of growing to do. I met my most serious boyfriend of several months in a restroom on campus. He was masturbating at the urinals when I walked in, and I was so taken by the intensity in his expression that I strolled up beside him without breaking eye contact, pulled out my dick, and started stroking right alongside the guy. The guy was short, balding, and easily twice my age, but one could tell he’d had killer looks in his youth that were still serving him well. His eyes were enormous pools of the darkest brown surrounded by perfect whites, surrounded by the olive complexion of his face. He was whippet-thin, and his striped dress shirt hugged a fit frame. He stared at my hard dick, then into my eyes once more. “You are so beautiful,” he said, as he pushed me down onto my knees to suck and swallow his dick and load. So he was near-sighted. I could live with that, because the few words he’d spoken betrayed an accent that was both exotic and alluring. Raul was originally from Spain, I found out later—he’d lived in Seville for most of his life until he’d moved to Michigan a decade before. He worked in a department store and lived in a northern suburb close to where I now reside. And Raul found me so attractive that he had no problems with picking me up in my downtown apartment and driving me thirteen miles to his home for overnight stays. On my first overnighter I though I know how it would go down—I expected sex, and lots of it. I was actually pretty far from the mark. Raul picked me up and took me out to dinner (at a Ruby Tuesday’s, if I recall correctly). Then we retired to his bungalow and went into the darkened den, where he joined me on the sofa. When I opened my mouth and legs to get things started, he turned on the television and suggested we play along with Pat and Vanna at Wheel of Fortune, and then alongside Alex Trebek at Jeopardy. When television palled, we looked at picture albums of him in his youth, when he outshone all his dark-skinned Iberian friends in photo after photo. Then we played Scrabble. And finally it was time for bed. Oh goody, I thought to myself, stripping down and slipping beneath the sheets with a hard dick and throbbing hole. Time for dick. That was about the time when Raul grabbed my head between his hands, kissed me squarely on the forehead, wished me a good night in Spanish, and then flipped out the lights and immediately began to snore. All righty, then. I followed suit, disappointed and figuring that maybe Raul simply wasn’t that interested in me. I’d been sleeping for several hours when I woke up, confused and in pain. My mouth was full of something—a wadded-up portion of the sheets, I found out later. I was perpendicular to the mattress, exposed to the cold night air, and the lower half of my body was sprawled over Raul’s legs. I woke up fully when I realized that he was spanking the hell out of my ass. His small hand would rise into the air and then descend with full force onto one of my buttocks, and then the other. It hurt. It didn’t hurt to the point that I was trying to get away from him, but it was right at the threshold where pleasure had turned to pain and threatened to get out of control. My cheeks flushed and burned as he spanked me with increasing roughness, not seeming to care that by that point I was half off the bed and supporting myself with my palms on the wood floor. I wasn’t even entirely certain that he was fully awake. I could tell he was hard, though; he kept pressing his erection into my leg as he continued to wale away at my ass. Raul was mumbling something in Spanish the entire time he spanked me. Despite a high-school command of the language, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. His body language spoke for him when at last he yanked my ass into the air and positioned himself behind me. I felt him spit onto my hole; he shoved himself into me with one fierce shove. And then he came. There was no in-and-out, no humping, no jackrabbit thrusting. Simply one shove to get his dick in, and then it started to spurt. My ass felt like it was on fire. The buzzing and tingling of it bothered and aroused me more than the blows had themselves, and seemed to cry out for more wallops to make the tingling go away. Raul held me until he’d finished buckling and squirting. Then he pulled out, yanked the sheets over his shoulders, and fell back asleep, if he’d ever been awake to begin with. I looked at the clock as I pulled myself back into bed. It was four in the morning. Raul drove me home the next morning without a word about the early morning beating he’d given me. I was surprised when later that night I heard a knock at my apartment door. When I opened it, Raul stood outside. He carried a large Styrofoam cooler that he carried into my tiny kitchen. “This is for you,” he said, opening the cooler’s lid to display twenty pounds of frozen steaks. I was a graduate student who had lived primarily (and sometimes exclusively) on peanut butter sandwiches, ramen noodles, and baked potatoes. Raul was giving me more meat than I’d eaten in months, and I was so grateful, it was all I could do to keep from grabbing one of the flanks and sucking on it like a meatsicle. Well, I thought to myself. I could get used to this. And that’s pretty much how my relationship with Raul worked for a good few months. He’d pick me up and take me out to dinner, which we’d follow up with innocent diversions at his place. Sometime between three and six in the morning he’d half-awaken from his sleep to spank the hell out of me and shove his dick up my hole to deposit his load, and then fall back asleep again. It even got to the point I wouldn’t fully wake up for the proceedings at hand. He’d take me home before he had to go to work, and then that night he’d show up with a gift for me. The second time it happened he gave me a microwave oven—my very first. Sometimes it was more steak. Once it was oranges, but usually it was meat. Frozen hamburgers or chicken breasts or enormous CostCo-sized packages of bacon or even once a pair of frozen turkeys. Without fail, I’d get a spanking, he’d get a fuck, and then twelve hours later I’d get a delivery from the traveling Black Angus delivery man. Years later I shared this story with certain friends of mine. It was a mistake. Whenever I’d happen to go shopping with them in the butcher’s section of a supermarket, they’d make smart-ass remarks. “Bringing back any memories, beef boy?”, the clever pusses would say as we passed the prepackaged steaks or the huge mounds of ground meat. Or once, when I went to the state fair with a number of friends and we visited a livestock exhibition, one of them commented, “Makes you want to spread your legs?” to great approbation. A regular Oscar Wilde, that guy. But oh, Raul. We might not have had the most regular of relationships, but he certainly knew how to fulfill a couple of my appetites. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve been hooking up online since my college years in the early-to-mid nineteen-eighties, when I used the school’s mainframe mail system to make advances to guys. I was on the so-archaic-it-hurts Prodigy network when it was first released, surfing its message boards with a 1200-baud modem (and scoring anonymous dick the afternoon I made my account). I cruised through AOL and eWorld and local freenets and dial-in bulletin boards until the advent of the world-wide web. Then lived through gay.com during its heyday and its myriad successors since. And I still think I’ve never seen a stranger fad than the no-baldies craze of the early nineties. Oh, fads in looks come and go. But during my America Online days, back around 1993 or so, the in-look for men involved hair. Lots of hair. Guys wanted other guys with big, lush, New Kids on the Block ‘dos. Do you have all your hair? would be the most common question I’d get then. These days, it’s an odd enough question that one would suspect the person asking it of being some kind of fetishist—but no, back then it was common enough that it would be asked with all the usual interrogatory questions. Age? Weight? Location? You got all your hair? The question was one of those that would make me shake my head and mentally classify the guy asking it as an assmunch of the highest degree—the kind of man who was looking for the most spurious of reasons not to meet people, whether it was scaling in a pound over his absolute weight limit, or being 37 in a room full of under-twenties, or having skin that was too dark or a forehead that was too high. And then all of a sudden that criterion vanished. Movie stars started to crop their hair very, very close, or shave their heads altogether. The shaved head became macho, sexy, accepted. By the late nineties, I never heard anyone asking about hair again. Atop one’s head, anyway. Over the last few years I’ve seen a lot of men commenting about each other’s pubes online. And it ain’t always pretty. The push for manscaping has swung from one extreme to the other in my lifetime. In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, I never heard of anyone taking a razor to their pubes. It simply wasn’t done, not even by the most depraved of sex hounds—in my parts of the country, at least. It wasn’t until the nineties that it even occurred to me that such a thing could be done, and it wasn’t until the first decade of the new millennium that I was trimming myself regularly. Part of the change, of course, I think can be attributed to porn. Cheap, easily-distributed porn that could be viewed at home, whether on a VHS machine or a DVD player or on the net, made a lot of things more popular, and manscaping was one of them. Trimmed sacs show up more cleanly on camera; it’s easier to see how big a dick is when it isn’t surrounded by a thick thatch. I think trimming reached a critical mass in the public consciousness in the Queer Eye days, when a squadron of gay guys would tell their straighter brethren that cleaning up body hair was perfectly acceptable. Now it seems that a shorn crotch is de rigueur in certain circles; I’ve read cries of disgust online when guys present photos of a perfectly normal bush, almost as if someone had pooped on their Papis.. To listen to this crowd, you’d think man’s natural state was to look like a bunch of prepubescent boys, and any hirsute display is some kind of throwback to abnormality, if not to Neanderthal man. I’m curious about what my readers think and do with their body hair. Do you trim? Leave it natural? Or do something in between? And what do you use to do it? I tend to fall in the latter camp. I often like the feel of my nuts when they’re smooth; I like to keep my bush present, but trimmed low. In the past I’ve used a regular razor to keep everything in check. Once (and never again, after a light burn that left me walking bow-legged for four days) I used a chemical exfoliant. But these days I have an electric body hair trimmer that’s easy to use and keep clean, and which denudes my sac without nicks or abrasions. I think my dick looks better in photographs when I’ve trimmed the pubes down some—but I have no desire whatsoever to eradicate them altogether. Let me know what you do in the comments—and more importantly, what you prefer on another guy. Does body hair make as much of a difference to you as it seems to for so many? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Where is everybody? Oh, that's right. They're all at MAL. The Mid-Atlantic Leather convention is taking place this weekend in Washington, D.C., and it seems as if all my best friends have made the trip to be there. My best pig friends, that is—and pig friends usually tend to be the very best friends of all, don't they? I keep popping online to see who's around to chat, and none of my stalwarts have been there. I hope you're having fun, guys! Bring me back your leftovers. I've seen an upswing of yawn-worthy comments on my postings this week—not from my usual commenters, or from those of you piping up for the first time, but from salvation-bent sermonizers who claim to be worried for my soul, and whose Christian way to pray for me is to resort to name-calling and demonizing while invoking the Baby Jesus. It's inappropriate. And the worst sin of all is that it's trite. So I'm instituting a new site policy: I'll be marking all such comments as spam and taking note of the IP addresses of those who make them. This is my forum. So play nice, my friends, or don't play at all. As usual, on Sundays, I'll be rounding up some answers to questions you've been asking on Formspring.me. If you've got questions, you can always ask me there—or as many of you have discovered this week, you can ask them of me via email or through one of my sex site profiles as well. I'll answer anything that's not irrelevant, invasive, or outright rude. Give it a whirl. I'm an easy-going guy. What do you experience as different between sex in private (you and one or a few more) and sex in public or semi-public (ex: a bathhouse or sex party)? Group sex can be fun because of the variety of men present—which gives me a chance to experience different dicks and asses without having to hunt for them—and because of the extra visual stimulus of watching the other men have sex at the same time I do. One on one sex usually has more intimacy for me, and as an intimacy junkie, I tend to prefer it. I'm not sure whether the sex is more enjoyable in a private versus a public space, however. I will say that in a public spot there's usually a steady flow of guys, which can be good or bad depending on the quality of them. In reading other sexual blogs, what parts get you really horned up? Are there any particular experiences you like to read about (for example, reading a bottom's description of being bred or a top's description of unloading)? When I'm reading other blogs, I'm usually not any more than theoretically aroused--that is, I'll be enjoying it in my head, though my dick won't be erect. However, when a blogger writes with a lot of sensory detail, or describes something richly, I'll find myself with a raging boner in my pants. It's the quality of the writing that gets me going, not necessarily the acts involved. You mentioned in a earlier post you've seen your dad's cock. Now put you, Mikey and your dad in a naked lineup. Who's 1,2,3 in the cock department? 1. Me. 2. Mikey. 3. My dad. You've mentioned you had sex fairly regularly with a friend of the family while you were in Richmond. Did you have sex with other friends of your parents and do you think your dad ever knew? I did have sex with other friends and colleagues of my parents--a limited handful of them, anyway. I don't think my parents ever knew. I'm fairly certain my dad never knew I had sex with the Southern gentlemen known as 'Shirley' in my 'Three Encounters' post, who was both my dad's colleague and one of his best friends. I'm kind of thinking that if he had known about it, he wouldn't have sat me down many years later after Shirley's death and gravely informed me that Shirley had been gay. Because I pretty much had figured out that one years before, when the guy had been slobbering all over my dick. Would you ever let a guy piss, cum and shit on you? I've let guys piss and cum on me, yes. Shit, no. Do you like Christmas? Why do you or why not? I've swung back and forth on the holidays for as long as I can remember. In my childhood I loved the gifts and the family traditions, but there were some Christmases on which my mother's melancholy would so dominate the day that I would've preferred to skip it altogether. As an adult there have been years in which making a good Christmas for my family has been a rewarding and fun experience. Then there've been years that have been bleak, or when money's been especially tight, and even summoning up the energy to put up a tree has made me feel like a Scrooge. There was the Christmas Eve on which my better half went to the hospital with an emergency that ended up lasting a month, erasing Christmas that year. Then there's this last Christmas, for which I didn't decorate, and for which I didn't have any family around until the day itself. Any chances of us hearing more about your first time in a sling? Would you like to? I'd say the chances were good, then. Do you spend too much time looking at pornographic material? If so, what is your favorite materials? Magazine? Amateur images from the internet? Porn movies? Too much time? Not really. I don't even spend much time looking at porn. I have a tendency to prefer fucking over masturbating, and while I'm aware it's possible to fuck to porn, a lot of the time I find it a distraction from the sex, not an enhancement. I rarely look at photos on websites or magazines these days. When I do use porn, I tend to prefer watching Treasure Island videos while I squeeze one out. oldest person you have fucked and was it good? The oldest gentleman I used to see was in his mid-seventies when I was in my thirties. He was a teacher of law of some academic fame. The guy was a very passionate lover and quite, quite sexy. When you sign in on Twitter, do you generally backread your timeline? Or just your @mentions? Or don't you backread at all? Or just your friend's tweets on their page? I have a list of people with whom I particularly like to keep up. I backread that list every time I sign in. What is your favorite holiday - and why? It would have to be my birthday. Why? Because I enjoy being taken out to dinner to a restaurant of my choice. Pretty random question, but what magazine do you mostly buy/read? The New Yorker. Then I balance out my upper-middlebrow tastes with Entertainment Weekly. Hey, forgive me if this has already been asked but... Do you ever get to play with Chaz very much? Sounds like you guys had a connection...and sounds like he's totally hot. I like that he tops and bottoms. Enjoy hearing your tales about him. The guy named Chaz that I wrote about in 'Brothers on the Sofa' lives about an hour's drive from me. So no, we don't get to see each other very often. We've met a few times at the fucking/fisting parties held by a mutual friend who lives about midway between us. I am sort of new to gay anal sex, well almost. I understand when going on a date.. but how do guys in relationships always have a clean ass, like day and night? How do they have sex spontaniously? Well. There are a few explanations for it. 1) Sometimes a lot of the sex that guys are having spontaneously involve nothing more than hand jobs and blow jobs. 2) Very often when there's bareback anal sex involved, a lot of the guys are hopping in the shower and douching out when they suspect there's a chance they'll be fucking. You might not hear about it because it's not really that romantic, but it happens more often than not. 3) Sometimes guys are fucking with condoms and don't care if their dicks get dirty, when they can just peel off the offending latex and toss it away with a minimum of fuss. 4) Many guys don't really have hugely dirty holes. Whether it's because of the luck of genetics, or the amount of fiber in their diets, or their diets in general, they can take dick and not betray that they haven't spent an hour cleaning out. I was like that in my teens. The guy I've been seeing the last three weeks is very much like that as well. A quick shower and a little bit of a rub with some soap and his finger, and he's genuinely good to go. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Acceptance. That’s what I learned from Earl. It’s a simple concept—an easy word to swallow, sweet on the lips and light on the tongue. Acceptance. I’d taken lessons in it without knowing from the first time I let a man pull down my pants and flip me onto the mattress. I’d had tutoring in it, kneeling on the sticky floors of the park and library restrooms, and from the dusks I’d spent crouched in the darkest corners of picnic shelters, letting grown hands pull my head onto dicks belonging to men whose faces I did not know and often would never see. I’d tasted it when I’d plant my mouth or my ass against a hole in a partition and take whatever came through. Earl honed those rudimentary lessons. He blindfolded me, cuffed me, gagged me. He plugged me with toys and dick. I would bike home with faint red marks around my wrists one day, dripping with cum from both holes the next, and with reddened cheeks from the walloping my ass had taken the day after that. I knew that on the days I found a leather dog collar on the kitchen table when I entered Earl’s house through his back door, I was to put it on and remove it again only when I was leaving, a few hours later. But mostly I learned it the day Earl took me into the depths below his house. Into his basement. It was perhaps six weeks after I’d met Earl that we took that trip together. His home wasn’t that far from mine—perhaps a mile or a mile and a half on my bike—and I had a standing invitation to stop by two or three times a week on the days Earl was home from work, and on Saturday afternoons. I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing him sprawled in a chair, shirtless, hairy chest exposed, arms crossed in a way that made his chest seem even larger and more muscular than it already was. He wore nothing but a pair of 501s with the top button undone. Our relationship was fresh enough at that point that I can remember being taken aback at the sexy visual of him. My pulse quickened at the sight of his fur descending in a trail beneath the denim hanging from his hips. Something about his big bare feet propped on the kitchen table made my dick shift in my shorts. Usually Earl didn’t meet me this way; I would have to search through the house to find him either in his office off the living room, or watching television in the den, or sometimes up in his bedroom relaxing. Today, though, I could tell he had something in mind for me, and I trembled with mingled excitement and apprehension of what that could be. The collar lay on the table. I noticed it immediately. Once my clothes were in a pile on the floor, I attempted to fasten the holes in the thick leather through the hooks. My hands were shaking enough to make my progress slow, though. Earl noticed. “Come here, kiddo,” he said in a low voice. When I approached, he took the collar from me and fixed it to my neck, fastening it a notch tighter than I would have myself. The leather pressed tight on my adam’s apple, but it didn’t choke me. I thought of adjusting it myself, then rejected the notion. If Earl wanted it that tight, he wanted it that tight. Acceptance. He stood up when he was finished, and ruffled his fingers through my long blond hair. “I don’t think you’ve seen the basement, yet,” he said. His fingers reached out and grabbed the top of my head as he might a basketball. He turned me in the direction of the hallway, and began to steer me into its shadowy length. “I think it’s time.” I indeed hadn’t visited the basement. Or thought about it, to tell you the truth. Like my parents’ basement, it lay down a staircase across from a coat closet. My parents had a finished basement of gleaming wood paneling and tile, however. Earl’s cellar, I could tell from the moment he pried open the door and toggled a switch to flip on a cobwebbed, naked light bulb hanging from a spare fixture, was more along the lines of the kind of stock movie set constructed for a climactic scene in a serial killer’s home. I licked my lips at the sight of the stark-edged shadows the light bulb cast below, and blinked at the wooden staircase that looked as if it might fall through at any step, but I didn’t say anything or pull away when Earl piloted my steps down, down, into the musty-smelling depths. The natural cool of the cellar was a pleasant relief from the hot Virginia weather, but there wasn’t much else to make it seem welcoming. The floor was concrete, though area rugs covered portions of it to make it easier to stand or kneel on for longer periods of time. A toilet sat out in the open in the room’s far corner; a sink and a pre-fabricated shower stall with no curtain or door were next to it. There were a couple of wooden chairs along the wall, and on the other side of a series of studs, the house’s furnace, but it was otherwise unfurnished. Save, that is, for what looked like a swing made out of leather and metal that hung from chains, in the room’s center. I’d never seen a sling before. I didn’t know what they were. All the fucking I’d done had been in toilet stalls and over urinals, or clinging to trees in the woods or face-down in the brush in the parks. I’d been fucked in beds and dark corners and on sofas and easy chairs. I had no conception that things such as slings existed, however; I didn’t have a notion that anyone would make furniture specifically for sex. Earl mumbled something about his boyfriend, Jim, fucking around with the chains again, and left me to watch as he made some adjustments to the sling’s height. When it met his satisfaction, he turned to me once more. “Come,” he commanded. I obeyed without question. I still didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew better than to ask. I’d learn the way I’d learned all else—by doing. Earl put his hands on my sides. “Ups-a-daisy,” he said as he lifted me up. With my assistance, he settled me into the leather seat. Tall as I was for my age, I weighed next to nothing, but still the sling swung back and forth in a wobbly and alarming manner. Earl steadied me, then lay me back. When my center of gravity was lower, I felt more secure. “You need this,” he murmured, retrieving a small cushion of sorts from one of the chairs. He tucked it below my neck. I felt awkward in the contraption. My legs were hanging uselessly off the sides; the leather edges were cutting into the flesh, and the metal chains were cold. He grabbed my hairy calves, one after the other, and hooked ankles through leather straps hanging from the chains. With my heels hooked in the air, I felt more comfortable. I also felt more exposed. If I hadn’t a clear notion of the sling’s purpose until that point, I did the moment I found my ass hanging off the edge of of the leather, exposed by my spread and anchored legs. I’d been restrained several times by this point—to Earl’s bed, to various pieces of furniture, and to Earl’s favorite improvised device, my legs strapped and separated onto a sawed-off broomstick. This was a different beast entirely. I was equally immobile and helpless, my ass was made as available as possible, but I wasn’t really restrained. My hands were free, though Earl ordered me to hang onto the chains nearest my head and not let go. My ankles were in straps, but I could have gotten them free if I wanted. Only I didn’t care to. I accepted my helpless state. And as I relaxed into it, I began to enjoy it. Which is not to say that Earl fucked me gently in that sling. Gentle fucking wasn’t its purpose. He lubed up and opened me all at once, making me cry out as my eyes and ass prickled and stung. As he often said, he liked for me to feel it. The sensations of being sling-banged were different. Unlike a picnic table or a toilet seat, I wasn’t cramped into an uncomfortable position or pinned to a hard uncomfortable surface while a stranger grunted into me. I didn’t find my head slamming into a brick wall. I didn’t have to worry about adjusting the angle of my hips while feeling like I was losing my balance on a mattress. All I had to do was lie there, experience the fuck, and accept what Earl was giving me. All I needed to do was enjoy the rocking motion of the sling, the slap of his balls against my ass, the pain of his dick stretching me wide, and the sounds of him vaulting closer and closer to his first orgasm. Sights, when he allowed me. Smells. Sounds, certainly. But mostly feelings, the sharp, scarlet pains, the dull aches, the almost unbearable hardnesses of my dick and the sensations he’d produce with his stabbing and prodding dick, his wandering hands, his mouth, his teeth. Sensation at its purest, unfettered from care and worry. That’s what I felt that day. Acceptance has its own, unique reward in these situations. Freedom. The freedom not to have to worry about giving the top what he wants—he’s getting what he wants. He’s making the decisions, adjusting the equipment as he desires. He’s setting the pace, calling the shots. All a young bottom has to do is consent, accept, and then reap the rewards. Resistance and fear lead to their own personal prisons; acceptance of the now, of the what’s-happening, are the paths to that freedom. The realization of what Earl was trying to teach me in that basement came to me as I lay in that sling, immobile and presented for use. It seemed very Zen at that time. Very grown-up, even advanced. And it was a lesson I remembered every time Earl had a task for me in the future, whether it was taking the men he direct me to, or the toys he selected. When he told me to open up, I learned not to care whether what was coming was made of latex or fashioned in flesh, whether it was old or young or from a smooth-bodied stud or coming from something covered entirely with fur, whether it was white or black or something in between. I didn’t have to make those decisions. I didn’t have to say yes or no. All I had to do was accept. In that choice lay all the enjoyment I needed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I announced last week that my reader Dogstar was the lucky winner of the contest I held to celebrate the addition of my four hundredth follower. The lucky chap and I conferred, and we agreed I'd keep his prize over the weekend—a pair of my Jockey shorts covered with several of my loads, inside and out—so I could pump a few more coatings of seed onto them. Anything for my readers, right? Since many of you pervs asked, I thought I'd share the end results with you today. Congratulations, Dogstar! You'll be getting your package in a very few days. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “I hope your house never sells.” He says it without petulance, without any of that whininess of a restless child unwilling to turn off the lights and go to sleep. The words are flat and matter-of-fact. “I hope everyone hates your house. I hope your stinky house never sells. Then you’ll have to stay here forever.” Okay, maybe that last part sounds a little bit petulant. And the way he takes a pillow from the sofa and tosses it onto the floor, as if the sloppiness of a single cushion on the floor might scare off potential customers, is a little puerile. This is the same Spencer, however, who a little over an hour ago helped me put some final cleaning touches on the place before we went out to dinner during the house showing. He’s the one who’d rearranged the sofa cushions in a more attractive presentation than I’d ever managed. If he wanted to mess them up a little after strangers had trooped through my house, it was his prerogative. There’s stuff I have to do after every house showing. I have to turn off the lights in the basement and close the door to my studio. I have to check the locks on the back doors, since the agents and the potential buyers they’re showing around have a tendency—unwitting or not—to leave them undone, which has made me paranoid about home invasions. I check for running sinks and open cabinets on the first floor, and then hunt for the pets to be sure they’re all right on the second. Upstairs, I turn off the lights that are making my home a beacon on my darkened street, pat the cat that’s hiding beneath the blankets, and take a moment to kick off my shoes and the thick sweater I’ve been wearing. He joins me in the darkness of my bedroom. His hands glide beneath my armpits; I feel his hot breath on my neck and the warmth of his body against mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “There’s no need to apologize,” I tell him. There isn’t—not for an outburst so minor, nor for wishing our time together was more permanent. He didn’t say anything I haven’t thought to myself, more than once. “It’s just that—” I stop him by turning around and pressing my mouth to his. He doesn’t need to say the words. I already know. There’s a fresh towel I’d stowed beneath the bed earlier that afternoon, when I’d learned that Spencer was planning to give himself a deep cleaning. I use my foot to slide it out, bend down to pick it up, and spread it out onto the bed before I gently settle him onto it. He sighs as I undress him, slowly, and deliberately. I fold his clothing before I place it all, neatly stacked, onto the floor. His dick, large and hard, points in the direction of his left nipple; his balls hang low, almost to the mattress. He is so beautiful. I kneel over him as we kiss. My spit-slick fingers are already prodding at his hole. Involuntarily his knees rise, taking his muscular dancer’s legs into the air. Slowly, inch by inch, they straight until they’re pointing at the wall behind his head. He hooks his toes on the underside of my headboard, ceding full access of his hole to me. I still crave the taste of him, even though I know it better than anything else. I’ve carried that scent, the remnants of the taste, on my beard around my mouth for hours at a time. I’ve smelled it the mornings after we’ve rolled out of bed and he’s brushed his teeth and gone off to one of his jobs. Glorious as it is when it lingers, it’s even better when I can dive in and enjoy it to its fullest, and to make it mine. He gasps for long minutes as I eat and bite at his hole, lifting it up and out. He’s doing it so that I can munch more vigorously, so that I can gnaw at his hole and sate my hunger. Spencer smells like soap and face wash and the cologne he wears, all at once. I could detect those aromas blindfolded in an exotic market and know he was near me, instantly. If I could bottle that scent, I would. I’d bathe in it. He gasps when I lower his legs, turn him over and settle, crossed-legged, beside his body. His chest expands and deflates as I pull his legs apart. From the bedside drawer I pull out the tub of Crisco, which I settle at the back of his knee. My index and middle finger dip into the cool, slick grease and withdraw a glob that I deposit directly onto his hole. He gasps at its low temperature, and moans as I work the tips of of my fingers, around, around, in smooth, slow swirls. It’s like I’m icing a cake. I’m almost reluctant to try this again. The first time I fisted Spencer we both had an enjoyable time. The second time was ill-fated. He’d had difficulties hosing himself out, that afternoon. I’d left on the lights, which made him self-conscious. He’d put on some music I found distracting. Neither of us were really feeling the mood. He limped into the bathroom after feeling ashamed and embarrassed, and I was mortified to think I’d hurt him. This time, though, I’ve turned the lights off, so that we’re lit by nothing but starlight. His iPod sits in my clock radio, playing something low and sexy. He wants my hand inside him, and I want to be there. Two fingers. Three. Four. Slowly I open him up, applying more grease whenever I feel the slightest resistance. My hand resembles a bird’s beak, long, pointed, and conical, as I work all my fingers and my thumb into his slick, warm opening. Spencer moves in slow motion, his arms clawing helplessly at the pillows and sheets as his hips gyrate. It almost looks as if he’s swimming at an impossibly gradual speed, just enough to keep his head over water, but not quite enough to escape the threat of drowning. And he’s drowning now—in waves of sensation and in pure pleasure. Every rasp of his breath, every groan, every cry betrays his need. His hands blindly scrabble for the other bedside drawer, where his bottle of poppers lies. But then he thinks better of it and closes the drawer. He doesn’t need it. My knuckles stretch his outer ring to the widest point . . . and then I’m in. “Oh god,” he cries. “Oh god.” When I say he’s crying, I mean exactly that. My hand becomes a ball, a fist that’s tight and compact inside his ass. I lean down gently to kiss the lowest point of his spine. And my free hand strokes his hair, calming and reassuring him. When my fingers trail over his face, I can feel the tears, as hot and wet as the hole I’m inside. “I want you,” he moans. My curled fingers twist slightly, making him groan. Then I do what I know he loves—I piston my arm in and out of his hole, slightly, gently. It’s not moving any more than a quarter of an inch, back and forth. It’s scarcely more than a vibration, really—and it causes his body to react with almost violent pleasure. I can feel from the inside how hard he is. His muscles contract; the prostate bumping against my knuckles presses hard against me. He’s still talking. “I want your dick inside me. I want your hand,” he begs. “I want you inside me so deep. I want all of you inside me. I want you to fucking live inside my hole.” His lips kiss my hand, over and over. “I need this!” “I’m here,” I whisper to him. “You’re getting exactly what you need.” For long, long minutes I keep up the in-and-out motion. Occasionally I vary it with twisting, or simply resting my arm and expanding my fist so that it grows in size before collapsing again on itself. He loves all these things, and lets me know. Through words. Through guttural sounds. Through the grinding of his pelvis into the towel. And by backing onto my wrist, trying to accommodate more of me. Gradually we turn him onto his side, so that he can masturbate while I’m inside him. He seems reluctant to let the experience end—and I’d be happy to accommodate him for as long as he needs. His dick demands attention, however. As he beats it, his ass spasms. The contractions are so strong that I half-worry he might pinch off my hand below the wrist, or shatter the bones in my hands. When he clamps down, it feels as if he might reduce my knuckles to splinters and dust. I gasp in something close to pain when he comes. My forearm feels as if it might break as jet after jet of semen erupts from his dick and flies into the air. Gradually, though, slowly the spasms subside. He loosens up again, and I start to withdraw. I feel his hands on my arm, stopping me. “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers. He’s not talking about me vacating his hole. “I know,” I tell him, smoothing down his hair. “I know.” For now, though, I leave my hand inside him so that he can feel the connection. I’m not going anywhere, just yet. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Earl’s house was a classic southern three-story home, large and sporting deep raised porches that afforded plenty of shade in the summer. It was set in a quiet neighborhood populated by doctors, professors, ministers, and other upper-middle class professionals, and the cars more likely to be sitting in the driveways were expensive imports than anything domestic. In front of Earl’s house, however, parked next to his Volvo, was a ratty old Volkswagen Beetle. Bumper stickers littered its rear, indicating that the driver had once visited Dutch Village and Carowinds. The Beetle once had been lime green, but when I first saw it, in the late nineteen-seventies, one of the doors had been replaced in a shade of sky blue, and the whole thing was etched in rust. The car belonged to Jim, Earl’s lover. I met Jim fairly early on in my training. I was on my back with my hands roped together and hooked to one of the slats in the headboard while Earl was assaulting my hole when a younger man I hadn’t seen before loped into the room. He wore ratty jeans, a pair of flip-flops, and a much-distressed pink polo shirt. “Who’s that?” he asked. Earl told him my name without so much as breaking his pace. I couldn’t introduce myself, because I was gagged at the time. “Jim lives here with me,” he explained, which was about as close as he ever came to admitting that they were long-time lovers. They’d been living together since Jim had turned eighteen, I found out later. “Hmmm,” said Jim, looking me over. He approached the bed. “Not much to look at, but I guess he knows how to take it.” I wasn’t inclined much to like Jim after that. In my teen years, both he and Earl fell into that group of grown-ups of such an advanced age that seemed out of reach, almost impossible to attain. In reality, he must have been all of about thirty, and perhaps fifteen years Earl’s junior. He was a very juvenile thirty. Though his hair was thinning and his looks rapidly devolving from youthful to weedy, I often felt (and acted) older than he. While he sat on the bed’s corner, watching Earl manhandle my hole so hard that he was bringing tears to my eyes, Jim dug into his jeans pocket and withdrew a rolled-up joint. He grabbed a lighter from the bedside table and flicked it into life. “Don’t,” Earl warned him. “What?” Jim asked, instantly resentful. “It’s my first today.” “Not in front of the boy,” Earl warned him. There was a stern, parental tone to his voice. “Oh please.” Jim’s sallow skin wrinkled as his nose curled in disdain. “The kid knows what grass is.” “I don’t want him going home smelling like it.” Earl’s words gave me no small measure of relief. My parents would have castrated me if I’d gone home stinking of weed. “I can do it in front of the other one,” Jim argued. Apparently Earl had another boy that he used in addition to me; I’d been vaguely aware of it before, but Jim had confirmed it. I noticed that he obeyed Earl and stuck the unlit joint back into his pocket. He threw, rather than tossed, the lighter back onto the table. “They are very different,” Earl said. The entire time he’d been talking, he kept fucking away with no discernible change in the rigidity of his hard-on. “This one’s special.” If he had another boy, at least he knew how to make me feel good about it. “Special education?” Jim watched for a little bit while gnawing on his thumbnail. Helen Keller could have told that he hated me. “He might be young and pretty, but I’ll take someone with experience any day,” he said, completely contradicting what he’d said about me, earlier. He stood up and stalked toward the door. “I’ll be in my room.” The polite fiction known as Jim’s bedroom lay on the home’s top story—a tiny, tiny closet with little more than a twin bed and untidy piles of both Jim’s unwashed laundry and well-used porn magazines. It was cold in the winter, and scorching in the summer. Jim slept in Earl’s bed every night, but the little room gave him something to crab about, and feel martyred over. “I guess I’ll be in my garret,” he’d bitch, when he’d flounce into the house and find Earl working me over. “Feel free to let me know when you’re done with your little trick. If I can hear you all the way up there.” Jim resented me. That was obvious. Occasionally he’d join in with Earl and fuck my ass or mouth with his medium-sized dick that was more often soft than erect; most of the time, though, he’d attempt to sabotage the sex in some passive-aggressive manner. He’d walk into the bedroom with a cigarette in his mouth, bearing a large basket of clean laundry that he’d sort right next to us on the bed. When Earl might be fucking me in the sling in his basement, Jim would decide that the time had come to pull out the boxes in which they stored Christmas decorations, in order to make sure they had enough lights for the season . . . three months away. If Earl and I were fucking and making out in the den, on the sofa, Jim would walk in with a pad and pencil, sit down with his legs crossed, and ask Earl to help him with the grocery list. I disliked being alone with him. If Earl had to leave the room to answer the telephone in the middle of a group session that involved Jim, I’d have to be on guard; Jim would be sure to attempt to bite or pinch or bruise me in some way the moment I was unguarded. If I left my clothes in the kitchen or living room when I entered the house, while I was upstairs with Earl, Jim would be sure to blow the smoke from his joints all over them. There were afternoons I had to resort to a lot of tricky measures to prevent my parents from smelling the weed. And not only would I have to hide Jim’s welts and red marks from my family, but I had to explain them away to Earl as well. And the entire time I’d be over there, I’d have to put up with Jim’s catty comments. “I think your other one is a better fuck,” he’d say, as I was on my way out. Or, “I don’t know how you can put up with that sour little face of his.” Or, “The kid’s so skinny—it’s like fucking a sack of bones.” I’d hear Earl’s voice raised in warning, and know they were going to fight the moment I was out of earshot. They fought a lot, those two. Jim had a snippy temper and an envious nature. He was a jealous nuisance who, I realize now, had out-aged his position as Earl’s boy and was resentful of anyone taking his place. His life consisted of a part-time job at a record store, pot, porn magazines, masturbation, and housekeeping. The limited scope of his sphere, I had an inkling even then, must sometimes have driven him mad. To watch his lover save his passion for someone like me—an outsider, a scrap of a kid whose only things to offer were a tight ass and his youth—had turned him bitter. I got that, even as a kid. Some part of me sympathized with it, which is why I never said anything to Earl about the marks Jim tried to leave on my body. Nuisance he might have been, but from the first I didn’t think that Jim meant me any serious harm. He wasn’t a danger to me. Not for another couple of years, anyway. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Today’s open forum question is simple: What’s your earliest protosexual memory? I’m not talking about remembering the first time you jacked off, or the first time you actually did the deed. I’m curious about what distant memories from childhood you might have of desires you couldn’t explain at the time, but which totally make sense now, in the context of what you learned about your sexuality since. My earliest protosexual fantasies, for example, revolved around refrigerator boxes. You remember refrigerator boxes, or course—or television boxes, or the cardboard containers in which large appliances arrived. Once divested of their contents, they were the ideal playthings for kids like me with active imaginations. I could take a large cardboard box and play with it for weeks. I’d color the outside with crayons and draw crude cityscapes across the flat sides, and even use pinking shears (and a lot of patience) to cut out small little windows for the skyscrapers I scrawled there. Inside, with the box flipped over and turned onto its opening, I’d have endless privacy and light enough to color, or read, or simply conceal myself from the world. I loved my cardboard hideaways. When I started attending kindergarten at the age of five, I rode a yellow school bus to the church where it was held, in the very early mornings, and rode it back home after lunch. It was from my seat on the school bus that I started to notice something. Some of the kids in my classes had awfully cute daddies. The bus didn’t make stops at corners in neighborhoods, the way it would when I attended public school later on. This particular bus went to the home of each and every pupil and picked them up. Typically, one of the kids’ parents would wait with him or her at the ends of their sidewalks or driveways, then help their child aboard, and wave until the bus was out of sight. Very quickly, I learned which houses had the absolute cutest dads. I remember vividly that my heart would sometimes race at the sight of these men. There was one in particular, a young man who couldn’t have been any more than his mid-to-late twenties, blond, handsome in a square and clean-cut late nineteen-sixties way. He’d wait with his child with his sleeves rolled up, exposing a thick thatch of pale fur on his forearms. There were other daddies equally as cute, but he’s the one I still remember, vague as his image is. And I remember having drowsy fantasies, on those mornings when I’d see these men, about being naked with them. He’d have on no clothing. I’d be stripped bare. And we’d both be together in the darkness of my refrigerator box, hidden and unseen by anyone else. Close together. Unavoidable. And. . . . Well, I didn’t really know what came after the ‘and.’ I had urges, plainly. A few years later when I’d put two and two together and realized what penises were for, I almost immediately remembered the refrigerator box fantasies and wondered how I could’ve been so dumb, not to realize. I was too young to have the vocabulary of adult desire at that point, though; even if I’d had a rudimentary notion of how babies were made, I couldn’t have applied it at that point to anything I had between my legs, or the beauty I was already seeing in other kids’ daddies. All I knew is that I wanted to be naked with them, and close, and alone. From what I’ve heard from people I’ve talked to about it, I’m not really alone. A hound dog friend of mine swears that his early days as a skirt chaser began when he used to attempt to see the behinds of his female classmates on the school playground, in kindergarten and first grade. He’s still something of an ass man today. I know of one young man whose childhood discovery of his dad’s porn collection stirred him into an awakening curiosity about sex in general that’s served him well. So I’m opening the question to my readers—what’s your earliest proto-sexual memory? That is, those sexual impulses you had, but might have been too young to recognize for what they were? Don’t be shy. They couldn’t be any sillier than refrigerator boxes. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my frequent commenters and readers of this blog is my buddy FelchingPisser. He's a friend in my real life as well, a demanding top guy who's made an appearance or two in my blog. Yes, we've nailed hole together. He's handsome, hung (he claims he's 'slightly bigger' than me, but he's being kind—he's much, much bigger) and insatiable once he gets going. And he's one of the friends I knew was attending MAL last weekend. The account of the trip he sent me was so engaging, nasty, and hot, that I asked if I could share it with you guys. He consented. So for today's field trip, pack your bags and get ready to see what happened in D.C. through the eyes of one of the best guys I know. The photos in the post are of him. Be sure to let him know in the comments how much you appreciate his diary—it's a scorcher. I guess I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself. I’m another Great Lakes area, full service top. I’m slightly older, slightly taller, slightly thinner and, yeah, slightly bigger then the Breeder. While, the Breeder wrote about attending one of my gangbangs, I more often appear in this blog with a comment or two. I wrote what follows as a way to keep track on my first Mid-Atlantic Leather (MAL) experience. I had often gone to CLAW, but never to DC for what any number of guys told me was the “Rolls Royce of leather events.” I sent it off to the Breeder daily. He suggested that his readers might be interested. I want to thank him for even thinking it was worth posting here... This is not a writing competition to see if I can write better than what appears daily in this space. I know I’d lose. This is simply the chronicle of my weekend: How I went to DC…and had a fuckin’ blast… MAL Day One: Thursday “I’m sorry, sir. You‘re a pound and a half overweight.” I look down at my thin frame--I have never heard those words before in my life. “Your suitcase. If you can get that much out of it, you can check it for free.” I take the case off the scale and start unzipping. Thank God I am checking in early at DTW and there is no line. “A pair of blue jeans often works,” the SouthWest clerk adds helpfully. I look. No surprise, really, about the weight. Leather chaps, jeans, camo pants, leather shirts, wrist restraints, harness, shoes, on and on. I remove the travel bag filled with the sundries I often take to play parties. Oops, get the lube out of there--no liquids. Ok, that should take care of the weight, be easier to carry than a pair of jeans and give the screeners something to talk about as they see the x-ray of the dildo I use to double fuck my boys… “All set? “All set.” The bag is back on the scale. “Oh, very, good--you got it down to 44 and a half.” An endless line for screening. And yes, I swear to God, my bag is backed up for a second look. Maybe the aging TSA agent really likes the idea of the tit clamps in there…. Two perfectly boring flights--only slightly enlivened by a cute attendant who would NOT smile at me--but kept looking at my bulge. The most expensive cab ride ever--and I am at the hotel. Check in--fast and smooth. And they actually have my name--surprising, since I had no part of the reservation process. Up to the third floor--and I am suddenly all but weak kneed. The elevator REEKS of poppers. Obviously, someone’s bottle has not survived the flight and has dripped through the luggage. Oh, does the Hyatt know what they are in store for?????!!!! My first roommate arrives 2 and ½ hours after his projected time--glad I didn’t wait for him at Dulles where he suggested he could pick me up…Matt is a guy I met at CLAW in April. He gave me my first lesson in flogging. I then fucked him and pissed up his hole. He fed it back to me and we have kept in touch ever since. Short, billy-goateed, shaved head...leather is his life. A true leather man--his leather family takes precedence over anything. And he has a large, involved one. He was constantly at their beck and call during the first 24 hours. To the point that our appointed play time vanished. We’d agreed we’d play the first night then be free the rest of the weekend…play again if we felt the urge. But not now--well, quick---online to BBRT---where I had been turning down countless guys all afternoon ‘cuz of Matt. I just felt it--now I would get no one….No problem, as it turned out. I had the perfect opening to MAL… HotCumLoads is taking loads on the 11th floor. He’d love to entertain. I walk in. This full, round, hairy ass is in the air as he is sucking a long slender cock, attached to a nicely developed, 40ish top sitting against the headboard. HotCumLoads is in his early 40’s, looks younger, has a great cock on him--which gets very hard as I strip and start to tongue his hole. “I’ve got three loads up there for you, Sir.” This turns both tops on more than I can express. We go for 90 minutes--taking turns up his hole--all three fighting to lick the cock clean when it pulls out--before the other one goes in. Spit, gob, ass to mouth, rimming of the other top--he LOVED my tongue down his throat, up his ass or on his cock. HotCumLoads repeatedly sits on my face--he can squeeze a little out each time…so I get an additional taste of some nameless man’s cum. It’s the silkiest ass I’ve had in ages. I cum first. I eat out a good portion of my load and snowball it to HotCumLoads. The other top leans in to get his share from our mouths. He fucks the boy as he kisses me and unloads in his ass. I clean his cock. HotCumLoads knows the drill. He sits on my face and makes the most erotic noises as I eat his ass out. Spent, I head downstairs. Matt is wrapped around a sleeping guy who looks JUST LIKE Matt. He wakes, waves, pulls on jeans and carries the rest of his leather in a messy bundle out the door. We all fall asleep. Hello, Washington!! MAL Day Two: Friday Woke up early, dammit. Good bagel with egg and coffee. Food taken care of--I’m suddenly horny. On BBRT. Only getting hit up by guys in the city--and I can’t entertain easily with the roommate. Where are all the guys in the hotel???? My email flashes. “Hey.” It’s cumfilledbiker--sounds promising. “I want you to seed me.” “Yeah?” “I’m taking loads all day.” “Got your first one yet?” “Any minute. He’s on his way up.” “Write me when you’re loaded.” “You got it.” 15 minutes go by. It’s cumfilledbiker again. “Mission accomplished. Come on up. The door will be ajar, I‘ll be on the bed ass up.” I go up to the 11th floor again. He’s almost across the hall from last night’s fuckfest. The door is ajar. He’s 40ish, dressed totally in leather riding gear--the real stuff, the kind that you wear on your bike not just in the playroom--his ass is up in the air as promised. And dripping cum out of his hole. I moan--not really aware I make a sound until I hear myself. Fully clothed, I kneel behind him. My tongue dart’s out--tasting more anonymous seed. My cock hurts, straining in my shorts. My shirt comes off while I eat, making more guttural sounds. I never get my pants off over my boots; just pull them down as I pause in lapping up the seed. I plunge in deep with my tongue---my trademark rimming technique. He gets vocal, making my cock even harder. I slap his ass with my hard cock. “Fuck,” he hisses. “It’s huge. Fuck.” “That’s what I’m gonna do.” My cock glides halfway in with the residue of cum I’ve left. His breath comes fast. “Shit” “Take it.” And he does. After several minutes I pull my cock out slowly. My cock head is designed with that super flared helmet that pulls the seed out as I withdraw. I bend to lick it up. He pants. I eat…I roll him over and snow ball the load into his mouth. He’s now erect, his cock straining against his leather jock. I fuck him for awhile on his back--trying to see the eyes behind the aviator sunglasses. I continually stop, pull out my dick and eat the seed that drips out with it. “I thought you were just gonna felch me. Fuck, that’s huge.” “You want me to stop?” “God, no….” the rest is lost as I hobble onto the bed and slap his mouth with my cum slicked cock. It continues in the same way for a time--but he’s showing signs of exhaustion and I realize this is an appetizer--I’m not gonna get off. “Okay, boy. Do something for me.” “Sir?” “Email me after you get each load. Will you do that?” “YES, Sir!” I pull my self together and return to my just waking roommate. He tells me roomie number 2 will arrive this afternoon. Oh, joy. My light blinks on BBRT. It’s bbcumboy. “I just got in.’ “Welcome,” I type. “I want you to be the first up my ass.” “Where?” He tells me a room number on the sixth floor. “Cleaned out?” I ask--always wary. “Give me ten minutes.” I give him 30, telling him so, and head to the sixth floor. He opens the door. The boy is young, with just a little extra weight, the remnants of a silly faux-hawk, but overall a delicious freshness. We kiss for maybe ten seconds, and he’s on his knees, undoing my pants. He gives good head. I reach down behind him and feel his hole. He whimpers. It’s a long process to get me all the way in. But it’s worth the time. I fuck him doggy for quite awhile, flip him, eventually he ends up riding my cock. He is careful not to blow fast. I relish young skin on my tongue, hand and cock. “Daddy--do you want to get off?” Wow, I might have--but the moment we talk about it, I am suddenly no where near blowing. “Your profile says you like piss.” I smile. “I love it.” “I’ve only had one guy piss in my hole.” “Then you’re gonna have another one.” I flip him over so I am lying on top of him, balls deep. I want to watch his face. I will myself to piss. I can actually feel things in my cock shut down one function and get ready to do another. “Here you go, boy.” It starts slow. “Oh, fuck….” His eyes glaze. And I keep going. And going. I have no idea I have so much piss in me. “Oh, my God!” His ass is now on fire--the piss raising the temperature of his butthole. “Shit, Daddy.” I start to fuck in it, slowly. He groans…then we get all responsible and stop not to make a mess--oh for my playroom, dammit. He evacuates it all in the bathroom as I start to dress. He comes back in the room, grinning. “That was so hot.” We agree to fuck at the party we both are going to tonight and I take my leave before his roommate arrives… I have coffee and realize I could eat. I flick thru the quick connect ads on BBRT. There’s a gorgeous man saying he’s in the hotel near the host hotel. He’s built and beautiful--and I’m scared to make the first move. I ‘screw my courage to the sticking place’ and write. Bingo. He would love for me to be his inaugural load. YES!! Thank you Grandpa--I just know it’s your cock I inherited--and it opens so many doors….. The Phoenix Park Hotel is very different from the Hyatt--relentless with “Colonial Charm.” Everything in it is old--and to be fair --I guess it is a historic building. TimberWolf opens the door. The pics don’t lie. Worked out, but not to the point of excess. Hairy in all the right places. And a nice guy. We go at it like animals. After the two sessions I know this is the one that will get me off. After a little initial sucking, I eat and fuck, eat and fuck, eat and fuck. Soon I feel it---and then he feels it, warm, sticky and I’m talking in tongues. And he’s a great kisser… Lunch. And I can’t get into my room. The new roommate is there. And he’s arguing with someone on the phone about his insurance or something. He’s a big bear. As I later learn…you can’t shut him up. He talks to fill the silence, saying little and repeats it and repeats it and… I head down to the Vendor’s Mart. I look for a new harness but don’t see what I want. Nap time. Late dinner. As I’m dressing for the orgy, Matt, roomie one, comes in with his Aussie look alike from last night. They strip down and Matt sits on the Aussie’s cock. He looks over at me. “I can take both of you on.” I go over and lick the cock as it’s entering his hole--the Aussie is a little amazed that the quiet guy is doing that. I fuck Matt’s face a little, straddling the Aussie, then decide that this is just not what I want. I leave them to it… And the orgy… 148 guys had responded that they were coming. Yeah, right--but if a third of them show, it will be a good group--and that’s pretty much what happened. I would say about 50 guys trooped through the door, never more than 20 at one time. I stayed over three hours. I lost count of the number of asses I fucked--well over 30. The party was thrown by 4 black men, 2 tops, 2 bottoms, and I guess they are an MAL tradition. There were all types there, all ethnicities, leaning towards African Americans. The best players were: a totally hot Middle Eastern bottom, a hot young Black boy, one of the host tops with a super curved shaft and a piggy Hispanic. Both TimberWolf and bbcumboy were there. Hottest moment: five bottoms were ass up in a row on two beds with five tops filling the holes, then we moved to the next-- all the tops shifting down one--and then again--and then again--until we’d had the all the current available holes. I made sure to play with all four hosts--the main top loved me licking his cock straight from what ever hole he was fucking--and the bottom host, gapingffhole, who’d invited me, really loved me--calling me “one nasty man…” Um…yeah…. I did get off. But I’ll be damned if I know in who… MAL Day Three: Saturday Not too surprisingly, I took the morning off. I lolled around, wrote up some of Friday and then began to get ready. I was headed off to make my first porn. Weeks ago I had applied to the new porn studio (Bad Seed Media) run by model Chris Neal--the huge dicked star with more-tattoos-than-God--of Dick Wadd, TIM and countless others. I’d made the cut of the 200+ who applied. I walked out of the hotel in time to cab to Chris’ hotel across the Mall. In the Hyatt front driveway was an ambulance… ah, one more drug addled fag does too much Tina…(at the filming, the producer was getting texts from someone at the Hyatt saying that the Presidential Suite was under lock down for possession and Police were fingerprinting anyone who knocked on the door. That busted party was on the same floor, but the other end of the building from the one I went to on Friday—mine being drug free.) <blockquote>I arrive slightly early, sit and begin to sweat. I call up to Chris’ room, closer to 1 o’clock. The producer, slightly older than I, meets me and takes me upstairs. He looks an academic type and proves to be, retired now, and the boyfriend of Chris. We did all the paper work proving I was legally in the country and (don’t laugh) of legal age. There is a hot little Hispanic boy who looks to be about 12, a cute young man of maybe 28. And the bottom: Jayson Park. I am thrilled….he’s a hot, no, HOT fucker. We strip. I suit up in leather as requested. FAR from being a gangbang—we’d been told 24 guys, Chris had whittled it down to 10, then just the 3 of us have shown up to top Jayson….ok, it could still be hot…With just three, the guy who has been helping with the sign in decides to play too--a slightly over weight, bookish type in his late 30’s. Also on hand is an observer (hotter than two of the players) who is hoping some day to start his own porn studio, and the director/cameraman, a short Hispanic--who really seemed to know what he was doing, but kept bowing to the judgment of the his boss, the ex-prof. And no Chris Neal. Well, he is filming for Dick Wadd…where I should have been…if I’d known about it… We begin. The four of us ringing Jayson on the floor. He pays oral attention to all of our cocks…well, not the cute Hispanic‘s. He can’t get hard. Finally in broken English he makes is clear that he is not a top. Oh, boy….one down. We begin filming again. Jason has us all hard. Well, almost. Now it’s the accountant’s turn to stop proceedings and say he can get hard if he eats some ass. He eats Jason’s. He eats the 28 year old. Nothing. Break is called. The accountant gets a phone call--he has to leave. Two down. We go back to Jayson on all fours on the bed, me eating his ass, the cute 20 something boy, who has a luscious looking ass that I never get to taste, is in his mouth. I rear up and start to fuck. Jayson is taken aback at just how big I am. But he’s a trooper---and a pig bottom. I fuck standing, but in an odd, knee bent position since we are using a frigging hide-a-bed. After a bit--and making sure I do extra long strokes to show off the length of my dick, I slap his ass and motion for the 20 something to take his turn. But he can’t keep it hard once it’s near ass. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I'm glad so many of you guys enjoyed my friend FelchingPisser's MAL diary yesterday. In answer to the universal question I kept getting in my mailbox, no, FelchingPisser doesn't have his own blog. That's why I invited him to guest write for mine. He does have a lot of great encounters, though, so maybe we can persuade him to share his write-ups from time to time. Today I'm collecting some of the past replies I've made on formspring.me, the site where people can ask one anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) questions of a personal nature. I'm always up for some good questions, especially about my sex life or my views on sex and sexuality, which is the focus of this blog. I'll answer questions about anything, though, as long as they're not overly invasive, too repetitive, or outright abusive. When you see a pic of a guy with a real big!!! dick up a guy's ass .. and the bottom's face is all distorted. Do you ever wonder whether he looks that way coz he loves it, or is in pain? I usually hope it's a little of both. A friend of mine (a theater director who I turned on to your blog) highly doubts that what you write it true. I argue that it is. Who is right? Of course artistic writing requires some "fudge room" I'm sure. But what percent is true? --Reality Lover I don't make shit up for my blog. I write about my sex life. I change the names and a few details about my partners (occupations, identifying marks, that kind of thing) in order that they aren't readily identifiable. But that's the only fudging I do. I'm always surprised how outraged I become when someone accuses me of lying in my blog. I take the allegations quite personally. If your friend wants to think I'm a liar, I suppose there's really no way I can stop him. But I pity anyone whose life is so narrow and constrained that my quite normal sex life seems like the stuff of fantastic fiction. As a bi guy, I consider myself a fairly good top for a gal. i'd like to top a guy.. any suggestions/recommendations? I'd really like to please a guy with a tight hole, but I'm afraid I'll cum too quickly, but that's where my preferences are. I think you'll find the solution fairly easy. Tops are in high demand. All you need to do is get onto a web site where you can display a photo of your dick, advertise yourself as a top, and you'll be pretty much flooded with offers from willing bottoms. Out of fairness, I think it might be best to advertise yourself as a novice top looking to gain experience—that way, if there are any premature conclusions or awkwardness, shall we say, they'll be forewarned and you won't have to feel too badly about it. If you shoot too quickly, you'll gain friends if you stick around long enough to provide the bottoms with a second round. There will be plenty of guys out there who'll want to take you on. I think you'll enjoy it just as much as fucking pussy. Chuck Liddell is at your bedside. He's naked, ripped, musky. "I'm tied of pussy," he says. "I want to finger-fuck your asshole and suck your dick while I rub your tit and sit on your face." Do you let him? I had to Google him. But who is going to say no to that request? Not I. This might be a stupid question, but here it goes. Does your wife know about your bisexuality? I assume she doesn't, but I do know plenty of women do not mind dating men who have been with other men before. This is one of those questions from which I tend to veer, as it strikes a little close to my home life. Many guys make the exact same assumption as you. To make that assumption, however, implies that at core, I'm duplicitous in my everyday behavior. To assume that I live my life that way is incorrect. You have 789 questions answered thus far on here - planning anything special for #800? I'd try to make it a doozy but I can't think of much you haven't answered already. Is it really that many? I didn't have a special question planned to mark the occasion . . . but as long as it's not a repeat of the one about vampires and African violets, I'm good with whatever comes along. Name the top 5 twitter guys you have a crush on? Oh, naming five would be unfair to the other three dozen I have crushes on. I will say that only one of them is a bona fide porn star, though. If you weren't moving someplace particular and could move anywhere (but had to move somewhere!), where would you go? If we're playing the game in which money is no object, I'd move somewhere completely different from where I am now. Somewhere like London. Or Australia. Or even San Francisco. Glad someone has asked you to start contributing as a a writer. You are very, very good. Why thank you. I'd enjoy more opportunities like the Anal Magazine one. Did you ever get feedback from bottoms about what's doing it for them? The good ones let me know, either explicitly or through other feedback like moaning and yelling, what's really working for them. That's probably what most frustrates me about the ones who simply lay there. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Spencer’s dick is bigger than mine. I’m under no illusion that I’ve got the biggest meat in any assembly of men, though I’ve usually got more than most—and more than enough to work with. Spencer’s longer than me by a good inch or so. The uppermost reaches of his scrotum begin higher on the shaft than mine do, so that from some angles, like the underside, it seems nowhere near as lengthy. But when he’s got his legs spread, and his dick pointing to the ceiling, and his head arched back and dug deeply into the pillows . . . yeah. It’s a big one. We’re naked, and on the floor of the den, the carpet made pillowy even more by a fleece throw we’ve dragged down from the sofa. The sliding glass doors at the back of the house are uncurtained. Though the lights are low, anyone who happened to passing would see us embracing. The base of his spine is arched and raised from the floor. I’m able to slip my fingers beneath it. His big hands pull my hips harder against his own. In my childhood, my uncle used to call having sex the beast with two backs. It seemed an over-exotic allusion then, something archaic and quaint, the sort of Edwardian naughtiness whispered over cigars and port, away from the ladies. But now I know what it means. Together we do form a beast, a writhing, squirming monster that moves across the floor in one direction and then another. The beast is hungry and seeks only its own satisfaction; it fills the air with ungodly cries and wordless sounds that would frighten the weak. Parts of it throb and pulse, angry, red. Others clutch and claw. Mouths open to devour. Eyes open, but they don’t see—not past the beast itself. His dick is raw and pulsing, wet from the precum he drips. I feel it slide up from underneath my pelvis, and travel up my crack until it’s drooling at the base of my spine. The droplets of moisture cool there, making me shiver slightly. We kiss, savoring the sensation of our lips as they pull at the other’s. Then his dick inches lower again. The head parts my crack. Instinctively, it burrows for my warmest part, and nudges against my hole. And there it rests for a moment. When I feel his cock head swell, I almost pause completely. Is this what he wants? All that fills my head for the moments following are the reasons why I shouldn’t. I didn’t clean out, inside. I’m not prepared. It’s been too long. I haven’t—I can’t—I’m not sure I could. That’s all it takes to fill my head with doubt, I realize. Nothing more than the sensation of his dick’s head, butting against me. He hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t asked me for anything. He’s just doing what feels good to him, in that moment. I reach back, and wrap my fingers around his shaft. It swells. Beneath my hand it’s hot—hotter to the touch than any other part of his body. Gently, slowly, I rub the tip of his dick against my hole. He sighs, and shifts, and while he kisses me, his hips thrust up. Slightly. So, so slightly. Atop him, I rock forward and back to the swells and ebbs of his movements. His dick sweetly pulses against my entrance, icing it with his sticky fluids. If this is what he wants, I will give it to him, I’ve decided. I raise myself up enough to spit on my hand. I bring it down around his meat, getting it slick. His breath quickens; he thrusts hard between my fingers, splitting them further apart, splintering any resistance they might have. His dick batters against my pelvic bone, almost bruising it; again and again he bangs and thrusts, assaulting a spot an inch away from my hole. I only release him for another handful of saliva, which I spread on his inches until it’s slippery to the touch. If this is what he wants, I’ll give it to him right there. And I half-wish he would. His body jerks. Spasms wrack his frame. His jaw clenches, set and jutted like a rock shelf. I feel a spurt of juice first on my ass, and then running down my wrist. He shakes and nearly bucks me from atop him as he comes, his groans so loud that one of the cats runs from her nap on the nearby sofa. When he’s done, I rub the cummy tip of his cock over my hole, and lower myself so that my head rests on his chest. It wasn’t what he wanted, that time. But my mind can’t help but think about what might have been. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I leave the door open for Spencer these days. He’ll park his car, sit for a moment on the dark street in his car with the door ajar to give him enough light to wrap the earbuds around his iPod, and then he’ll shuffle up the driveway and through the side door into the house. Once inside, he’ll come find me, whether I’m in the den watching television, or reading a book on my bed, or cleaning up the kitchen. The day I arrive back from my new year’s weekend trip, he doesn’t have to come find me. I’m waiting for him. The landing is dark inside the side door when he steps indoors, unaware how close I am. From the shadows further down the stairs I watch his silhouette as he leans against the wall and kicks off his leather boots. His hands grab to remove the oversized wool cap he wears in chilly weather. He shakes his head to clear his ears of the cold. I make myself known by shifting my weight. The stairs creaked a little; he whips around to see me against the darkness of my basement, hands at my side, staring at him. “Oh fuck,” he pants, and then lets out half a laugh. “You scared the shit out of me.” I don’t really care. I take two steps up and close the distance between us. My right hand grips the back of his head, pulling him into a rough kiss. He melts immediately. His own ice-touched fingers rest weakly on my hips; I can feel the aching cold of them through my T-shirt. His chest, though, is warm where my left hand travels over it, beneath his sweater, shirt, and undershirt. When I tweak his nipple, he groans involuntarily and slumps backward. His body hits the door with a thud, still glued to mine. His lips part to admit mine and his tongue helplessly succumbs to my probing. His head tilts back. When I withdraw slightly, his body protests. His hands grip me hard, pulling me back in, and then scramble to hold the sides of my face so tightly I feel as if I’m being squeezed for my juice. He’s hungry for me; he can’t have enough of me, or have me quickly enough. He lets me know how aroused he is by thrusting his hard dick against my hip. Spencer never wears underwear. I can feel his heat and hardness through a single layer of denim. He’s gone from zero to eight inches in seconds flat; I can hear his heart pounding hard and fast beneath his skin. I pull away and, in the dim landing’s light, look at him. His hands are still fixed to my cheek. My right hand chips his chin. “Hi,” I say. “Hi,” he says back. I’ve left the house dark. Hand in hand, I guide him through the familiar shades of black and slantwise shadows cast by the street lamps near the end of the block. When we reach the bedroom upstairs, he wants to kiss some more. His mouth quests for mine, hungry and needy, but I refuse to give him what he wants. Instead, I turn him around and wrap my arms tightly around him, gripping him so tightly he almost loses his breath. My hands unbutton his jeans, and shuck them to the floor. He tries to step out of them, but I’m too greedy, too impatient; I shove him roughly down on the bed. His feet wriggle helplessly in the mess of denim surrounding them. He struggles to gain his balance, to adjust himself, but I’m already positioning him as I want him—butt high, knees spread, face down in the sheets. His three layers of shirts bunch in a wreath around his shoulders when I haul his ass into the air. He gasps the moment my tongue dives into the hole. This is no lovemaking. It’s rimming at its most primal, its most necessary. I eat and bite at his hole like a hungry dog at his steak dinner, slopping it up and not caring if he likes it or not. I’m so riled, so in need of what he’s there to give me, that his pleasure is incidental. His loud cries could be of pain, but somehow I don’t think they are. They’re music to my ears, regardless. I drool onto my dick and let the spit slick up the shaft. Then I’m in, pushing past what scant resistance he has to offer and deep into the depths, where it’s hot as a furnace and wet as a warm river. My dick swells. I can tell it’s releasing precum, just from the feel of it, and the way in which it seems twice as slippery after. I’ve not fucked for a week. I’ve been saving up for him, and this is where I intend to be. Ordinarily I pride myself on my control when I fuck. I like to switch it up, vary the rhythms, keep the bottom guessing what will come next. Not today. Not now. My hips and my dick are in collusion against me. They have their own rough agenda and no intentions to hold back from it. I feel as if someone else is pushing my shaft in and out of his hole at top speed, slamming into him so hard that the bed is leaping from its feet and scudding back down onto the hardwood floor. He’s whimpering now, or crying—it’s difficult to tell which. And to be honest, I don’t much care. “This one’s for me,” I tell him. My voice issues deep from within my chest, husky, low, and full of command. “So just shut up and fucking take it.” I’m not going to last, I know. I’ve been too long without, and my dick is already buzzing with the impending sensations of orgasm. My thumbs hook beneath the hems of his shirts and sweater, as my fingers reach beneath the necks; I’ve created a yoke that lets me pull and push his body onto my cock as I need. And I do need it, more and more urgently. “Rape me,” he pleads, tears in his voice. “Fucking rape my hole. Please.” When my orgasm arrives, it hits like a speeding train. I’ve known it was coming, and yet the sheer intensity of it is a shock that seems to blur and bleach my vision. My dick spews over and over again into him, filling him with seed that he begs for with every blast. I realize I haven’t been breathing. Exhaling is painful, and inhaling even more so in the moments that follow; every nerve ending inside me seems to jangle at the sensation of the cool bedroom air filling my lungs. Still deep inside him, I pause. My fingers tickled around his hole where my dick meets his ass, where the two of us are one and inseparable, for now. That one was for me. The next one was for him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wanted to remind Breeder's Readers that I am conducting another spunked-up underwear giveaway, to celebrate the four-hundred-reader milestone we passed right around the new year. If you'd like to enter, just visit the contest entry, read the instructions, and make a comment--or drop me an email to say you'd like to enter. I'll be accepting entries all the way through midnight tomorrow, and then we'll have the drawing. The last time we had this contest, I had several stragglers moaning at me after that they didn't see the contest until it was too late—which means that you need to be visiting more frequently, from my end. So let's not miss this one! I've already got a few loads soaked into the things. We'll be reviewing several of the answers I've given to questions asked of me on formspring.me this week, as we usually do on Sundays. The site allows anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) queries, and I've really been getting some good questions of late. Usually I stick to recapping questions from several weeks back, but for this entry I'll be including a couple about my relationship with Spencer that came in a few days ago; I think they're pretty relevant and might allay some concerns or questions that a lot of my readers seem to have. Of course, if you have questions or concerns of your own, please feel free to use the service to share them. How old is Spencer? Twenty-five. How did you meet Spencer? I met him on Adam4Adam.com. So, you've mentioned Spencer's big cock several times now - how big are we talking here? Basically the same length as mine, but narrower at the head and wider at the base. Does Spencer know that he is on your blog? Nope. To be fair, I make sure that he's not easily identifiable by anyone who might know him and read my blog. If you let Spencer go, truly, you're a fool. You've both been given a rare gift & you're letting it go? SAD, for you. While I'm glad you recognize what a gift I've been given, it's a shame you feel the need to berate me at the same time. It's not nice, nor is it necessary. It's fairly easy for an outsider to read my blog and assume that he can tell me how to live my life better than I ever could tell myself. Never forget, however, that your view into my world is only a pin-prick, a peephole that I've created that gives you only a blinkered glimpse into what I see. I have been given a gift. However, it's not sad in the least; I'm relishing every moment of what I've been given. I consummate it in the flesh, and celebrate it in my recollections. Both of us entered this relationship knowing that would have an end point—an as-yet unspecified end point, but an end point all the same. Many beautiful things in this world only have a season to flourish before they expire. This happens to be one of them, and trust me, I'm appreciating it while it lasts. The true fool, in my mind, is the man who would assume that these gifts last forever, and who takes them for granted. I think the previous question asked was more a reflection on how all of us who follow your blog are seeing this wonderous relationship with Spencer bloom and grow. And none of us want to see you hurt when it ends. Because we will hurt too for you. I appreciate the concern behind the question. I honestly do. What I didn't appreciate was being called names. As I said, it was neither necessary nor nice. My philosophy has always been that if one keeps one's heart and eyes open, life brings all kinds of opportunities. Not every opportunity is going to be of permanent duration, as much as we might like. But they need to be seized, and relished, and appreciated for what they are, regardless of whether they last a night, a month, or several years. When my time draws to a close with Spencer, it is going to hurt. There's no way around it. Hopefully we can find ways to soften the blow. But to turn away from joy because of the prospect of eventual pain is a cowardly betrayal of life's bounty. You rim. He rips. Then? It's never happened to me. I'd hope he'd give me a little warning. what is the one spot on your body that someone can touch that winds you up really fast. The sensation of hands or lips on my neck or back drives me absolutely around the bend. I am so jealous of your tiny waistline! Both of the pictures at the top of your blog show it off well. A tiny waist always makes the piece look even bigger! Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I'm way too tall and long-limbed ever to think of myself as 'tiny,' but it's nice to know my eating habits pay off. Do you own a "cock ring"? If so, how many and what style? Leather? Chrome? Rubber? Other? I own over twenty different cock rings, in leather, chrome, rubber, and weird stretchy materials. My favorites are the heavy chrome, or the thicker, more donut-like rubber rings I want to fuck you so bad. As in, to top me? You're welcome to try, I guess. I just don't think it's likely to happen. Of course, if you just mean to fuck around with me, that's always easily enough done if you're within a reasonable driving distance. Has your pubic hair changed over time? The stuff has spread over the decades, but it's still soft and blond. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had an hour to go on the road, back to the home I hadn’t seen all weekend. It was dusk at the rest area, and the cars were gathering. I stuck my hands deep into my pockets not so much to hide the erection growing there as to adjust it so that it would be more visible. Then I stepped out of the car and walked past the parked vehicles and the staring eyes within them. My visiting family was supposed to fly back home on the first day of the year. On new year’s eve, however, I discovered that instead of merely driving to the airport the next morning, I’d be making a twelve-hour trip to drive the family all the way to the east coast, then return again on my own. The trip out was miserable. The journey back, however, didn’t wear me down as much as I thought I would. So when I passed the rest area where occasionally I’ve been known to spread a little seed, I decided to stop. At this time of day, during the rush hour home and after dark, almost every car held a single man in the driver’s seat. Some fiddled with their phones. Some pretended to be listening to their stereos. A few made no pretense why they were there. Their meaty hands rubbed over the bulges in their slacks as they cocked their heads and stared at me through the windshields. A couple I found unattractive; I avoided their glances as I passed. One kid caught my eye, though—a young guy with a pencil-thin mustache whose black knitted wool hat made his head look like a bullet. He leaned forward onto the steering wheel of his old Mustang to stare at me as I walked by. I held his glance for as long as was comfortable before I passed by his car and strolled up the sidewalk to the restroom. The restroom urinals are right inside the men’s room door at this particular location, and the door’s always propped open. Anyone could poke a head around the corner from the waiting room and spy men peeing, if they really cared to. The outer doors protest loudly when they’re pulled open, however, and at this time of day there was very little foot traffic inside. The only person occupying the entire restroom was an older guy examining himself in the mirrors over the sinks, further into the washroom’s interior. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, this guy, with a long braid of a dirty silver color hanging from beneath a distressed suede hat. His shirt was faded denim. That of his jeans was even more faded and worn. The boots he wore were pointy and so beaten that it was impossible to tell what color they once had been. He looked a little like Willie Nelson, in fact, though not as lean or likely to ask my assistance for FarmAid. He looked at me in the mirror, measuring me. I stood at the innermost of the urinals and unzipped. It only took a few seconds for Willie Nelson to join me. He stood at the urinal next to mine, the tip of his booted foot nearly touching my black Converse. I didn’t even bother to pretend I was trying to pee. There was no need. Willie unzipped and pulled out a dick that made my eyes boggle. Soft, it had to be a good seven inches, and thicker than mine is hard; as it began to stiffen, I knew I was in for one of those rare massive dick sightings. The thing was about ten inches when it finally stopped swelling and growing. He pulled back the hood from his monster and pointed it at me, giving me a broad, toothy grin. I nodded back, displaying my meat, as my eyes detected traces of yellow in his mustache and beard. The outer doors swung. Willie and I took our places in front of the urinals, pushing our hips close to thrust our hard-ons into the shadows. Again, there was no need. The guy who joined us was the kid from the car, the one who’d stared at me on my trip in. He was wearing the Michigan white boy’s equivalent of hip-hop clothing—baggy pants with the waist hanging at the base of the ass, puffy winter coat, new sneakers with blinding white laces. And he stared at me like he wanted to eat me alive. Willie Nelson stepped back and displayed his dick again. He wasn’t exactly an attractive guy, but you don’t see dicks like his all that often. The kid’s eyes flicked from his massive erection to mine, and back again. He took a place next to Willie, his thumbs hooked into his pants pockets, the tips of his fingers rubbing the hard bulge they shrouded. “You ever put out in a rig before?” Willie Nelson asked me. His voice was gruff. When he exhaled the words, he smelled of cigarettes and loneliness. I nodded. I’d been fucked in a truck in a rest area the day I got my driver’s license. “I bet you’d look real pretty in mine,” he said. The kid reached out and tried to wrap his right hand around the trucker’s dick. The fingers barely touched the base of his palm. His other hand reached out for mine and closed around it. His skin was ice cold. I reached out and cupped the kid’s crotch. I could feel his dick just beneath the denim of his baggy jeans, hard as metal and warm to the touch. The trucker thrust his hand down the back of my jeans. His fingers snaked down my crack, probing for my hole. I was still clean from the morning’s shower; I let him do what he wanted. “Pretty little pink butthole on you, I bet. You want that, boy? You want this monster up in there?” It was mentally tempting. And at my age, I don’t get called ‘boy’ very often. But it’s been too long since I was fucked, and I wasn’t going to be able to climb back on that bicycle with the trucker’s length and girth. So I said nothing. I didn’t really need to. The trucker was stroking himself faster and faster, talking dirty to get himself off. “Legs spread, presenting that ass to me . . . shit. I bet you know what the fuck you’re doing, too. You know how to get a man like me off, huh?” The kid’s eyes glittered as they darted from me to the trucker. He ground his dick against my hand, but made no move to haul it out. “Yeah, sluttin’ your hole out to me, you fuckin’ whore, taking it like a bitch while I seed your little pucker, boy. You like that? You want that?” The trucker used his free hand to squeeze his nipples through his shirt while he jacked himself rapidly, and then he jammed it back down my pants to connect with my hole again. My own dick was hard and wet at the tip, where a bead of precum had formed and attached itself to the kid’s wrist. The shiny filament connecting us glistened in the florescent light. The trucker’s head tilted back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His finger shoved inside me slightly, but not very far. He grunted, and bucked. When his load hit the back of the urinal, it did so with a hollow metallic collision, spraying out in one massive gush that immediately began to drip down the porcelain. A much smaller second dribble followed, barely making it out the tip. The pencil-mustached kid stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; almost immediately when it was done, he looked me in the eye, gave my dick one final squeeze, and scampered like a frightened bunny. Willie Nelson withdrew his hand from the back of my pants, zipped up looking vaguely embarrassed, and shuffled over to the sink to wash. And I stuffed my erection down the right leg of my jeans, fastened and collected myself, and walked back to my car. Pair after pair of eyes followed me from the single men in their vehicles, parked in the shadows in the lot. I still felt them coming in my direction as I locked the doors and pulled out my phone. I tapped out a text message to Spencer. I really need to engage in rambunctious sexual intercourse with you at your earliest opportunity, I wrote him. You’re back in town? he wrote back immediately. What time? I told him to meet me at my place in ninety minutes. And then I drove home with an erection that lasted until I saw him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The very first bareback blog on which I kept an eye didn’t last long. Somewhere between seven and ten years ago I stumbled upon a journal kept by a top in Manhattan who recorded several of his sexual adventures in vivid detail. The guy was a good enough writer. He knew how to set the scene, and had a good notion of how to describe the sex quickly and thoroughly. I had a couple of beefs with his journal, though. One was that the guy only had sex every few weeks, and therefore his updates were sporadic. The other was that he had a severely overinflated view of his notoriety. I wish I could remember the name of the blog, but it’s eluding my memory. We’ll call it That Bareback Blog. After only a very few entries, the blogger started to write a number of posts in which he’d step out into public and overhear people talking about his blog, which pleased him so greatly that he’d write entries about it that out-detailed the sex entries. I remember one entry in which the guy was sitting at an outdoor cafe when he overheard two gay men talking in hushed whispers about how shocking That Bareback Blog was. “Everyone’s talking about it,” said one guy. “Oh, I know,” said the other. “Half of the city is worried they’re going to end up on its pages!” For a while, according to the blogger, everywhere this guy would go, there would be little circles of titillated blog readers discussing him. In the gay bars. In the straight bars. In the clubs. In cafes, in bookstores, in the New York Public Library. With every new alleged eavesdropped overhearing, my patience grew a little thinner. I think I lost my coll completely after reading a post in which the blogger was supposedly listening to two Macy’s clerks discussing his blog outside a dressing room while the author was within, trying on some pants. “Did you read the last entry of That Bareback Blog?” said one clerk to another. “Oh my god yes,” said the other. “I have always wondered what That Bareback Blogger must look like.” “I am sure he is a stud,” said the first. “He has to be, with all the ass he gets. I wish it was me he was fucking,” said the second, no doubt with a girlish sigh. There was more conversation about That Bareback Blog, while the blogger stayed inside the dressing room with his ear to the curtain and his heart filled with devilish glee. Then the first clerk wandered off, and That Bareback Blogger stepped out of the dressing room, sans pants, and avec an erection. “Now you know what the bareback blogger looks like,” he leered. And of course, instead of clubbing the guy over the head with a mannequin and calling security like any other department store employee might, the clerk murmured something about all his dreams coming true and letting the blogger take him in the dressing room, right then and there. As I said, I kind of stopped reading the blog after that—I don’t think it lasted very much longer, anyway. It was obviously pure fantasy; the guy was trying to turn himself into a figure of public notoriety solely by will and the repeated insistence that he was being talked about all over the city. I highly, highly doubt that there were well-placed squadrons of gay men whispering in hushed cabals about a blog that was updated infrequently, never had a single comment, and lurked in one of the seediest and most obscure corners of the internet. Stranger things have happened, but I highly doubted this was one of them. When I started posting my own sex entries to this blog, one of the things I thought to myself was, Oh man, if I ever get like That Bareback Blogger, please just someone shoot me. Well, gentlemen, get ready your pistols. During the week between Christmas and the new year, I spent a night out on the town at a local gay bar to chug water from a bottle and stare at my favorite shirtless bartender while my friends drank themselves blotto. They guys at my table had been playing Scrabble on someone’s iPad and using their iPhones as tile racks—I KNOW DUDE, IT WAS A WILD AND CRAZY NIGHT—and we’d just finished the game when I noticed a guy watching me from nearby. He was an attractive fellow in his late forties, short and narrow of frame, with dark eyes and a neatly-clipped beard that made him look somehow European. I was sitting next to a railing on which my arm rested with my bottle of water; when the Scrabble party broke up (I’m sorry, I can’t even pretend it was Dirty Word Scrabble, since the filthiest it got was when someone tried to make PHAGINA out of his rack), a few of the guys at my table got up and walked away either to get drinks or run to the bathroom after all the triple-word tension. That’s when the bearded guy made his move. At first he kind of casually leaned against the rail, only a few feet away, pretending to listen to the music while he took deep sips of his whiskey. Some of my friends returned and settled at the table’s far end to debate the merits of starting a new game, leaving me fairly unoccupied at the rail. The bearded guy turned to me. “Is your name. . . ?” The ellipsis there wasn’t to elide my name. His voice actually trailed off. I raised my eyebrows, grinned a little at the thought he was coming on to me, and said, “You want to know my name?” The man was clearly nervous. “It’s just that I thought it might be Rob,” he said. “I thought you might be . . . Rob.” My eyebrows rose in surprise at the sound of the familiar name. “Why do you think that?” I asked, curious. “There’s a guy on the internet—he writes this blog,” he man said. He slugged back another mouthful of alcohol for fortification. “His name is Rob.” I looked askance to see if any of my friends were eavesdropping. “I think I know what blog you mean.” I thought I’d said the words with the appropriate amount of meaning, but apparently not. “It’s a blog about sex.” “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s the one I was thinking about.” “His name is Rob,” said the man. “He writes the blog.” “Yes,” I said, enunciating slowly and with the weight of significance. “I think we’re both talking about the same blog, and the same Rob.” “It’s a bareback blog. About sex.” “Yeah.” By this time I’d grown a little testy with the guy, who didn’t seem to be picking up on what I was trying to signal to him. “Bareback sex he has with other guys. In a blog. About bareback sex.” The guy was loud, but not loud enough, I think, to be heard over the music and general commotion of the bar and the wild-ass Scrabble players. Still, he’d been talking to me long enough by that point that the others were beginning to notice. There were really only so many more theme and variations of ‘bareback sex blog’ that I wanted them to overhear. I shot up and walked around to the railing’s other side, where I could talk more privately with the guy. “That’s me,” I told him in his ear. He nodded, then showed his utter incomprehension by saying, “This guy Rob, I followed a link from his bareback sex blog to one of his profiles, then I found his profile on Manhunt. He looks like you.” Up close, I could tell that he was way more inebriated than I’d first thought. Again, I don’t have locked photos on my Manhunt profile—I have a mixture of face and dick photos there because I don’t really have any compelling or prudish reasons not to let the two mix. I’ve had men recognize me in public before from Manhut, and have written about it here. This is the first time, though, that someone was recognizing me as One Of Those Bareback Bloggers. “That’s because it is me,” I told him, talking much as I might to a particularly slow child. “That is my blog. I am Rob.” “The bareback sex blogger,” he repeated. “Yes,” I said. “That’s you?” Maybe light was beginning to dawn. “Yes, that’s me.” “You’re Rob?” “I’m Rob.” For a moment I thought I’d finally gotten through to him. Then he peered at me blearily and repeated, “Because this Rob guy, he keeps a bareback blog. On the internet.” It was then that the guy with whom my bearded friend had come in arrived to retrieve him. I clapped the guy on the back and wished him well, then slunk back to my seat. “Who was that?” asked my friend Matt. “Oh, just some guy,” I lied. “Was he coming on to you?” Curious question, that. For response I settled on, “Of course.” “Oh. So he was drunk?” I turned my back on the wag and pretended not to have heard. So, my bearded reader, if you’re out there and you remember what happened at the bar, yes, that was me. And thus ran my first taste of public recognition. Oh, notoriety. How sweet you seem upon the branches of your tree—and yet how like vinegar you taste when you reach the lips. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Whore!” The word sounded less like an epithet than a wolf’s howl at the moon, a long, drawn-out baying of outrage and pure emotion. “Whoooooooooore!” “Shut up and take it like a man,” I growled. My heels banged into the base of the sofa as I lunged forward. He was trying to squirm away, the little bastard. “Fuck you!” grunted Spencer, glaring at me. “You just think because I’ve never done this before . . . stop slamming your ass on my face, fucker!” “You like it,” I said with a cocky grin. “Look. I’m going to do it again.” “Whooooooore!” On the television, my little Super Mario did another butt-slam onto Toad’s round little head, forcing him into the boiling lava in the middle of the first castle. He was out of lives. And that’s when Spencer threw down the game controller, crossed his arms, and pouted like a little boy. It was Christmas eve. I had my family flying into town the next afternoon. After some fairly intense weeks in which we’d steeped for long hours in each other’s company, I knew that at the end of the night, when I sent him home, I wouldn’t be seeing him for an entire week. That’s why I’d asked Spencer to spend all of Christmas eve with me. The entire day—just the two of us. No work, no classes, no talk about the week’s hiatus. Just an enjoyable, giddy day of fun, before we had to part. Raised as I was by two parents convinced that the world was full of people trying to take advantage of them, I try hard to have an optimistic view of things. Instead of moping about the upcoming absence of each other from our lives for the last week of the year, I wanted to focus on having as much fun as possible when we were together. In a broader sense, I try not to think of this relationship’s natural end—which is inevitable, when eventually I leave behind the state and Spencer in it. I concentrate on the sweetness of it, on my enjoyment of Spencer’s beauty and of his talents both in and out of the bed. I think more about all the positives we both receive from our time together, and try to trust that in the end, when it ends, we’ll part treasuring the time we shared. It was to this end that I’d tried to make the day as fun as possible. We’d eaten at Spencer’s favorite Indian restaurant for lunch, and returned to my house for an afternoon of watching movies on Netflix. We’d laid in bed together talking. The shyer of my cats, who ordinarily won’t tolerate anyone outside the family, has warmed to him; she curled up on his lap and napped while we reclined with our arms around each other, following her example. Then we’d roused ourselves and spent a happy hour wrapping presents for Spencer’s family, made a dash for Thai takeout, and yelled and cursed at each other while playing games on the Wii. A happily-spent day, indeed. “I have something for you,” he told me, after the fifteen seconds of his pretend tantrum had passed. I raised my eyebrows and turned off the console. “Hang on,” he said. He hopped up and padded into the dining room to retrieve his coat. From deep inside a pocket he retrieved a gift bag printed with a holiday motif. “I kind of got you a present,” he said, suddenly shy. I grinned. “Oh, we’re doing that, are we?” I asked as I walked past him into the kitchen. From the refrigerator I pulled out a large Christmas stocking. “Good thing I prepared.” After taking into consideration comments from my readers about good Christmas gifts for the boy, I had the inspiration one desperate shopping day to give Spencer several inexpensive tokens in a holiday stocking, rather than have to search for the one perfect gift that would sum up everything I wanted to say. The inspiration gave me the freedom to include gifts both goofy and useful—a small Moleskine containing maps of Manhattan for Spencer’s trips to New York City falling into the latter category, and the former represented by an enormous and tacky Aslan bookmark (we’d seen The Voyage of the Dawn Treader together a couple of days before). I’d included several cartons of his favorite chewing gum, a couple of movie passes, and a bunch of homemade edibles. Spencer has gluten intolerances that we have to work around when we eat together, so I’d spent the entire afternoon the day before baking holiday treats for him. I’d made brownies from ground almond meal and rice flour, used the rice flour and some spelt for a batch of molasses cookies, and had made some gluten-free candies to boot. He seemed overwhelmed by all the work I’d done. “Oh my gosh,” was all he could say, over and over, pleased. At least, I’m hoping that it was pleased. He might have been thinking, Baked goods? Jeez, what a cheapass. “Open yours,” he suggested, after trying all the treats in turn. I obeyed. He’d given me a glass paperweight, blown with a careful series of bubbles in a spiral pattern. It was really lovely. “If the sun catches it, the bubbles light up the room,” he explained, taking it from my fingers and twirling it beneath the lamp. “You’ll see it when it happens. It reminded me of you.” I blinked several times to keep away the tears that sprung up at this handsome compliment. “You are sweet,” I said at last, over the lump in my throat. “And you are handsome,” he replied. He sat up then, bringing his face close to mine. I didn’t hesitate. I reached out and kissed him, holding onto the back of his neck with one hand and pulling him to me. Our lips remained tightly closed together while we fumbled for each other’s clothing. He’d brought a pair of sweats to lounge around in, that day, and I was dressed in sweats of my own; we didn’t even have to look in order to yank down each other’s elastic waistbands. He gasped as my hand probed for his hole. It was warm beneath my fingertips, and pulsed out as I tickled the skin. Spencer has a talent for making me so rock hard that sometimes I can’t stand it. I wasn’t up to many preliminaries that evening. His hips were grinding against my stick prick with such relentless ferocity that it wasn’t very long before I pulled my mouth away from his and spat in my palm. When I’d slicked the head and the first few inches of my meat, he lifted himself up, then sat slowly down on me. My dick disappeared into the warm, quivering depths of his hole. We both groaned with need. We fucked on the sofa for long, loud minutes. He came long before I, squirting his load on my chest and face. I scooped off what I could and slapped it onto my dick during one of his upstrokes, so that it made his chute doubly slick. He groaned at that, reveling in the unspoken nastiness of the extra lube. Although he’d just shot, his dick was still almost fully hard as I continued to fuck him. His fingers tweaked and flicked my nipples while his hole clenched and released my meat. When I came, it was just as loudly. My hands clutched at his narrow waist so hard I later thought I must have left marks. He held my face as I shot in him, holding it motionless so he could watch my expression as the orgasm took over. We paused, and remained still for a moment or two before moving again. Then, with mutual unspoken consent, we slid down into the cushions and held each other for a long, silent time. “So I’ll see you in a week, I guess,” he said a few minutes later in my back hallway, as he pulled on his coat and shoes. “It’ll fly by,” I assured him. He looked up at me and smiled, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Like I said, I try to be an optimist. It was only a week of separation. We’d enjoy each other’s company afterward. We could even see each other during the week for lunch or something, if we wanted. My mouth automatically opened to say something reassuring, but then something happened. Oh shit, I thought to myself. This hurts. This really hurts. It felt like an icepick through the heart, that moment. I'm not exaggerating. I could feel the chill of it, and the ache of the edges where it had pierced. I wasn’t going to see Jon for an entire week. He was clearly unhappy. I was on the edge of desolation. And here we were, trying to make the best of it without upsetting the other any more. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing and holding the stocking I’d given him. “Just a week.” I found I couldn’t summon any words. Anything I might say felt like a bromide, patent insincerity stretched over a falsehood. It wasn’t going to be all right. It was going to be a long, long week. The knowledge hurt. And I realized in that moment that Christmas eve was going to be nothing compared to how awful it would feel when eventually and finally I must move away and leave him behind. Positive as I try to be, all I could see at that moment when he gave me a last look was the vast chasm between us, already wide and widening by the second. I sat down on the hallway stairs, stunned by the enormity of my sorrow. There I remained, slumped over and shaken, for several more minutes. It wasn’t until I was straightening up the house on Christmas morning that I remembered the paperweight. I took it upstairs to my office and put it on the desk, where the weak December sunlight spilled through the blinds and across the wood. The rays caught the bubbles in the glass globe and sent light scattering across the walls, and the ceiling, even out into the hall—little specks of sheer brilliance that shimmered on every surface they touched. They lit up the room indeed. But in that moment, and in the long week that followed, they didn’t at all remind me of myself. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I did make it home safely from my year-commencing trip, thanks very much for asking. Give me a little time to shake off the long-drive vibrations and to get some sleep, and we'll back to the regular installments. Many thanks for your new year's wishes, by the way! I'm thinking 2011 is going to be good for us all, in one way or another. It seemed appropriate that on New Year's Eve, I noticed that my blog had topped the four-hundred-follower mark. I'd promised one of my readers that when we reached that milestone, we'd have another underwear giveaway. Now, I know that some of my readers are a little skeeved out at the notion of dirty shorts arriving via the U.S. Postal Service. Quite a lot of you enjoy the notion, though. If you're one of them, and want to get a pair of my shorts caked with semen, you can enter the contest simply by commenting on today's post. Comment here anytime before Monday, January 10, 2011 in order to enter. I don't need your mailing address or your email address right away. Simply identify yourself either with a Google or Google-compatible account, or give yourself a distinguishing nickname so I can notify you through the blog next week that you've won—in other words, don't be completely anonymous. If you're worried about someone finding out through the comments that you've entered the contest, simply email me at the address in the sidebar and indicate that you'd like to be considered. The last time I had a contest, I entered all the names in a handy little application that selected one at random, with a backup name in case the first guy didn't respond. I'll announce the winner here, ask that he contact me with his private information via email, and then he'll get the cum-covered prize. Which I'll start spunking up immediately! So enter already. What're you waiting for? It also seemed appropriate that over the weekend I crossed the four-hundred-thousand unique reader mark. I always enjoy seeing what Google search terms guys are using when they stumble across me. Here's a few from the last couple of months. black bull breeder gay blog (Because that's me, right?) 4 dicks in 1 hole (I can't even imagine how that would begin to work.) only one naked boys laughed "suck me!" (It's like a fragment from some porn story, of which I want to read the rest.) daddy stuff me with cock (Since it sounds like something Scruffy has said a few times, I'm not really surprised at this one.) age:55 + lean + big dick (I AM NOT 55.) 20 mins of asian men sucking dick and sniffing poppers while wearing camouflage (That is very, very specific.) a male dick master tells his boy dick toy that he is going to remove his dick and balls and then eat them (That is very, very specific, and very, very scary. What entry of mine pinged for this one?!) mrsteed "sperm assault" (Well, if you're asking for it by name. . . .) Buddy Lawrence Family (There is some Kristy McNichol fan out there with a very red face right now.) Is Cazwell a top or a bottom? (If anyone finds out the answer to this, please let me know.) Mexican turkey breeders (Um.) i want to have sex on an ipad (I suggest putting a towel on it, first.) ever have a moment when you think 'how the hell did I get here' (Yes, yes, indeed. And I'm having one right now.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In case anyone wondered. . . . I'd anticipated taking no more than a week off, over the holiday season, to spend time with my visiting family. I had precious little alone-time, sad to say--but it was a trade-off with which I could live, for the chance to be with people close to me. Then the week took an unexpected twist. Saturday I found myself driving across Ohio and Pennsylvania en route to the east coast, in order to return the family back to their new home. Considering that I'd really only planned to drive them as far as the local airport, the additional twelve hours in the car was a little something of a surprise. Tomorrow I'll be driving back to my Midwestern home, however. And after I get over the buzzy feeling from being in the car for so long (anyone along Route 80 want to give me a massage along the way?), I'll be back to my usual prolific posting. Keep your fingers crossed for my safe trip home. And please know that I'm looking forward to sharing the events and thoughts of the new year with you all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Christmas of 2010 has passed. Did everyone get what they wanted? I'd love to know what your best gifts were--let me know in the comments! My own holiday was spent in a pleasurable manner. I picked up the visiting family members from the airport in the afternoon, made dinner for everyone, ate happily, and spent the evening watching Doctor Who like the big geek that I am. I did receive a couple of really nice gifts from readers that I'll be sure to showcase, once I have the privacy to take some photos again. But as I ever do on Sundays, I'll be recapping some of the questions I've been asked on formspring.me, that free service that allows one's friends (and strangers) to make inquiries, and neatly collects the results onto a single page. Feel free to use the service to ask me whatever you'd like--or simply email me with your questions and I'll get around to them. Eventually. Honest, I swear. (My goal is to have a clean mailbox by year's end!) Is there anything sexier than confidence? A cocky grin and a scruffy face go a long way. Do you know who Beverly Strassmann is? Only by Googling the name. Why? Should your followers start a fund to relocate Scruffy to Connecticut? An apartment and maybe a job at a place like Eastern Mountain Sports. What do you think? I think it would be the greatest charitable act ever known to mankind. Will there be a telethon? "Move Scruffy!" Fund: For your sake and Scruffy's, within what sort of radius (in miles) should Scruffy's still-to-be-found-and-furnished-apartment be from your new home, in Connecticut? It's time to get granular, right? I think I need to sell the old home, first. Then find a new one. Before Scruffy moved back in with his folks, he only lived a mile from me. It's KARAOKE night! What's your Grammy winning performance song? "Private Dancer." Tell me, do you wanna see me do the shimmy again? Would you rather eat a load or wear it? Loads are for inside a hole. They're not accessories. If I met you right now, what do you think my first impression of you would be? That I need to put on some damned clothes. Do you believe in fate? When a pebble drops into water, it sets off ripples in every direction. I believe that's what we do with every decision we make and every action we take. If you watch the way ripples interact, though, you'll see that they don't simply vanish into the horizon. Sometimes they rebound—whether from the edges of a container, or from the ripples that other people have set off. Sometimes they collide, and become larger, less predictable waves. I believe that sometimes in our lives, the ripples we've set off might bring back to us little souvenirs we can cherish, just as the sea waves bring in shells and stones and other keepsakes. Or they can bring trash upon their swells—or even bear disaster. If that's fate, then yes, I believe in it. However, to me it all starts with the pebbles we drop into the waters ourselves. Have you ever been in a relationship with someone & now looking back saying to yourself "What the f*ck was I thinking?" I've fallen for certain guys whom, years later, I'll look at and think, "Good god, what was that all about?" I think we tell ourselves certain stories about people in order to incorporate them into our lives, and sometimes we overemphasize certain attributes. We tell ourselves the guy's more handsome than he is, or smarter than he ever could be, or has winning personality traits that he obviously doesn't have. We overlook the obvious faults. It's only later on, when there's more perspective, that we can see the truth we ignored earlier. I'm a natural bottom, love taking it in both holes, cum the easiest when I'm stuffed. But I'm an ok top, not great. Plus, while I love both rough & gentle tops, my inner top waiting to be set free is a nasty boy. Any hints on improving my topping skills? I'd suggest topping more often. There's no shortage of guys out there who are looking for tops. Any tops. Even okay-but-not-great tops. You could easily have your pick. I suspect that your self-assessment of being merely adequate is fairly modest. If you want to get better, fuck a lot. Pay attention to your partners and how they respond to certain things you do; make sure to do the things they enjoy more often, and perhaps even more intensely. And if your inner top is a nasty boy, let him loose. The wilder you fuck, the more you'll enjoy yourself. And the more you enjoy yourself, the more your partner will have a good time. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Not all my readers celebrate the holiday, of course, but I think we all need a day in the year like Christmas, when we reunite with loved ones, reflect on the good times past, and hope for better years in the future. I wish all my readers a most happy holiday. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My posting may become sporadic over the next few days as the holiday hits. Hits like a giant meteor with a collision course for earth, like some mid-nineties disaster flick. I'm hoping to be back to a more regular schedule next week! More...