TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I grew up under the steely influences of two grandmothers who were sticklers for propriety. Though both lived far away, I could feel their iron reach hundreds of miles away. Gifts from them came with enough attached strings to fuel an entire theater of marionettes. My thank-you notes had to be sent within a week of any birthday or Christmas present I might receive from them, or else my parents would start getting dunning phone calls, wanting to know when they might expect their receipt. I know a few collection agencies who apparently took tips from the pair of them. There were rules for speaking in their presence. For eating at the table. There were rules about what rooms I could and couldn’t enter in their houses, and what I could do while I was there. Now, I was normally a mannerly kid—I was raised a little southern gentleman, after all—but all these extra restrictions and deadlines and mini-reports I had to write on books they recommended really rubbed me the wrong way. I found the strings so onerous that eventually I went all passive-aggressive on them in my mid-to-late teens and made the conscious decision simply to stop responding to any of their gifts. The resulting ruckus was such an ice storm of cold language that my parents warned me that if I kept it up, both grandmothers were threatening never to give me presents ever again. I told them I was totally fine with that. My mom and dad, who not-so-secretly were kind of on my side in the issue, went back to their mothers and told them. I never did get any more gifts from the old women. Every fiber of my being rebels when I’m offered something with so many restrictions and caveats attached; I find it even ruder than anything I could’ve done by not writing a thank-you note within five working days. And then there are times, sadly, when I find myself wanting to follow in my grandmothers’ footsteps. Last week there was some strange conjunction of the stars, or perhaps a change in the weather for the colder, that made it nearly impossible for me to get laid. Weirdness abounded. A black guy I used to see fairly frequently told me that he no longer dated outside his own race, though he preferred his partners to pretend to be white dominants when they fucked him. A guy I knew as a pretty slutty bottom had changed his position to ‘Top’ in his Manhunt profile, and when I asked him about it, he sent back a curt note saying that yes, he’d decided that he would be happier as a total top in the future and that his bottoming days were over. I also had two tops send me messages from out of the blue asking if I had picture of my hole for them. I was polite enough to everyone. I told my black friend that I hoped he and his new white masters with the dark skin had a good time, and wished my newly-top buddy all the luck in the world. (Though secretly I was remembering the bookstore lunches he used to take four times a week with his ass backed up to the gloryholes and thinking, Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.) And I declined to send the tops photos of my hole that I don’t really have. A few bottoms drove me to distraction that one night, however. Suddenly for one and all, my dick wasn’t enough for them. One bottom who’d made the pages of this blog not too very long ago messaged me and asked if I was free that night. Surely I was, I replied to him. When did he want to come over? I was hoping the answer would be, soon. But no. He replied back, It would really make it worth my while if you rounded up at least two other tops. Oh, I thought to myself. It was going to be one of those nights. None of the tops I know are online, I told the guy. Then maybe you could take me to the baths and whore out my ass, he wrote. Now, at the same time I got a note from another bottom I knew, asking what I was doing. Oh, dealing with another bottom who’s being a butt, I tapped out. Want to come over? Yeah I’d love to see you, he said. But I was kind of wondering if you knew any other tops tonight? Or if you want I can pick up a couple of them and bring them to your place. It really was that kind of night. I was burning with anger. I knew that in the end, both of these bottoms were going to be spending the night in front of their laptops, fruitlessly searching for the top that could guide them from the barren desert to an oasis of multiple dicks. It seemed to me that a single good top would be better than what they were going to be getting, which was going to be nothing. Furthermore, what was with the ‘worth my while’ shit about? Was this guy, who a couple of weeks before had told me he hadn’t been fucked so well in over a year, now telling me I wasn’t worth his fucking while? And as for the other bottom, did he seriously think I wanted him to pick up total strangers and bring them to my home? Really? It’d been quite a while since I’d encountered what seemed, in my blue-balled stated, like such utter rudeness. I wanted to blast them both with carefully-chosen words that would first freeze them into bottomsicles and then shatter them into tiny shards. Just like my grandmothers had often felt about my perceived transgressions, I realized. Instead of giving in to those frosty impulses, though, I took a deep breath and told myself it was time to step away. I very warmly told both guys good luck and great fun with their search for multiple tops, then logged out and spent the evening in less carnal pursuits. I was a happier person that way. The next night I logged back on. Within five minutes, both the bottoms of the previous night had sent me notes. Their evenings hadn’t panned out the way they’d hoped, they both said. Neither got fucked. Was I available? I took bids from both of them and went with the one who could stay the longest. It wasn’t until he was in my bed and on his knees with his ass in the air that I said anything about the night before. “You sure this one dick is going to be enough for you?” I asked, as the tip of my head paused right outside his hole. “Yes,” he hissed head hung low. “Please. Please.” When I continued to tease the lips of his ass, he finally whispered, “Sorry about last night.” “Forget about it,” I told him, as I drove into his hairy hole and plunged on home. Then we never said another word about it. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's been a quiet week for comments, readers. Almost too quiet. Are you all on vacation? Wishing you were on vacation? Stockpiling cranberries for the upcoming holiday? No matter. I'll be here all this week, hopefully fucking the out-of-towners and reporting back for your approbation. As usual, I'll be rounding up answers to a few of the questions I've gotten this week via formspring.me, a site that you to ask questions of me in an anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) manner. Feel free to use it. I'll answer just about anything that's not creepy, abusive, or super-repetitive. Of course, you can always simply email me your questions as well. That's right. I'm the Ms. Manners of bareback bloggers. As a bottom I naturally LOVE dick. I love it in my ass, I love it in my mouth....I like it in both holes simultaneously. I'm a greedy fucker, what can I say? As a top, do you find that you get the same "quality" fuck when a bottom is servicing multiple tops simultaneously as opposed to when he's solely focused on servicing your cock? Have you noticed if there is there any difference if the bottom's blindfolded? Do their other senses become more acute when they can't see? My gut tells me that I would be more focused while blindfolded and that I'd be a better lay if I'm focusing everything on the single cock that I'm servicing. I'm curious to hear from an experienced top though. That's really an interesting question. I'm going to answer it with a caveat--it all depends on the bottom in question of course. But with a standard-issue enthusiastic bottom, no, I don't get as much good attention on my dick when the bottom is splitting it between me and another top. It's tough to establish a good rhythm unless I'm really in tune with the other top. I don't have quite as much control. And of course, there isn't as much of the bottom's attention focused on me. However, the visual turn-on of watching the bottom sucking the other guys' dick (or whatever's going on) while I'm fucking makes up for that. So it's still fun! I totally think that the other senses become more acute when sight is taken away from the equation—whether through a blindfold or a dark room or whatever. That's why I love dark room and anonymous fucks. They can be amazing. Is there really good Mexican food in the Detroit area? There's a large Mexican population here, so yes, there's a lot of good Mexican food. There's even a section of the city named Mexicantown in which there are several very good restaurants, a couple of Mexican bakeries, and a tamaleria that's my favorite. When you first penetrate - do you drive all the way in to assert your control over the bottom, or take it slow? I've done both, but generally I'll take it slow--especially if I don't know the guy and his capabilities. If it's someone I've been with before and I know how much his ass can handle, I'll drive it on in. What sight, sound or smell will instantly make your dick hard as a rock? A guy assuming a submissive position in front of me--pants off, knees spread, head down, face concealed, ass up. Does it every time. The wet sound of sex also gets me going quickly. If I hear a guy fucking a wet hole, the little squelching noises make me erect almost instantly. Does spit really work as a lubricant or is there something symbolic about you spitting into your hand and rubbing your dick before plunging in? Or am I reading too much into it? Spit's a good enough lubricant for fucking. Plus it's free and always close at hand. If the ratio of bottoms to tops is as high as you think, does that mean there are a lot of guys stuck in relationships doing more topping than they'd like? Yes, it absolutely means that. And it also means they're often cheating on their partners with me in order to get their asses fucked. If someone reads one of your posts in their RSS reader without visiting your blog, do your stats show that? Or to give you a better picture of your visitors, should we click through to your blog? My understanding is that RSS feeds (to which I'm addicted) have to suck down the information in order to present it to you. So yes, the stats reflect that. What they don't reflect would be the time spent on a particular page, but I don't really give a hoot about that. How do you overcome the cock sensitivity after you've just cum in his ass, to just keep pounding away for the second and third? Usually I slow down my thrusting to a gentle grinding motion, so that I'm not overstimulated. For me, the worst point of sensitivity is the top of my cockhead, and it lasts for about five to ten seconds after I've shot; if I switch the angle to avoid that spot for a little bit, I'm good to stay in for a while. On your Stockroom.com sex toy wish list you have a number of anal toys. Are those for use on someone else, or would you like to use those on yourself? I wish I had the nerve to use them on myself. I would be more likely to use them on a playmate. To Mr. Steed, this is another random question, but I was wondering if there was a scent that is left on the bed after you have sex on it with another person other than your significant other. If there is, how do you hide it from your significant other. I change the sheets, pretty simply. Or I lay something down on top of the bed that's easily removed once the fucking's done—like a blanket, or some towels. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A loyal reader made an arrangement with me this week to send a pair of his underwear for me to decorate with several of my loads. I thought it would be kind of rude not to let him know the underwear arrived yesterday, safe and sound. As for my part of the bargain—well, you can see for yourself. There'll be more to come. (So to speak.) More...

Someone else mentioned this service to me on my blog--I remembered it after they did. It must've been heaven on earth for that priest.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Playing with my former gloryhole boy last Friday put me in a certain mood. I knew my own local friend with the home gloryhole tends to hang around on weekend afternoons, so every couple of hours after lunch Sunday I would pop onto Manhunt to see if he was hanging around. I got lucky around four-thirty when I saw his nickname, Urlipsmypole, listed in my friends list. Need a mouth? I messaged him. lol glad you asked...if you're feeling extra hungry I may be able to get a bud to join me :-), he wrote back. I can handle two of you, I said. He told me to hang on for a couple of minutes while he waited to see if his friend was available. I agreed, and mentally noted that the very next person to look at my profile on Manhunt would be his buddy. Surely enough, about three minutes later, I got a trackback on a profile local to the both of us. The guy was in his mid-thirties, had a decent dick and a thick thatch of hair surrounding it. None of his photos showed his face. I was fine with that. A minute after that, the little green button next to his name had gone blank, indicating he was offline. He’s on the way over, said Urlipsmypole. I’ll be there in ten, I told him. It was four-fifty-five when I pulled around to the back of the guy’s house. His yard was neatly raked (more neatly than mine by a mile), and his steps decorated with pumpkins and gourds. I unlatched his back gate, tromped up the stairs, and let myself into the little mudroom. I was grateful for the space heater in the back corner. Cold as it was that afternoon, I’d put the car’s heat on high so that I wouldn’t arrive to his place with icy fingers. I undid my pants, reversed my baseball cap, and knelt down on the pillows tossed down before the gloryhole. I’m not a hundred percent certain about this detail, but the hole seemed bigger this week. I remembered it as round and just big enough to admit the owner’s dick and balls. Sunday, though, it was a long, squared oval of approximately six inches by three—large enough to see all kinds of things through, for a change. As I put my mouth to the hole, I could see almost all of the guy’s kitchen, which was as immaculate and neat as his yard. I could also see all of the man himself from the neck down. He was naked. His dick was soft, but as he closed the distance between us and maneuvered it through the hole, it twitched. It twitched again when I reached out and pulled it into my mouth. Then it began to swell. I sucked him to hardness quickly as my hands tickled at the sides of his nuts. He wasn’t yet pressed so tightly against the plywood partition that I couldn’t see behind him. The other man stood behind and slightly to the side, as if he was looking over Urlipsmypole’s shoulder. I recognized the dark pubes and the lower half of his body from the photos on Manhunt—so that was no surprised. The guest kept his wife-beater on as he stroked. I’d gotten the gloryhole owner’s dick completely hard and dripping at the tip when he pulled out of my mouth and stepped to the side. The guest stepped forward to take his turn. His bush smelled of mingled soap and poppers. He was already rock-hard by the time he slid through, and his pre-cum tasted saltier than any I’ve had recently. When I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around his meat and let it follow the path of my lips, squeezing tightly, I could hear him gasp and moan on the other side of the partition. He pulled out quickly, as if he was close; my buddy took his place. Urlipsmypole likes more of a buildup to his blow jobs. He likes them to start soft and sweet and then end up rough. While I played with my own dick, I sucked the owner with my mouth only, letting him set the pace and the depth. Without removing my mouth from his dick, I wet the fingers of my one free hand and let them brush behind his nuts with every thrust in and out. It drove him crazy. He pressed in closer against the wood, battering it with his hips as he ground further down my throat. Then he pulled out, leaving my mouth empty and almost aching. The guest replaced him, shoving his thicker and shorter cock into my mouth. His fingers snaked through the hole and felt the scruff of my beard, the shape of my jaw, rubbed the underside of my chin. I wrapped my hand around his dick and swiveled it as I moved back and forth. It only took a few strokes before I heard him grunt, animal-like, from the other side. A moment later, he flooded my mouth with his load. I slowed down, then held still, so I could collect every drop. Only when he withdrew did I swallow the salty payload. He said something to Urlipsmypole after he withdrew, but I couldn’t understand it. I think he was making an excuse to zip up and leave. My host didn’t really seem to care. He was too anxious to have his own dick sucked again. I went back to sucking with my mouth only, adding in a finger or two after a little of that. My fingers kept stroking the sides and back of his shaved scrotum, causing him to gasp loudly. It wasn’t very long after that my host fed me his load. He always shoots very deeply in my throat, but I managed not to choke on the stuff. Once his dick throbbed a last time, I kept it in my mouth as I swallowed, then moved my hands down to my own stiff dick to give it some relief. My gloryhole buddy is always very good about letting me continue to suck on his dick as I get myself off. I held it there and savored the taste and the feel of it in my mouth as I jacked. Moments later, I grunted and bucked as I unloaded onto the floor. “Good job,” I heard him say, as he withdrew. “Thank you,” I managed to croak out. My hands fumbled for my zipper. I fastened myself up, revolved my baseball cap again, and headed out the door to my car. I looked at my watch. It was five after five; I’d been there for all of ten minutes. For a moment I considered a breath mint, but in the end I drove home with the taste of two men’s sperm fresh in my mouth. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Many years ago when I was in graduate school, I became involved with a Roman Catholic priest with a foot fetish. I’ll pause for a moment to let that one sink in. Yes, I know, it sounds like the start of one of the jokes printed on the reverse side of the Playboy centerfold. Larry the foot-sucking priest, I called him in my head. I met Father Larry in the university library restrooms one day. He was a not-unattractive guy with a fat uncut dick with whom I had a good preliminary time under the toilet stall. When he asked if I knew of someplace to go so he could show me what he really liked, I invited him back to my student apartment. He wasn’t in his robes and collar, by any means. I didn’t know he was a priest until he told me behind my closed apartment door. Mostly I think he told me so that if I planned to be disturbed or to freak out because of his revelation, I’d get it over with fairly quickly. I found out Larry’s fetish almost the moment we were alone. He knelt down on the ground and removed my shoes for me with reverence. Then he drew my stockinged feet up ot his face, one by one, and rubbed his face over them. He bowed so low over each one that I couldn’t help but be reminded of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’s feet with her hair, thought I thought bringing it up in a priest’s presence might border on sacrilege. I’d just been through some fairly traumatic stuff in my life when I met Larry. My meetings with him were something of a relief, because not only was I excused from the usual anal and oral proceedings, but all I really had to do was relax and put myself into his hands. Put my feet into his hands, that is. Larry would use oils and lotions, or plain old soap and water, and lather up my skin until it was wet and slick. He’d run his fingers through every crevice, along every ridge, and massage my feet until I sank back into the pillows and mattress with my eyes closed. For long periods he’d rub muscles down there I never knew I had, and which I certainly had no idea were so pleasurable. And then he’d start to suck. He’d run the broad flat of his tongue along my sole, letting his teeth chew both at the ball and the heel. He’d suck my toes, one by one, letting his soft lips envelop them completely. His tongue would tickle at places ordinarily never touched. Larry would perform his service literally for hours at a time. I’d strip down after lunch and enjoy bathing in long and uninterrupted periods of pleasure, and not surface again until nearly dinner. Larry, too, was lost in his own private world when he’d kneel down at the end of my bed and begin working on my size elevens. He didn’t need music, nor talking, nor any kind of encouragement. He had his personal enjoyment as his own agenda, and nothing would deter him from it. At the end of our sessions, Larry liked to get off. He’d rub his lotions or the soap into my skin. Then he’d draw my soles together so that the arches formed a long, narrow oval. In that he would slide his thick dick. It would have been stiff and dripping for most of our session, and ready to explode, but usually he’d treat my combined feet like a deep, wet pussy that he intended to pound into submission. Once he had blasted his load all over my feet and ankles, he’d withdraw, open his eyes, laugh, and then begin fumbling for his clothes. Occasionally Larry would take me out to the restrooms again. We’d sit side by side in stalls. Once he was certain no one was around, he’d kneel down on the ground, untie and remove the shoe closest to him, and rub his dick over the naked skin. Usually in a restroom setting he’d shoot quickly, covering the top of my foot with an enormous, sticky load in the better part of two minutes. But it was our time in my apartment I loved the most—those long, languorous hours in which all I had to do was relax, let go, and enter that sweet, slumber-like drowsy state that accompanied the sweet service he’d give me. I’d met a couple of guys since Larry who would pop a toe or two in their mouths, but I’d never encountered anyone who could service feet like he used to—until Friday night, anyway. I had my house to myself for the weekend and nothing better to do at midnight than invite over a guy to work my dick with his ass and mouth. But damn, what a mouth. I knew it was going to be a great session when he took exquisite care of my cock with his mouth, licking and sucking and squeezing at it in a way that continued to make me feel harder and harder without actually propelling me to orgasm. He was a great kisser, and knew how to chew my nipples like a pro. He chewed at my thighs with his mouth and licked my balls and ass, and then extended my leg in his hand and let his fur-surrounded lips work their way down, and down, until finally they were brushing against my feet. I gasped, and then his mouth opened. He applied suction with his lips and tongue to the underside, occasionally letting his teeth spark a moan. I writhed as he used his thumbs to manipulate the muscles, and let out a cry when he started taking my toes into his mouth, one by one. Unlike Father Larry, this new guy wasn’t solely into my feet; he wanted my cock most of all, and did things with his ass to keep me hard all night. But from time to time, usually after I’d shot, he would return to my size elevens. And there I’d be again, slipping back into that warm pool of pleasure and basking in it with no regrets. When my new friend left Saturday morning, it was six a.m. I’d not been up that late deliberately in years. My legs were shaky. My feet were so slick and oily that they slipped on the hardwood floors when I let him out. But damn. They surely did feel good. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Since they’d moved closer to the middle of the state, I’d kept in touch with Jake and David in kind of a half-assed way. Jake was usually the one who’d contact me on one of the online hookup sites. Remember when you used to come over and stick that huge dick of yours through the hole? he would say. The question would lead to an exchange of good memories for a few emails. I’d say he should give me a call if he got down this way. He’d say that yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Then I’d hear nothing more from him until a few months later when we’d do it all over again. David still worked in the area. A couple of years ago when he’d looked over my profile a few times , I’d sent him a note saying that I missed unloading in his holes. He’d taken my phone number then, and agreed that he should give me a call and stop off at my place on the way home from work some evening. Nothing ever came of it. I was surprised to see him again on Thursday of last week, sneaking another peek at my profile. Fully expecting absolutely nothing to come of it, I sent him a greeting and reminded him that my offer for him to stop by after work sometime was open-ended and that he should take it up sometime. I gave him my phone number once again, fairly certain nothing would come of it. That’s why I was pleasantly surprised the very next day, Friday afternoon, to get a text from him that read, I’m leaving work early and hoping that you’ll let me stop by and visit. You’re more than welcome, I told him. It’s been way too long since I fucked your ass. About eight years too long, in fact. I hope I can measure up, he said. It’s been a while. When I opened the front door to him a half-hour later, he stepped in, kicked off his shoes, and immediately grabbed the back of my head to pull my lips to his. We kissed long and hard. “I didn’t think I’d do that again!” he finally said with a big grin, once we separated. “Again?” I asked. He looked blank. “We’ve never done it before. We’ve never kissed. We’ve never seen each other except in photographs.” I watched realization cross his face as that information sunk in. “I know your holes, but I’ve never seen you like this before.” David wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty and rumpled from work. But he was boyishly cute and so attractive that I didn’t care he wasn’t the same slim-waisted twink I’d only known from the other side of the hole. “Weird,” he said, as I gestured he should follow me to the bedroom. “‘Cause it feels like I’ve known you for-fuckin’-ever.” He had a point. David didn’t feel like a stranger. We didn’t interact like strangers, but as friends who hadn’t seen each other for a good long while. Like old casual lovers, in fact. A few square inches of my skin had known two parts his body; he’d seen and tasted and touched only eight erect inches of mine. Strange that with such mathematical limitations, we could have made such a strong connection through a small hole in the back of a coat closet. I rested on the bed while he showered. He came into the bedroom a few minutes later, moisture clinging to his smooth, pale skin. He parted my legs and crawled between them until his mouth rested on the mound of flesh bulging through my jeans. I could feel the heat of his breath through the layers of denim and jersey. “Get undressed,” he said. I didn’t object. It felt as if I recognized his mouth the moment he engulfed my inches between his lips. My dick certainly responded to it, growing thick and hard and dripping precum into the back of his throat. Whenever I’d spurt another thick load of the stuff, he’d pause to pull me out of his mouth and suck the nectar from the tip, then go right back to what he was doing. I had to stop him before he pushed me over the edge of pleasure and into the abyss of the too-sensitive tip, which is often the problem I have with blow jobs. While we made out, I moved him up to the head of the bed and pulled apart his legs so that his ass was open and exposed. My beard made crazy circles down his back, around the base of his spine, across and over his ample ass. Then I dug the tip of my tongue into his hole. He cried out. He didn’t whimper or moan. He let out a sharp, animal cry, as if he was in pain. When I buried my face in more deeply, he tried to struggle to an upright position on his knees. I pushed him back down, and forced him to remain open to me. I ate and chewed his hole like a hungry animal, pushing him down and keeping him from trying to escape. From time to time he would protest, or put his hand to my head to try to push me away, but after several minutes the protests grew weaker and his hands would only rest atop my head and remain there, helpless and weak. He’d surrendered himself to the pleasure I’d given him. When I finally raised myself up, he had tears in his eyes. In fact, he looked as if he might start to cry outright. “Baby!” I whispered to him. “How long has it been since anyone was good to you like that?” He shook his head and bit his lip. I had been thrusting the underside of my dick against his hole. I spat on my fingers and lubed up the tip and began to tickle his hole with it. “Too long!” he finally admitted. “How long?” “Since I was rimmed or fucked?” “Rimmed,” I wanted to know. My cock head pulsed at the entrance to his ass. I moved back and forth very gently, simulating intercourse. “I can tell you are a man who hasn’t been rimmed for a very long time.” He found it difficult to enjoy the sensations of me pushing against his hole and to talk at the same time. “Maybe about two years?” “Damn,” I said. I continued to glide back and forth while I ran my hands over his butt and his back. “And how long has it been since you were fucked?” “About the same,” he admitted in a small voice. “I don’t know—” I knew what he was going to tell me. I’d known from the moment he’d sent me that text message, confessing to worry about measuring up. It had only been confirmed when he had been too grateful for the attention to his hole. He was going to spill that he feared he wouldn’t be able to take me, that he was having performance anxiety. He wanted assurance. He wanted to know I wouldn’t hurt him. “Ssshh,” I said in my softest voice. I was supporting myself my fists, which were positioned on either side of his rib cage. I rested atop him, but wasn’t putting much weight on his torso. Mostly I continued to grind at his hole. “We’ll go slow,” I whispered. “It doesn’t matter how deep I get in, today. It doesn’t matter if I get in. What matter is that you feel good. Okay?” He let out a rush of air that was half laugh, half sigh of relief. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah?” I wanted more confirmation. “Yeah.” He opened his eyes then and looked back over his shoulder at me. They were full of trust. “You can start if you want.” I looked down at where his ass and my cock connected. While we’d been talking, I’d used his increasing relaxation and the pressure of my hips to open and enter him. He hadn’t even noticed. “Baby, I’m already half-way in.” Almost immediately he clamped down. I’ve always maintained that three-quarters of a fuck is mental. David hadn’t even noticed how deeply I’d gotten into him while we’d talked. It was only when he realized what I’d done that he’d begun to panic. “Ssshh,” I told him. “It’s all right. You were enjoying it, weren’t you?” He jerked his head up and down. I could hear a small cry of fear at the back of his throat. “Then relax. Let me in the rest of the way. Relax.” Bit by bit, little by little, the rest of my cock slid deep into him. I held it there, not moving, while he clenched his fingers around mine. “Just stay still,” he begged. “Stay . . . still?” My lips and beard nuzzled at his ear while he struggled to accommodate me. Within a moment, though his lips were grinding experimentally, seeing if they could stand the motion. I felt his ass part and grab at my meat. Then he began to breath more normally and deeply, and I knew it was safe to continue. Our fuck didn’t last long. I pulled back his head and kissed David deeply as I fucked. It was the first time I’d ever held him in my arms as I screwed him—the first time I’d ever seen more than a flat expanse of white drywall while I plundered his hole. We graduated from barely moving to grinding and sliding to outright slamming. By the time I started to clench my butt cheeks and pound my load into him, he was on his knees and clutching the top of the headboard as if afraid to let go. “Breed me,” he said. “I’ve missed your cum. I want your cum. I want you to seed me, daddy.” I’d scarcely unloaded in him when he bucked me back onto my haunches, so that I squatted on the bed on my knees. He straddled me in an impossible yoga-like position, facing away as he continued to ride my dick. Squirts of my semen dripped from his hole onto my balls and blanket. “Oh god,” he said. “Oh god. Oh god.” Then he came, shooting his load over my bed in thick, painterly squirts that glazed the pillow. I held him as he shot, and after he subsided into heavy breathing and laughter. When he raised himself up and off my dick, I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I don’t think I can go another round. It’s been way too long.” “It’s okay, baby,” I told him with a kiss. “I know.” Besides, I thought to myself. Maybe there’d be more practice for the kid in the future. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There used to be a guy I knew a dozen years ago. I didn’t like him. He was one of those men who made the mistaken assumption that our situations were identical because we both were in long-term relationships, tops, and enjoyed sex with others. And not only identical, but that our parallels somehow entitled him to have sex with me whenever he wanted, regardless of how I felt about such a thing. Frankly, one encounter with the guy shortly after I met him was enough. He smelled. He grossly overestimated his own attractiveness. And worst of all, he gave off a creepy vibe that many people commented about when he wasn’t around. He seemed like one of those men whose photo, some years down the road, would interrupt a regularly-scheduled television show with the legend BARRICADED GUNMAN SITUATION UPDATE beneath it and a worried live reporter to the side. He would phone me at seven in the morning, or during dinner, or at ten o’clock on a Saturday evening, whichever was most inconvenient, to see if I wanted to have sex in his van—the only place he could entertain, with his wife and kids at home—on the streets of the city where we both lived. And he wouldn’t only call once, and then drop it when I didn’t pick up. When I wouldn’t answer, he’d call back again, immediately, two or three times in a row, as if prolonging the amount of time my phone made an insane racket would predispose me to think of his sexual guarantee with more enthusiasm. Eventually I cut off all contact with him by telling him he couldn’t call me any more. “This week?” he asked. “Ever,” I said. And that was that. For a half-dozen years too many after that icky time we had sex, though, I kept on tolerant terms with the guy simply because he was a good source of information. The fact that he was a top landed him in a lot of mens’ beds. (Though it rarely resulted in a return invitation.) And bottoms, you may or may not know this, but top men do tend to talk about their fucks with each other. It’s a bit like the the boys’ high school locker room. Get a bunch of cocky idiots together and they’ll compare notes on who has the best ass, sexiest body. There are whoops and hollers and cries of, “Oh yeah, I tapped that.” Now, some top guys are worse offenders than others. I personally am wary about talking about my fucks with other local tops unless the bottoms have specifically indicated that it’s okay. (Yes, I’m quite aware that I write about every single one of them on my blog, thank you, but I don’t give out screen names and phone numbers.) Others, like this guy, are extremely chatty about their conquests. And about eleven years ago this particular married top man told me of a couple he’d met out in the remote suburbs who enjoyed servicing strange guys through a gloryhole in their apartment. “They’ve got hot mouths,” he told me. “We should go do them together.” “There’s an idea,” I said, evasively. Later that week I talked online to my buddy Daddy Tim, with whom I was on good terms at the time. “Listen,” I told him. “There’s a couple I heard about that we should try.” I gave him the particulars. He was on it immediately. Within a few days we had a date. We drove out to the remote apartment complex and met in the parking lot. Then, as instructed, we walked into the apartment. The gloryhole was set in the wall immediately opposite the front door, which happened to be in the coat closet. The guys had removed the closet’s doors, left it empty, and themselves had carved the four-inch round hole in the drywall. Later on I discovered that it opened out into the kitchen, where the guys had put pillows beneath it. I unzipped, dropped my pants, and shoved my hard cock through to the other side. Immediately a mouth latched onto it. While Daddy Tim and I made out and I held onto the coat bar as if I were doing pull-ups, I let the guy suck me. When I felt myself getting close, I’d pull out and let Tim take his turn. Back and forth we swapped our dicks for the better part of an hour, until we’d both fed our loads to the mouth on the other side. Now, the guy manning the gloryhole that night was only half the couple—Jake, the older of the two. Jake was a total bottom in his mid-thirties of modest looks who somehow had managed to land a hot nineteen-year-old boyfriend. He considered the first visit a vetting process to see if we were worthy of returning to share both their mouths. I was the one who got to keep coming back. On my first solo trip I walked into the dark apartment, with its makeshift curtain hanging over the entrance to the living room, and let my jeans fall to my ankles. Though the closet was almost totally dark, I could see a warm light on the hole’s other side, in the kitchen, and the shadows that crossed its lip. I was hard when I stuck my cock through. At first I felt the mouth from before, licking and sucking at my dick. At some point shortly thereafter, though, the sensations changed. The mouth on my meat was different. The lips were softer. The mouth itself was wetter and warmer, It seemed to savor the taste of me, the length and the girth, rather than hurry to get me off. I always associated that mouth with David, the younger of the two. It was that mouth that was more likely to get me off. The moment it clamped down on my inches and began to suck, I recognized it immediately and would always become more excited. I could distinguished between their asses, too. With me the guys didn’t use the gloryhole simply for sucking. There was usually point at which I’d feel a cold glob of lube suddenly surround me, followed by the grip of a hand spreading it around. Then I’d feel pressure against my cock head and the unmistakable sensations of an ass spreading itself around me. Jake had a bony ass that opened readily and didn’t provide much in the way of friction. It was, as one of my friends has a tendency to say, like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. David, the nineteen-year-old, on the other hand, was tight and had a full ass. It took a lot of effort to get into him the first time, but once he loosened up, he’d shiver and shake on the wall’s other side. I couldn’t see either of them, but the eight inches of me that projected through to the kitchen could feel perfectly what was going on. Jake would back his ass up to the hole and slam against it like I was some kind of suction-cup dildo. Then his boy toy would take both his turn and his time, just as he would with his mouth. The result was that David would more often be the one to get my load—or loads, more usually. I could also hear his groans and grunts and judged that he came pretty often while I was fucking him, too. I liked that. The guys were a little far out for me to visit every week, but I hit their hole for at least once a month for the better part of three years, until the elder half had some issues with keeping his job and the pair had to move out of the apartment to another that was even further out. (I always wondered how they explained that hole in the wall to the apartment managers.) They made another move even further away shortly after that—and then about four years ago they landed way the hell out in the middle of nowhere with one of their parents, over an hour away from the city. I figured I’d never hear from them again. Then suddenly I did, Thursday. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Greetings, readers. It's a chilly gray autumn morning here where I live. The entire world outside my window seems to be covered in a spiky yellow fur, thanks to the ancient maple that dropped all its leaves at once, overnight. I have a sneaking suspicion that raking it all up is going to be my Sunday occupation. My other Sunday occupation, of course, is recapping some of the questions you've been asking me on formspring.me of late. If you've got a question you'd like to ask using their interface, trek on over and feel free. You don't have to register, and it can be done completely anonymously. I'll answer just about anything that's not unduly invasive, or abusive, or repetitive. I know I've answered a lot of questions and you don't want to have to search through them all to see if I've answered them before, but trust me, I've talked about my dick size a few times already! Of course, if you'd rather email me directly and ask your questions, use the address in the sidebar to do so. I try to respond to all my email. I still have a bit of a backlog, but I'm working my way through it! And enjoy these autumn Sundays. We have too few of them left before the really cold stuff hits us. How long has it been since you most recently bottomed? Successfully? Eight long years. What share of your total lifetime sexual encounters are you leaving behind when you sell the house? I've lived in this house for over a decade. It's fairly safe to say it has seen hundreds of one-on-one encounters, several three-ways, and one pretty piggy six-way in the hot tub and on the deck. If the walls of your house in Michigan could talk, what one story would you want them to tell the buyers? What one story would you NOT want them to tell? I'd want the buyers to know that this house had seen a lot of very good times over the last decade and more—a lot of laughter, a lot of stories told, a lot of triumphs and happiness. What I would like them to keep silent are some of the stories that men have confided to me about things they've done that no one else ever knew. What do you do to stay fit and hot? I appreciate your perception of my body and wish I shared it. Basically I watch what I eat. I plan healthy meals carefully and shop for them in advance, plan my portions, and give myself some flexibility for a meal out a week where I can be a little more (carefully) indulgent. Would you like to have a boyfriend, if you found a nice guy who could accommodate you living with your family? In the past I've had a handful of emotionally-close lovers--and I mean that in every sense of the word--who accepted or even welcomed my home situation, and with whom I would enjoy months or even years of closeness. I entirely welcome that influence in my life. On the other hand, finding someone who accepts me for the horndawg I am isn't easy. You seem to have an affinity for bikini underwear (I am not complaining), but I wonder with all that you have, have you ever noticed women checking out your crotch? Let me correct you, first. The last two pairs of underwear I gave away to guys were bikini briefs. I don't have an affinity for it. Of all the underwear I have--and I have a lot of it, so I don't have to do laundry too often (I'm lazy that way, shoot me)--it forms less than 5% of the total. Most of my shorts are either boxer briefs or, more likely, square-cut trunks. That said, yes, I get a lot of men and women checking out my crotch, particularly when I'm showing more than usual. I'm good with that. What objects other than willy and sex toys have you stuck in your He-pussy? In my mid-teens, I had a number of vegetables inserted in my hole, as well as a broomstick, a nightstick, a glass Coke bottle, and a rake handle. On a couple of those items I now wince and wonder what I was thinking. What's the secret to hooking with you? Being in the same general vicinity should do it, usually. If someone you knew was dying and they were not your type (Overweight) but their dying wish was sex with you. would you do it. I'll overlook the generalization that I don't have sex with overweight guys (I do) or the unlikelihood of anyone having a dying wish of wanting sex with me (flattering though it may be). I honestly can't decide whether it'd be a turn-on to be Disneyworld for a dying man's plea to the Make-A-Sexual-Wish Foundation. Mostly I think the person in question might find it insulting for someone to have sex with him only as pity sex; I would hate to have someone feeling bad about an experience after it happened. Nice sex toy wish list on stockroom. Do you currently have a favorite sex toy? I'm kind of enjoying the Fleshjack that a friend and reader gave me, but in general my favorite sex toys are cock rings. I like the sensations of compression they produce when I'm at my hardest. Were you a graphic artist VS a writer, what would you depict? Would you prefer any one medium or few media? If I were to specialize in an area outside my everyday creative endeavors, I'd be doing glass work. That's where I have most of my expertise and training. What advice do you have for an enthusiastic novice bottom about cleaning out my hole? The shit issue... Basically, give yourself plenty of time before an encounter to get clean. Don't expect to be sparkling, inside and out, if you've got a guy coming over in ten minutes. If you're a serious dedicated bottom, you might want to invest in a shower nozzle to douche yourself out--it'll save you some time over the rubber bulbs or bags. Use plenty of warm water and douche out your hole at least three times, pausing between rinses to evacuate your bowels. Make sure all the water's out of there, every time. When you're convinced you're clean, use soap and hot water to clean your butt and legs. Other bottoms might have better tips for you. Cleaning out can be a time-consuming process, but your top will thank you in the end. He holds U down by your throat & rides your cock like a whore until he takes your load from U. Or, a bttm you can hold/force face down into a bed while you pound ruthlessly until you breed him. Which scenario are you in the mood for right now? Number two. I want to brutalize a hole tonight. What are your favorite snacks? Beverages? (just want to be prepared if you ever come over!) Popcorn and water will do me nicely. In your entry "The Bump" you say "I knew at that point that I was more attracted to guys than girls." I was wondering if that was still the case, if that's been a constant thing. That might be too personal a question, just ignore it if it is. Cheers, J I tend to be pretty wide-ranging in my attractions. I also tend to joke and say I screw around with more men and women because men are sluttier (and they are), but it's probably because there's more attraction on that end of the spectrum as well. However, I still enjoy both genders. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My reader Trey was so impressed with my use of the word ‘carrel’ last time (and to be fair, it’s not a word one sees much) that I thought I’d share another library-related tale from my college days. My librarian friends will cringe at the following admission, but shortly after I checked out the library’s facilities, my freshman year, I found a easy way to bypass the circulation policy, for those books that I needed to keep for the two weeks the standard check-out would allow. I didn’t do it often, I hasten to say. Just occasionally—such as when a textbook that the library carried on its shelves was too costly for my already-lean pocketbook. The library had a glass wall at its rear that was surrounded by a narrow balcony that wrapped around the entire window. If I needed an ‘extended loan’ of a book, I’d take a place at one of the study carrels at the very back of the library’s first floor, casually open one of the half-dozen louvered windows that admitted fresh air into the building. Then I’d let the book fall out of the window and onto the balcony, where I’d pick it up a few minutes later. When I was done with the book, of course, I could just bring it back and slip it into the return slot, and no one would be the wiser. I was a poor college kid working my way through school on loans and money I made scooping ice cream for tourists. Don’t judge. One day during my junior year, I’d taken a spot at one of the back-library carrels with the intention of ‘borrowing’ a book I needed for a six-week project for one of my classes. Two of my female friends—I was always surrounded with female friends during my college days—sat at behind me, studying at the double carrels that met back to back. The desk facing mine was occupied by an older guy surrounded by a stack of books. By older guy, I mean that he was at least all of twenty-four or twenty-five; he certainly wasn’t a septuagenarian. I’d noticed the guy several times during the course of the previous hour. It was difficult not to; he took frequent breaks to the water fountain not very far away. Every time he’d stand up and shuffle over and take a few sips, he’d occupy his trip back by giving me the once-, the twice-, and the thrice-over. He had thinning hair on top of his head, and what was left of it was wild and untamed on the sides. His eyes were the most unfortunate feature of his face. They were wide and round and hadn’t much in the way of lid. In a word, they bulged. Or at least they gave the impression of bulging, much like that pop-eyed lady whose video was making the YouTube rounds a couple of years ago. Okay. He looked crazy. But he wasn’t bad-looking, despite the intensity of his eyes. His hair was a pleasant golden-brown color, and he had a mustache that was thick and bristly—an attractive thing to me in 1983. His arms and legs were covered with a thatch of fur that, when it reached his chest, was so thick it pushed out the fabric of his shirt to an extent that it never touched his skin. I thought he was fucking hot, and I knew—I just knew—every time he shuffled back to his seat, rubbing his stubby-fingered palm over the bristles on his chin and his thick mustache, that he wanted me badly. I was never more confident of anything in my life. So strong was my confidence, and so persistent my hard-on about it, that I did something unimaginably bold and probably pretty stupid. I wrote him a note on a scrap of notebook paper. I want your dick, was all it said. I folded it up in quarters, stood up, and threw it over the top of the carrel so that it landed on his desk. I had a few moments of terror to regret my decision when I sat down again immediately after. I’d just written down my need for dick on a scrap of paper while sitting next to two of my best friends, neither of whom knew of my sexuality. If the guy stood up and started ranting at me, I’d be exposed for everyone to see. And when the guy did stand up to look at me with those bulging eyes, I began to sweat for a moment. But then he walked away, looked back over his shoulder, and jerked his head for me to follow. I scampered after, telling my friends I was going out for a breath of air. We ended up going down in the basement, where there was a secluded men’s room that no one used but the staff. The guy pushed me down to my knees without a word, and undid the impossibly large buckle on the belt that held up his corduroys. His dick was a thumb-sized pink mushroom growing from a nest of dense coppery pubic hair. It was ugly, but he was rock-hard and pulled me down onto it. All the while I sucked, he growled and mumbled obscenities that I couldn’t quite make out. I understood what he wanted when he backed me off his dick and bent me over the toilet seat, though. I went back to my carrel with a thick load dripping from my ass. He came back a few minutes later, staring at me with those unsettling pop eyes. And because I hadn’t been bold enough before, I did something unthinkable. I slumped down in my chair, kicked off my deck shoe, and extended my leg beneath the back-to-back desks so I could bury my foot in the guy’s crotch. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done anything quite like it since. For the better part of a half-hour I kneaded the guy’s hard dick with the ball of my foot while I pretended to study and even occasionally carried on whispered conversations with my girlfriends. I can’t imagine what that guy thought of me, that afternoon. Besides that I was a nymphomaniac, I mean. Oh, and that I was pretty fuckable. The guy turned out to be a law student. We had a fairly steady fuckbuddy relationship throughout the rest of my junior and senior years. He lived a block off campus in a little house divided into student apartments, and I spent many a night there with my legs in the air while he covered me like a very furry blanket and and pounded my pink little hole into submission with his stubby dick. He was a terrible kisser and not much of a talker, but man, he liked to fuck. I didn’t find out any of that except the last that first afternoon, though. After I’d driven the guy half-crazy with my foot action, he took me down to the restroom once again, yanked my pants to my ankles, and fucked me brutally. His dick might have been tiny, but I remember after the second time, I was limping back to that study carrel with a very sore behind, carrying a scrap of paper on which he’d written his phone number and address, for later that night. It was a good day. But I never did get the extended loan of that library book. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Through that magical clearinghouse of old acquaintances known as Facebook, my old college boyfriend got in touch with me a couple of weeks ago. And I freely admit my first thought, like it is with so many old classmates who reach out to me from time to time, was, Gosh, I look so much better than he does. I met Brandon between my sophomore and junior years, during a summer I'd remained behind on campus to take care of a statistics course. Mathematics has never been my strong suit—my basic problem is one of disinterest and a general unwillingness to apply myself, rather than any actual stupidity, so I reasoned that if I took it as a summer course, in a concentrated sort of way without any other classes to distract me, I might have a better chance of success. It was kind of smart, on my part. Without anything else to do save work at my part-time job scooping ice cream for tourists, and having prodigious quantities of sex after dark in the restrooms and parks of Colonial Williamsburg, I didn't have anything else to do but statistics. I loved my college campus during the summer. Tropical heat would bake the sleepy town by day, and remain over it like a blanket at night. Williamsburg itself could be hectic and loud when the tourists were out, but after dinner, it was a populated mostly by seniors having their evening walks, young lovers hand in hand as they strolled through the romantic byways, and lovers of solitude like myself. The college's summer school population was quite small; the campus closed down all but the one air-conditioned dormitory among its many housing buildings. And even that wasn't full. I noticed Brandon the first week I moved into the summer dorm. It was difficult not to; he lived next door to me. He was a tall, toothy kid with a pronounced overbite. When he walked, it was with hunched shoulders and his neck jutted forward. He wasn't handsome, exactly, or ugly-sexy, or sexy in any usual sense of the term. But he dressed well. It was the era of the preppy, and Brandon's loud, ironed shorts and his pressed white polo shirts were spotless. The tassels on his loafers had seemingly been trimmed with a hair level, and the leather was shiny enough to fix one's face in. His hair had a precision part down one side, and his hair lay flat and still. For a Virginia white boy, he was actually doing pretty well for himself as far as looks go. I was doing a lot of cruising of the college library that summer. The second and third floors both had men's rooms that attracted students, faculty, staff, and tourists alike. At night during the school year it was possible to hook up with four or five guys in a row without so much as breath-mint break. During the summer, though, the cruising was a little slower. Rather than numb my ass by sitting on the toilet and cruising all night, I adopted the habit of positioning myself strategically at a carrel along the wall opposite, where I could watch who came and went as I occupied myself doing other things. I'd discovered that the library had complete bound editions of The New Yorker going back to the first issue, and it was those that I'd browse through, once I'd finished my statistics assignments for the night. I'd become fascinated by the editions surrounding the 1939 World's Fair, in particular, and it was one of those I was looking at when I saw a familiar face drift by the stacks and into the restroom. It was a chubby older cocksucker who haunted the same spots as I. We played occasionally, but that night I wasn't in the mood to let him suck me, or to lick at his undersized penis. So I remained in place. A few moments later, however, I saw the guy who was in the room next door to mine, back at the dorm, walk by and into the restroom. Oh really, now, I thought to myself. He didn't see me in my carrel. With interest I kept an eye on the door. A lot of time passed—much more than an ordinary guy takes to pee, or even squeeze one out. It was a good fifteen minutes later when finally the door opened again and Brandon shot out like a cannonball. I watched as he smoothed down the front of his chinos, adjusted his madras shirt, and got the hell out of there. Then my cocksucker friend emerged. He winked at me, made an exaggerated pantomime of pretending to wipe the corner of his mouth, and left. Well. That seemed pretty clear to me. Now I was interested in Brandon, the guy next door. For a couple of days I tried saying hello to him in the hallways, but he would either be with friends and wouldn't notice me, or just didn't seem responsive. Over that following weekend, though, I made a batch of brownies down in the dorm kitchen. I'd noticed that Brandon had a tendency to leave his room door open when he was there. I timed it so that my brownies were done when he was in his room, studying. On my walk back to my own room, I casually stopped in the door of his. "Oh hey," I drawled, as if it was an afterthought. "Want a brownie? I just made a bunch." It's funny that in his letter to me on Facebook, Brandon said to me, If only I'd known what you were up to, that first time I noticed you, standing in my door and tempting me with brownies. He couldn't very well just take my brownie and send me off. No, he had to invite me in, and eat a few with me, and talk. By the end of the evening we were good acquaintances. I knew he was going to be a senior the following year, and learned about his major, his ambitions, and his family. Now all I had to do was hook him. Which I did only a couple of days later. I knew he'd return to the library restrooms. It was one of the few things to do in Williamsburg, on a summer night. I was in my carrel reading magazines the following Monday when I saw him rush toward the men's room with that angular, awkward walk of his. For some reason, though, he turned his head as he neared the door. When he saw me, he halted altogether. He'd obviously intended to go in, but my presence stopped him. I was having none of that. I stood up, collected my backpack, and approached. "Hey," I said. "Hey," he said. We often had those kinds of deep, intellectual conversations. "Go in." I pushed open the men's room door. He hesitated, as if expecting a trap. "Go in," I repeated, jerking my head. Once we were behind the closed door, I opened my jeans at the urinal and turned to show him. "It's okay," I told him. I was rock hard; I had been the moment he'd appeared. "Let me see yours." I think I basically had to undo his pants for him, he was so astounded. I remember I gave him that first blow job right there in the middle of the restroom floor. However modest his other attributes, Brandon was gifted where it counted. His dick was even bigger than mine. He shot quickly, probably more from shock than any of my mad oral skills. When I was done, I jerked out a load into the toilet while he watched, and then zipped up. He was following me back to the dorm when finally he spoke again. "Fuck," he said, several times in a row. Then, "I didn't clock you." "Clock me?" I didn't understand the term. "Clock you." I shook my head, and he said it again. "Clock you. For one of those. A homosexual." I was confused for a moment. He said the last word as if he wasn't one of them himself. And yet I'd just given him a quick and sloppy blow job on a bathroom floor. "Oh," I finally said. "Okay." "You're not, right?" he asked. He sounded genuinely anxious to hear a negative answer. "It was just a thing, right?" "Sure," I said, knowing I was lying to him. "Just a thing." And that's how it was with me and Brandon, for the year and a half we saw each other. At night, behind closed doors, we were lovers. We'd kiss and suck and he'd fuck the living daylights out of me with his enormous dick, and he'd hold me in his arms afterward and be quite sweet. Then, when he was back in his preppy armor and I was in my sneakers and T-shirts and jeans, he'd lecture me about how our physical relationship was 'just a thing' that we'd both get over. We'd both find pretty girls, he'd told me—he had the sorority all picked out from which we'd make our choice—and we'd always be the best of friends. And maybe we could work it out so that we lived in the same neighborhood. Maybe even next door. And we could do our 'thing' from time to time. But we needed to learn to be normal, he'd tell me. We couldn't let anyone clock us. I wasn't a hopeless romantic about Brandon. I didn't harbor the same fantasies of assimilation. I had no intention of letting my sexuality be a footnote to a life of sales and work with the Republican party. So our time together was stormy. I resented that he wouldn't speak to me in public, or even acknowledge me as a friend in front of his so-called real friends. Brandon was frightened that if anyone saw the two of us together, even walking to the cafeteria or hanging out at one of the stromboli joints in town, they might assume things. We never did anything in public together. No one knew I knew him. We'd meet up after dark and fuck outside, or find one of the abandoned classrooms on campus with a locking door and turn out the lights and go at it. Once we were clothed and zipped up, though, we'd return to our dorms, taking separate routes so that no one could associate us. And let's face it. As a boyfriend I was shit. I was only eighteen when we met—I was a stupid kid. I'd get so mad at Brandon that I'd tell him we were over, and then I'd whore around with anyone and everyone I could, just to get back at him. Even when we were on good terms, I was still fucking around on him constantly. Why shouldn't I, my reasoning ran, when we weren't officially boyfriends, and when he wouldn't even use that word to describe us? He wanted a dream life he could never have. I wanted more than he was willing to give me. When he graduated a year before me, I heaved a sigh of relief that he couldn't have a full-time claim on me any more, when he was in the mood for it. He would call me or visit from out of the blue from time to time, though, and reiterate his wish to have me in his life as some kind of sexual annex, never fully acknowledged, never appreciated. He wanted me to be the Puerto Rico to his United States. I wouldn't have any of it. When I moved out of Virginia for good, I stopped hearing from him. I didn't miss it. I confess that when he wrote me on Facebook, I was a little nervous about opening the note. Oh fuck, here we go again, I worried. But no. Brandon's partnered now, and seems happy. He wasn't at all attempting to strike up something that cooled twenty-five (and change) years ago. However, he still has a life in sales and working for the Republican party. Some things simply don't change. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There were a couple of secrets nobody told me about the fifth decade of life. The first happened when I, normally a person of such even and placid temperament that for most of my life people affixed the dubious honorific ‘Saint’ before my name, started to have fits of temper that were absolutely terrifying in their intensity. An incorrectly-loaded dishwasher could turn me into a volcano of rage, spewing epithets and obscenities in lieu of lava. Grudges, instead of dull, heavy resentments safely buried in my past, rose from the depths of the earth like those tripods in the Tom Cruise War of the Worlds, to blast everyone in their paths with laser beams fashioned from alien technology so advanced they dissipated everything into dust and atoms. I couldn’t understand why I, who’d lived the tranquil pre-Nazi life of that Mother Superior who sang “Climb Every Mountain” in The Sound of Music, was suddenly Linda Blair in The Exorcist. When I was in the company of a couple I knew, both doctors, I decided to get a pair of free medical opinions in case something was seriously wrong with me, like a tumor pressing on that section of my brain that caused irrational rage. My, how they laughed, long and hard. Wiping tears from her eyes, the female half of the couple put her hand on my wrist and said, “Sweetie, it’s called the furious forties. You’re in for a few years of it. It happens to us all at your age.” They laughed some more (at me, not with me) and told me that if it got worse, by all means to go in for a brain scan, but otherwise to get used to not having the ‘Saint’ in front of my name for a few years. The other—happier—secret no one told me was that when you turn forty, suddenly the boys crawl out of the woodwork for your cock. No, really. If you’re in your mid-forties, aren’t actively repellant and don’t sport a throbbing goiter (which is about as close to handsome as you’ll ever hear me describing myself), and have any inclinations whatsoever to topping, the boys in their late teens and early twenties will beat their way to your door. It’s not just a small, oddball subset of misfits who’ll want to ride your cock, either, but a great number of some of the hottest young men out there. If they can call you ‘daddy’ during sex, they’ll love you for it. If you’ve actually fathered a child, they’ll claw each other in the struggle to get you first. At least, so it seems, much of the time. If you like that, you’re in luck. As for myself, I usually consider the young guys as the Froot Loops part of this complete nutritious breakfast. A whole lot of it might not be great for your diet, but it sure is tasty, and turns your tongue all different colors. Maybe that metaphor isn’t as apt as I hoped. Case in point: last Wednesday I had a twenty-year-old drive forty miles to see me. The photos he’d shown me were of a fresh-faced, skinny young thing with a bubble butt that filled out his jeans and hung down slightly, like a pregnant woman’s swollen belly, or a heavy drop of dew clinging to a blade of grass. When he undressed, he smelled of sweet cologne and a fruity chewing gum. His skin still had the tautness of a youth coming out of his adolescence, and his stomach was perfectly flat. His navel was a little dip in his skin, scarcely enough in which to scrape a fingertip. When I pulled off his shirt in the darkness of my bedroom, he shivered and crossed his arms over his chest. When I kissed his spine and rubbed my beard over his shoulders, his head lolled back. In that position he looked all the world like the painting of a blue-jeaned apostle, just before his martyrdom. Once his clothes were off, I pulled him onto the bed. We writhed over the fleece blanket, feeling each other all over, until finally I pushed his head down onto my dick. “Damn, daddy,” he said, right before he started sucking. I never really bring up this specialized area of dirty talk with these boys; they bring it up on their own, once the action starts. “It’s as good as the pictures. Better.” I didn’t say anything for a while, as I let him ease into the oral. He licked and slurped over my dick with an eagerness that transcended age. “You give good head, son,” I finally told him. My reward was his impaling himself onto my dick with his throat, anxious for the praise and the encouragement. That’s what they really seem to want, these young guys. Often when they show up, it’s with a swaggering posture that sometimes borders on arrogance. Naked, though, and in the near-dark, that usually vanishes. They want what any bottom man wants, at heart, and they’re often more transparent about their needs than the men twice their age. They want to be of service. They want to be appreciated for what they can do. And they want to be praised for it, when it’s deserved. I kept up a steady stream of mingled, muttered filth and motivation until finally I got him onto his knees. His face dipped into the cleft between my pillows as he cooled his face on the smooth cotton. His hole was ripe and overheated with excitement. When my tongue dipped into it, it was like taking a mouthful of piping hot coffee. He wasn’t going to let me rim him for any length of time, though. “Let me sit on it,” he begged. “You don’t want me from behind, first?” I asked. He shook his head. Even in the dark I could tell that a flush had spread over his cheekbones, furious and scarlet. “I open up better if I sit down on it.” It was the exact opposite of every other boy his age I’ve had, but I was game. I let him lay me down and grease up my dick with lube. Together we guided it into his descending hole. I felt pressure, then release. His amazingly warm hole enclosed my flesh more quickly than I would have suspected possible. And he was tight, too. “How long have you been getting fucked?” I wanted to know. “Only three years,” he said. “But I really like it. And you’ve got the dick for it.” His eyes closed. Using his knees and thigh muscles, he raised and lowered himself onto me. I just relaxed and enjoyed it. “A big, fat, daddy dick. Yeah. Big daddy dick up my ass.” On and on he talked about daddy dick, turning himself on with the phrase. I could’ve lain back and done nothing while he carried on, but instead I fueled his furnace by tossing tinder on the fire. “Daddy loves his boy’s pretty butt,” I’d say, sending him into an ecstatic frenzy. Or, “Damn, son, you’ve learned how to take dad’s dick like a little pro.” Or, “Yeah, daddy sure loves breeding young stuff like you.” “Breed me, sir,” he began to whimper. His gyrations became more frenetic. His own sizable dick flapped against his taught stomach with every bounce with the sound of a drum. “Breed you boy. Pump that manload up your boy’s ass, daddy. Fucking breed me, dad.” “Yeah,” I growled, getting closer. “Gonna breed you good. That’s what you were made for, right?” The question pushed him right over the edge. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, with one long vowel that started in his mouth and ended deep, deep inside. I could feel it vibrate his pelvis, and tickle at my dick; he grunted, and began to spew sperm all over me and the blanket. I was close myself, but when he stopped to unleash his own orgasm, I felt mine began to ebb, and then fade. I was drenched by the time he finished. He held up his hands, sticky with semen, and let it drip from his fingers as if he wasn’t certain what to do. I was afraid it was all over, right then. But then, with a renewed determination, the boy started to grab at my still-hard dick with his ass muscles, pulling it back into him and milking it with just as much purpose as he had before he’d come. “I want it,” he told me, staring in my eyes. His hands rested on my shoulders, pressing me down into the mattress and leaving sticky trails on my skin. “I want that load. I’m gonna get that fucking load out of you.” It was more threat than anything else, but it was the kind of threat I could live with. A couple of minutes of him grinding and milking me, and I was panting. A couple of minutes more and I was on the edge. “Fucking give it to me,” he insisted, shaking me. When I shot, it was almost as intensely as his demands had been. I shook, and jolted up. If he hadn’t been pressing me down, our skulls would likely have collided. Then I shot pulse after pulse of sperm into his little hole. He looked down at me for a moment, his hair hanging in his face. When I and my after-tremors had subsided, he let go of me and sat up to elongate his torso and stretch. His hands almost collided with the ceiling fan above. “That’s what I like about you older guys,” he said, yawning and laughing at the same time. “What’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious. He shook off whatever imaginary cramps he’d accumulated during the sex, knuckle by knuckle, joint by slender young joint. “You know what the fuck you’re doing. Hey. Can I come again tomorrow night? I don’t mind driving for a great fuck like this.” “Yeah,” I told him. “You can come again tomorrow.” If I have to endure the furious forties, I’m grateful to have this other, unexpected side benefit as the trade-off. More...

Aw, Hotload. I'm sorry about your dog. Our pets do mean a lot to us.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His name is Steve; he prefers that I address him as Son, or Daddy’s Boy. Steve moved from the eastern seaboard to accept a job at a big hospital here in town. A friend of mine gave him my email address when he found out we lived only ten minutes apart; we’ve seen each other irregularly for a year, since, when his busy hospital schedule can accommodate a meeting. Much of his furniture’s still in storage, making his apartment a little sparse. I’m not there to see the furniture, though. The moment the door’s closed, he’s on me, moving my hands into his loose clothing. “Oh fuck, daddy,” he tells me. “I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you too, son,” I whisper when I manage to tear my mouth from his. “Do I look okay, daddy?" He's not pretending, with this question. He's earnest, and even worried a little. "I want to look good for you. I want to make you proud of me.” Steve always looks great. His face has the strong chin, easy grin, and jock-like good features of a sportswear model. Sometimes he’ll greet me wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and tight underwear, or a tank top and some slack sweatpants. Sometimes he'll be wearing nothing. Today he's greeted me in a black jock and a tight-fitting wife-beater. “Oh yes,” I hiss, pushing him in the direction of the air mattress lying on his bedroom floor. He's still not managed to take the time to buy a bed. “You look very, very good, boy. I want you to show me how good you look.” It’s ridiculous, this roleplay. He’s almost the same age as I. With his salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes, he might even look older. No matter. He insinuates himself into my lap and has me slap his ass until it’s red, and snap the elastic of his jock to raise angry welts across his butt as he moans and writhes. It would take only one word to break the illusion we sharing together. One word, one refusal, one mistimed snort of disbelief. “I want to make my daddy feel good,” he tells me, pushing me onto my back and straddling my hips. “I want to be daddy’s best boy.” “Oh, you are daddy’s best boy,” I say. His hole is already lubed, loose, and ready. I wrap my fist around my cock and support it as he lowers himself down. Then I sigh as I sink deep into his warm, soft flesh. “You are making your daddy very proud, son.” His eyes widen as they stare into mine, then close entirely. His mouth drops into a gasp. His head jerks backwards, and he says nothing more. Not for a long, long while. This is the payoff, for me. I wear the daddy mask just for this moment, when I see him so lost in the bliss of his fantasy, beyond words and the cares of the everyday, that his body shakes with pleasure. After our long lovemaking, yesterday afternoon, I was drinking cold water from a glass mug as I looked at the largest of the photographs sitting atop his dresser. They're the only decoration I've ever seen in his spartan apartment; he must have dug them out fairly recently. The photo was of a young man with medium-length blond hair, handsome as hell, standing in a park with a hound at his side. The dog’s silky coat was glistening in the sunlight, falling around the dog's body like a pair of shaggy, bell-bottomed pajamas. There were matching glints in the young man’s wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is that you?” I asked Steve, letting the water soothe my raw and ragged throat. “That’s me,” he replied, settling down by my side on the air mattress. He picked up the frame and studied the photograph. His face wore the somewhat sad, somewhat wistful expression of a man looking at the picture of an old friend he once loved but hadn’t seen in some time. “The dog’s beautiful,” I told him. “She really was,” he said. “She really was.” He paused, lost in thought, while I waited for more. “Sally was her name. She was an afghan. I had two afghans, once. Both were beautiful dogs. Total couch hogs. If they wanted up next to you when you were watching TV, they got their way. But they were my babies. Then I had to have one of them put to sleep because she had cancer.” “I’m really sorry.” I waited a moment. “How old were you in that photo?” “Twenty. . . .” He calculated on his fingers. “Between twenty-four and twenty-six. I forget exactly. Almost twenty years ago. Yeah, the first dog died of cancer just as I was at the end of my relationship with my first serious boyfriend. He was twenty years older than me. A librarian. We were living in Texas and he had two job opportunities—one in Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan, you know, and the other in Seattle. So I went to Seattle with him and I realized . . . well, it was kind of strange. I realized I didn’t want to be with him any more. He was so settled and I was just young, you know. I wanted to travel and see things. I thought that's what it would mean to live my life. Going to Seattle to his home, with his furniture and his paintings and decorations—none of it mine—made me realize how much I was missing. “So I told him that I was sorry, but I wanted to move out and see the world. He didn’t realize at first what I was saying. He thought he could kind of keep the home fires burning and that when I was tired of going new places, I’d come back and we’d live happily ever after. I kept telling him that I wouldn’t be coming back, but I don’t think he ever really believed me. “When I'd left Texas to join my boyfriend, I’d boarded Sally with a woman I knew, just for a little bit until I could ship her to Seattle. When I picked her up, she told me, ‘Hey, your girl is a sweetheart and a real beauty. If you ever want to sell, I know just the guy who would love to have her.’ She named a name and I said, ‘Hey, I know Tom!’ He was a guy I knew pretty well who had an afghan already. So I knew he’d take really good care of her. I couldn’t leave Sally with my boyfriend, you see. He didn’t like dogs. He never remembered to feed them when I was out late at school or anything. The afghans were totally my babies. So I called Tom, my friend, and we talked, and he was thrilled to buy Sally from me. It gave me just a little cash, you know, for moving expenses, and I knew he’d love her just as much as I did." He was silent for a while. At last I rested my hand atop his. When he spoke again, it was with a shaky tremolo. “So I said goodbye, and saw her off. That night my boyfriend came home. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked, and I told him Sally was gone.” Steve got quiet for a moment. “He was just standing there with his briefcase, and then he dropped it to the floor. It fell open and all his papers fell out. Then he burst into tears. Because it hit him right then, for the first time, that I was leaving and wasn’t coming back and that our relationship was really . . . over.” I reached out and pulled Steve close to me, until his head rested on my shoulder. I was afraid to speak, but after a moment of respectful hush I murmured, “How did you feel, giving up your baby?” “I knew Sally was going to a good home, and there was just no way I could take her with me, so. . . .” His voice trailed off into silence. “I still miss that dog.” He draped his arm over my chest, and kissed my nipple. “I don’t know why I told you that story. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my baby, before.” I kissed the daddy’s boy on the head, and held him close while we both stared at the photograph in the darkening room. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here what time can you be here tonight? read the text. Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods. The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night. But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him. Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7. It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower. The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust. The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin. As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole. I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed. The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly. Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it. “You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well. Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.” I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets. The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet. It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used. I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue. After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.” He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets. “I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .” He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body. It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it. It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later. It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it. But there it is. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After I finished yesterday's entry I thought to myself, Now these guys know more about my underwear than they really wanted to. But then I realized that you know more about where my bodily fluids are going than the average person. Why should you balk at my crummy underpants? Do you guys feel extra-rested after your bonus hour of sleep last night? No, me neither. So let's get right to our usual Sunday morning tradition of rounding up questions I've gotten on formspring.me. As always, feel free to ask your questions anonymously (or not) there. If they're not super-repetitive or overly-invasive, I'll be glad to address them. Who are your influences as a writer? And, if you could fuck any character from one of Shakespeare's plays, whom would it be? When I am writing anything other than my journal, I can point to a number of influences at any given moment. When writing fiction, I can be influenced by classic literary writers, or modern American humorists, or whatever's appropriate for the mood or tone. In academic writing, I tend to emulate my father's methodical and rigorously-documented approach to writing. In my personal journal, though, I can't say that I really consciously emulate anyone. That's just my own thought processes, trying to sketch broad outlines of what's occurred and to paint in a few details. That seems all me. Or at least, what I've learned about storytelling from everything I've read and incorporated as part of myself. And I'd fuck Hotspur. You know he had a slammin' ass. how many guys do you have waiting for you to fuck them? and how many of them are you dying to fuck? I don't have an enumerated list! I hope there are a few. I have quite a few readers I've talked to that I find very attractive, and would love to get to know. Naked. Cam4....do you have regular show times, or is it random? If regular, please tell me a time (I'm in Korea), I would love to see every inch of the guy that can write such sordid lines with such eloquence! My show times tend to be random, but are often in the mornings, eastern time. My cam4 handle is steed48067. If you do catch me on there, speak up and say something. Tell me you're a blog reader. I've had nice chats with several blog readers that way. How tense do you get when you take an AIDS test? Panic at all, or are you ready for a poz result if it comes? The first few times in my youth when I was tested, I had a distinct tendency to panic and obsess between the time the blood was drawn and the point when I'd get my results. With practice and time, I don't really think about it or tense up much. do you use poppers? I have never used poppers. I don't mind a bottom who does, though. I have read about your many escapades with men, do you have any regular excursions with women as well? I have encounters with women as well. Men are big sluts, though, and generally easier to land in bed. You characterize men as big sluts who are easier to bed than women. Does that hold true for you? And do you prefer men or women? It absolutely holds true for me. Some guys seem to assume that there's shame in having a strong libido--there's not. I'm happy to be a slut. I prefer men. Usually with guys it's easier to get right to the good stuff. If I had a cock in my bum, 2 in my mouth and one each ear, and you felt an urgent need to fuck me, what would you say or do to the 5 men already inside me? "Move." You've probably had this question before, but would you be willing to meet and breed a complete virgin? Yes, and I've done it, too. If it's not too personal a question, do you stick with your other half for stability/obligation/conformity, or because that's also a need you have that is fulfilled by that situation I have never, ever, structured my adult life for the need of conformity. I did not undergo a relationship for the sake of it, not would I continue a relationship merely to blend in. Conformity is the least of my concerns or priorities. Stability is a seductive influence, however. And once a relationship is undertaken, wouldn't you agree that obligation plays a role? It should. Which sums up your view on sports: 1) interesting exercise for body (obviously) AND mind (strategies); 2) only as interesting as the bodies on display; 3) ho hum, period; 4) not-so-safe "sex" for hopeless closet cases; 5) other (specify)? I'm fond of games. Particularly strategy games. So I appreciate some sports for the way they inspire players to think ahead, make decisions on the fly, and play strategically despite the fact that some of the choices they have to make need to occur in the blink of an eyelid. In my youth I was involved in competitive tennis and swimming, and later taught swimming to kids, so I also understand that sports can be a positive influence on some developing young minds and bodies. That said, I find watching competitive sports a snooze. You couldn't pay me to sit through any kind of game on TV. And the amount of testosterone-filled posturing and jingoistic nonsense that sports events can attract is a menace. I do like the Homoerotic Wrestling Channel that only seems to play at my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, though. I could watch that for hours. When are your nipples hard? When they're cold, or when they're chewed on. One of them I prefer more than the other. Have you had conversations with your kid(s) about tolerance towards gays, or has the subject never come up? Do you think they could be homophobic? When you have kids, in my philosophy, Big Topics aren't relegated solely to Big Conversations where you sit down with them and have the One Big Talk They'll Remember For The Rest Of Their Lives. The big stuff, like tolerance, should be addressed every day. Not only with conversation, but with example. Sure, sometimes it might be addressed directly, but my style is not to set aside a chunk of lecture time for the big topic of the day. Homophobia isn't tolerated in my household. Nor is it a part of anyone's life here. How old were you when you went to your first gay club/bar? I never visited a gay establishment until I was in grad school. I would've been around twenty at the time, and a guy took me on a date to a little gay restaurant. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my entire life. I never walked into my first gay bar until I was twenty-five or thereabouts. There really hadn't been any in the places I lived (of which I knew) until I moved to the midwest. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I noticed today that I have a lot of underwear. It’s not, I hasten to add, because I’m an underwear fetishist. Far from it. The sight of a man in underwear might make me shift in my seat a little, in order to allow room for my boner to grow, but it’s the man I’ll be looking at. Not his shorts. I don’t collect underwear with funny or cute label names, or quasi-chemical mixtures of letters and numbers printed on their elastic waistbands. I don’t feel particularly more sexy when wearing an expensive pair of shorts over a pair I’ve gotten in a plastic-wrapped three-pack from a discount store. No, my motivation for having a large drawer stuffed full of over fifty pairs of shorts is that I’m fundamentally lazy. Good as I am at changing out towels and sheets on the household’s beds every week, I really hate to do my own personal wash. I’ll launder every damned towel in the house—and sometimes it seems there’s more of those than of my underwear—and wash and iron every tablecloth and dishrag, too, by gum, before I’ll turn to the pile of cotton underthings moldering in the laundry basket in my closet. I’m not as bad as my college freshman roommate, who managed to get through an entire semester of not washing his shorts by using an elaborate system of wearing each pair for several days and then turning it inside out and repeating the process, until finally they were all so disgusting that he would judge which was still freshest by going through his laundry bag and giving them the ‘sniff test.’ Those things were practically able to stand up on their own, by the time he took them home for his mom to wash over Christmas break. But sometimes I feel like I’m on that edge. I realized something today as I sorted out my fresh, clean shorts. Though I’d never consciously thought about it before, I sort my underwear into three distinct piles that I keep separate in my big bedroom chest. There’s the Good Stuff pile. This is the largest of the three categories by far—the pile into which I fold my everyday decent foundation garments. None of them are stretched out, none of them are ill-fitting. If I were to be in an automobile accident and rushed the hospital, neither I nor my parents would be embarrassed to be cut out of them in the emergency room. Nor would I be ashamed of them if I walked into a trick’s house and dropped my jeans. I’ve got my Gap and Banana Republic stuff in here, as well as those comfortable little square-cut trunks I get from H&M, and a lot of other pairs I’ve accumulated over the past couple of years. And then, I made the realization today, I have my Sex Shorts. These are the ones I deliberately set aside to wear on the days I think I’m going to get laid. None of my Sex Shorts are fancy, as my dad my say. But they’re nice. And I know that another man might enjoy removing them for me. Also in this category are the shorts that men have bought for me over the years, either to enjoy on my own, or to wear specifically for them. And then—oh, I hesitate to mention them—there’s the Pile Of Last Resort. Gentlemen, am I incorrect in assuming we all have one of these? Into it go the underthings that I simply would rather not wear, and yet cannot bear to to throw away. There’s a parsimonious side to my Scottish heritage that won’t let me throw away these pairs of boxer briefs with which there is nothing physically wrong. Sure, some of them are butt-ugly. Yes, there are a couple of pairs of shorts that I might’ve gotten on Father’s day that have absolutely no support whatsoever and have a tendency to let my nuts plummet out, like some kind of free-fall amusement park ride, without the slightest notice. And yes, there are a couple of pairs of white shorts with mysterious black marks on them that never really have washed out. (Not skid marks. You guys are dirty-minded. Black marker marks.) It’s there that you’ll find the baggy, shapeless pantaloons that the blind and even the fashion-averse would scorn to wear. The grampa panties. The Fruit of the Looms that must’ve been woven from sour grapes. It is the pile to which underwear crawls when it is ready to die. I know I should toss them all out. I hate looking at them when I open the drawer. But then I think they might come in handy, sometime. Like, when I’m being lazy and not washing, which happens at least once a month. Oh, Pile Of Last Resort. Your are my secret shame. More...

Doctor Who DVDs, next week. Sshh. I want to keep my reputation.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here To the generous person who sent me a Target gift card this week from my Amazon wish list: many thanks. As always, I like to show my appreciation for gifts from my readers in a visual way. In this case, draping the gift over my semi-erect dick seemed appropriate. I already know what I'm doing with the gift. Sad to say, it's something entirely geeky. More...

Fairlygay, VerBare, and Cumbro-- Thanks guys. He's a sweet kid, and it's easy to be hot for him.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After the intensity of Sunday night with Scruffy, I wasn’t particularly horny Monday morning. Around lunchtime, though, I was driving out to one of the big discount stores to get some household staples when I passed the side road that leads up to the woods. And I thought to myself, after a tentative moment, Yeah, why not? The day my sexual curiosity isn't piqued is the day you can wrap me up and drop me into the coffin. I parked my car among the trucks of the little manufacturer’s across the street, and strolled in the direction of the trails. It was one of those brilliant Michigan afternoons, seemingly crafted from sunlight and chilly breezes into a creation of clarity in which every shape had a hard, defined edge, and every color seemed more vivid than it possibly could have been. The woods themselves were afire with reds and yellows. This week’s cold snap had triggered the leaves everywhere in my town to begin falling in droves. Streaks of crimson and amber drifted by in twos and threes. The drifting leaves never stopped falling. It felt a little bit like being in an early Ridley Scott movie. To the left of the trail I noticed a black truck parked on the perpendicular side street. I wasn’t at all surprised, once I’d plunged into the cathedral of tree trunks and begun to tread the thick, soft patchwork carpet of leaves that covered the trails as well as every fallen branch and tree and stump, to see the truck’s inhabitant following me. I stuffed my hand in my pocket and withdrew my phone. Leaning against an oak in the middle of the trees, I checked my email while he walked by. Our eyes met. His dipped down and surveyed my package before clicking back up again. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, as he passed. I merely nodded, and put the phone back in my pocket. He marched with deliberation to the woods’ furthest depths. My feet followed, kicking up leaves as they went. Even if I ended up having nothing more than a brisk walk on a cool and sunny autumn day, it would have been worth it for the spicy smell of damp foliage and the quiet of the trees. I suspected I’d be getting more out of it, though. At the back of the woods he stepped off the trail and crossed over fallen trees and past the tiny mud hole to wander into untrodden territory where no one was likely to venture. I followed him deeper into the woods, darting behind bushes and tree trunks to catch up with him. At last he came to a rest at a spot where a tree had toppled over, leaving a stump behind. He brushed a layer of fallen leaves from the toppled trunk and sat down, knees wide apart, hands dangling between his legs. I took a good look the man. I’d known he was short, when he passed—probably no more than five-foot-six. His face was narrow, fine-featured, and handsome; a pair of long, thick sideburns framed its sides. His eyes were dark and knowing as he looked at me. “Quiet back here,” I remarked. “Yeah,” he drawled. He had been wearing a utility jacket bearing the name of an automotive repair shop on its back. He pulled it off to reveal he was wearing a pair of dirty coveralls. His name, the same as my father’s, appeared over his left pectoral. The shop’s logo had been embroidered over the right. He had a cut over his lip, as if he’d been in a fist fight. Somehow, that cut just made him seem all the hotter. “So what’s up?” “Not much,” I said back. I hooked my right thumb in my jeans pocket and let the fingers dangle over my crotch. They stroked the fabric casually. “Just hanging out.” “Yeah?” He stood up and cupped his crotch. “Nice.” His coveralls were already unzipped, pooching out to display the dark canyon beyond. “Very nice.” I closed the distance between us with two steps. His right hand reached out for the warm area between my legs. The left, after unbuttoning the front of his one-piece uniform to expose a chest that was covered lightly with sparse hair, rested on my bicep. His dick was three-quarters hard. It wasn’t big. The shaft narrowed near the end beneath an enormous mushroom head, giving his penis the look of an arrow shaft. I unzipped my jeans, yanked down the elastic of my trunks, and let my hardening dick flop out. Without hesitation, the handsome mechanic dropped down to his knees, right there on the leafy ground, and began to suck me. I’d worried somewhat that he’d be clumsy with his teeth, but the guy was an expert at what he was doing. While I swiveled my head around, keeping an eye out for distant intruders, he continued to slurp at my meat, all while playing with himself. He used his right fingers to create a tight ring around my shaft that followed his mouth as he moved back and forth. With his free hand, he played with his chest, flicking his nipples and running the palm over his abs before returning to his dick. At one point he reached out for my left hand, which was running through his hair, or holding the back of his head, or cupping his jaw. I felt his fingers probe along my fourth finger. I realized he was trying to see if it bore a ring. When he found it, he seemed to suck harder. I looked down to watch my handsome mechanic suck. That’s when I realized that only one of my nuts had made it through the opening of my fly. Embarrassing. I struggled to find it, caught as it was behind the tangle of waistband and fly and zipper. The mechanic solved my problem for me by unbuttoning my jeans and yanking them down to my knees. The chilly air played over my naked buttocks and thighs, making his mouth seem even wetter and more warm. It was all those crazy contrasts—the warm and the cold, the incredible firmness of his hand and the softness of his lips, the quiet of the falling leaves and the increasingly desperate grunts the mechanic was making as he sucked faster and harder, that brought me off. I held the back of his head still as I drove my cock in; he welcomed it with an open throat and a pair of lips pursed to take me to the root. My semen shot directly into his gullet. He accepted it without choking, backed off to swallow, then greedily slurped down the last of it as my orgasm subsided. I rested for a moment in his mouth, then pulled back and flopped out, my cock wet with his spit and a shellac of my own sperm. Without bothering to pull up my pants, I dropped to my knees, down onto that carpet of ruby and lemon and saffron. ”Let me have yours,” I asked him, face to face. He seemed surprised. “Yeah?” For a moment it looked as if he wanted to kiss me, which I would’ve welcomed. But perhaps he was unsure how I’d receive it, because instead he stood up and pointed that arrow shaft of his dick toward me. “Take it then,” he said. “I’m ready.” I opened my mouth and was about to engulf his rod between my lips . . . and then he blew. I was perhaps two inches away when he shot and sprayed semen everywhere. It narrowly missed my eye and blasted my forehead and nose with an audible splat. When I opened my lids again, he’d managed to spew his load all over my jacket as well. The leaves beneath his feet had droplets of white fluid, and the tops of my jeans were soaked. Despite the fact I’d wanted to suck that dick, it was actually quite hot. The man made half-hearted attempts at wiping his fluid off me, but it didn’t matter. I could do it myself. I used my jacket as a cum rag, and mentally resolved to leave it in the car when I got to my shopping destination. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s not who I am, coming so fast like that. That’s not me at all, man.” “It’s cool,” I said, wiping the rest of it off me and pulling up my pants. Only when I laughed did he seem consoled. “Maybe I’ll see you around again?” “I sure hope so,” I told him sincerely. “All right,” he said. “Gotta get back to work.” We exchanged a couple of take-it-easies and began navigating back to the trails. I let him exit the park first, then made my way back to the car. He tapped his car horn slightly as he passed, leaving, and lifted two fingers in a cocksucker’s salute. I can’t help but wonder how much longer the leaves will remain on the trees, in those woods. Once they’re down, playtime there stops for the season. And I’d surely like another encounter with my hot little mechanic. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here What I like about Scruffy is—no, that’s no way to begin. There’s too much I like about Scruffy to narrow it down. I like his boyish looks. His blond hair, so thick and shaggy. I like the snub at the end of his nose, which gives him the innocence of a freckled youngster. I like the slope of his shoulders as he walks, as if he’s not confident enough yet to stand straight and face the world head-on. I like the way his breath eases from his body and develops into a moan as I drive into him. I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow. But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft. But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his. The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus. I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go. When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?” He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.” “Seriously?” He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me. You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen. When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?” I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off. With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right. And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face. I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him. He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me. I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure. Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit. I think so, anyway. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve written before about ‘being in the moment’ during sex—that state of mindfulness in which all one’s cares, one’s jealousies, one’s worries, all the fretting about responsibility drop away. One forgets that bill that needs paying in the morning, or the argument with one’s parent from earlier in the day. All that’s left is the darkness, your partner, and the sweet sensations you’re making for each other. Being in the moment is about enjoying pleasure when it’s being given to you. Not thinking about it later and reflecting, or wondering if you might get something better later. It’s the here, and the now, and what’s in front of your eyes and between your legs. I had a couple of really good encounters last week that were definitely of that quality of sex—and I was grateful for them. However, I had a couple more that were definitely not optimal. And since I try to record the vast majority of my sex life in my blog, I feel obligated to write about them. Both were with attractive guys. Both were duds, pretty much. And I realized earlier today, both of them were ruined, pretty much, because of my sense of smell. Bad smells have a tendency to make me lose my sexual desire. The two times in my life I’ve been able to get an erection with guys were because they stunk. One had a very, very creepy aroma that I associate with bodies in a funeral home; the other reeked of ass and pot. In these two isolated instances, I was happy to lie about my usual sexual prowess (“I’m occasionally impotent! Sorry! Bye!”) in order to make a quick getaway. Mid-week, last week, I met up with a guy from the other side of town with whom I’d been corresponding off and on for several months. His photo was handsome enough. I really loved the pictures of his hole gaping wide open that he sent me privately. When he arrived, he turned out to be a great kisser. We tumbled around in my bed and made out and stripped each other down gradually. He sucked like a pro. I lubed him up, fingered him, and positioned him on his knees to enter from behind. In I went. And almost immediately, I could tell there was something wrong. Sometimes, when you’re fucking a guy who’s not exactly clean, shall we say, it’s a little like plunging a limb into particularly sticky mud. When you try to withdraw, it sticks; it squelches. It resists. I felt that, and I knew I wasn’t going to like the results when I finally did pull out. But you know, I’m a pig. I wanted to fuck. So I stayed in deep, ground hard with my pelvis, and got the job done. But oh, lordy. When I pulled out, the smell almost made me pass out. It was like sewer gas. It was like death. I had to close my eyes and think of unicorns and kittens in order not to gag as I grasped for a nearby towel I’d laid out, so I could get the muck off. He, in the meantime, wanted to loll about and talk about what a great fuck I was. Eventually I steered him to the bathroom with some desperate inquiries of, “Don’t you want to shower?!”, then waited for him to clean up and vanish so I could hop in the tub and scald myself with the hottest water possible. The second-degree burns were totally worth it. Friday night was the second encounter—this time with an out-of-town guy I’ve described with great affection in these very pages. I arrived to his hotel prettied up and ready for a long, fun evening of play. He greeted me with an “Oh my goodness!” and a hug like a puppy happy to see me. He grabbed my face with his hands and pulled me down for a kiss. That’s when I recoiled. The guy’s breath . . . Well. It was if a skunk had musked itself and then died in his mouth. I had a sinking feeling of Oh, crap, I am totally not going to be able to go through with this as my dick shriveled inside my pants. “Do you have any mints?” I asked, even though I’d had one on the elevator up. He didn’t get the hint. “You taste so beautiful! So sexy!” he enthused, trying to pull me down for another kiss while I wrenched my face away. It was really touch-and-go for a while. I didn’t want to leave abruptly. So I let him get me naked, and let him suck me for a very long time until I was hard enough to turn him around and fuck him. He kept trying to rear back and kiss me over his shoulder, which made me push him down into the pillows away from me. I’m afraid he took it as a sign I wanted rough play. But at least his attempts at dirty talk and bucking me off kept him from bringing his mouth within smelling distance. I was out of his hotel room in less than an hour. It’s a shame, too. I would’ve enjoyed both men more if their smells hadn’t been an issue for me. I’m aware I’m doing nobody any favors by keeping my mouth shut about it, but men have a tendency not to react rationally when told they stink in a foul and off-putting way. And it’s not as if I require my guys to be perfumed and powdered, either. I enjoy a certain degree of natural man smell. With dirty asses and rancid breath, however, I have a little too much trouble coping. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here For all of you celebrating the most festive gourd-centered holiday of the year tonight, I wish you a safe and fun time, full of treats and tricks. People have been asking me all month what I'm intending to dress as for Halloween. I've been telling them I'm coming as a sex god. Or an anal probe. One or the other. As I always do on Sundays, I'll be assaying a few of those formspring.me questions that you guys are considerate and creative enough to keep asking. If you've ever got questions for me, feel free to use formspring's anonymous service to make your inquiries. Additionally, you can email me directly, using the link on the sidebar. Over there to your right. No, a little further right. Yes, now down. Yes. Where it says email. You've got it. As long as the questions aren't repetitive or aggressively obnoxious, I'll tackle them for you! In order to go bb on a guy, have you ever promised to pull out to cum? Have you promised and then shot inside anyway? No, I'm pretty up front about what I expect and want, and don't resort to trickery to get it. I get plenty of offers without having to do that kind of thing. Where's your buddy's gloryhole? ;-) Head north from my house half a block, turn right, drive to the second light, and six blocks north of that, on the left-hand side. What a cool buddy to share that experience with you. How did you guys meet? I wrote about my buddy with the gloryhole in a blog entry at this address: http://mrsteed64.blogspot.com/2010/09/hole.html Have you ever won a karaoke night? Indeed I have. Once. On a cruise ship. Which do you prefer, doing a pump & dump, fucking a guy the way you want to, or fucking a guy the way you think he needs it (which may be different from what he asks of you)? I will usually opt for fucking a guy the way I perceive he needs it. Often the style will indeed be the way he wants it. Sometimes, however, he'll not be aware how badly he needed a particular style until it's over and done. Knowing what I want is sometimes a challenge. People close to me tell me often that I am too much of a chameleon when I fuck, melding into other people's coloration instead of displaying my own. Aside from the time you were caught in the restroom by police (that was a great story), have you ever been caught in "the act" by say, a guy's wife or the mall restroom attendant? I have not had any close calls in restrooms that were anything like that I experienced with the cops, in my teens. I did have a close call in which a very handsome guy I was fucking received an unexpected visit from his elderly father, mid-dicking. I think the father was more embarrassed at barging in with his key unannounced, than we were. I seem to recall having another close call in my early twenties with a married man in which she actually made it to the bottom of the stairs (we were in the bedroom above), but the husband quickly asked her to go down and take out some hamburger from the freezer in the basement so it could thaw, and snuck me out the back door while she was down there. So, with your profligate sharing of your body, its various parts, and its various fluids - have you ever spent energy sharing those same tasty delights with female recipients? I am a boy, but have a girl that is majorly turned on by your escapades. I have indeed, many a time. Y'all should invite me over. What are you some of your current favorite songs or most recent songs you've heard and liked ? I'm too old to be a barometer for popular music. Lately I've been listening to Professor Green's new CD, "Alive 'Til I'm Dead" (his goofy "I Need You Tonight" is my favorite song this year), and the Pipettes' new release, "Earth vs. the Pipettes." I'm still playing the Scissor Sisters release from a few weeks back to death, too. OMFG mate! As far as I'm concerned, everything you touch turns to GOLD...cock (yours, your trade and blog followers), sexual experiences and their corresponding musings. With that in mind, I often wonder what (or which) blogs, websites or groups YOU gra Gra....vitate to? Grab? Grant my attention? My ravenous ego will scarcely let me type the following words, but that was almost too much compliment (thank you!), and not enough question! When is the last time you had a penis in your bum? Close to eight years ago, at this point. What's on your "Things I want to do before leaving Michigan" list? I have a list of favorite restaurants I want to visit. Most of them are little dive places of which I know I won't find the likes anywhere else. There are a number of people I'd like to meet with again before I go. It's leaving behind people and sexual partners I really enjoy (some of whom I've enjoyed for years now) that stings the most. Spooner or Spoonee? I definitely like both. I tend to be the spooner, though, because so many people like to be spooned. You say you are a working artist. Please be more specific. It also sounds like you have taught at the college/university level. Please give me some details as I also have been in the arts and currently teach at a university internationally. Thank you! I leave my exact area of expertise vague, so that I can maintain the laughable notion of a little bit of privacy. Yes, I'm aware that broadcasting my sex life daily to a bunch of strangers on the internet entitles me to precious little privacy, but let a guy have his illusions, won'tcha? Figuring out what kind of creative work I do is not that difficult, truthfully. I hold down part-time teaching gigs at the college level when the whim strikes. Do you prefer hairy and beefy, or skinny and smooth? a combination of either, or of something else? I don't really have body type preferences that way. I find all kinds of bodies sexy. Attractiveness to me has more to do with attitude, stance, and expression than it does with cookie-cutter looks—and I'm always puzzled by those who are aroused by one specific combination of adjectives. One of the reasons I find the bear community confusing, for example, is its insistence that it is more open to different body types than the rest of the gay community. In reality, it seems to be open to one specific body type (bearded, hairy, and large) to the exclusion of all others. I'm aware this is a massive generalization, but it's generally a shame when men are interested only in a specific look that is often close to their own. I'm always impressed with your ability to focus on the individuals you have sex with, finding what is attractive in them rather than focusing on generic standards of beauty. Have you ever met someone you had to reject based entirely on their looks? Thanks for that. It's true that I'm unlikely to reject guys on the basis of statistics alone--that is, I'm not going to pretend they're invisible because they're over two hundred pounds, or because they're above or below the age of 35, or because they've got a shade of skin that's not my own. But yes, I reject guys on the basis of looks. There are certain triggers that will elicit a polite no-thank-you from me, including photographs that indicate the guy is living in squalor, bad smells if he's approaching me in person, or signs of excessive drug abuse. I don't ask that everyone I meet have invested in an orthodontist, but really bad teeth I usually associate with really bad breath, which is something else that turns me off in a hurry. What will cause me to run in the opposite direction the fastest, however, is an aura or attitude of pathetic neediness. There's a big difference between hunger and desperation. The first is fed by both parties. The second is unreciprocated. How are you in spontaneous sexual situations if the bottom doesn't have a chance to clean out? Indifferent? Turned off? Some guys are naturally clean, whether as a result of their diet, genetics, or overall good health. If they haven't hosed out and I get a fleck or two on my dick, it can be washed off. If I find a bottom hasn't cleaned out (or cleaned out well) and he's leaving actual streaks on me, or painting my dick brown, or if there's a noticeable smell, I'm likely to be turned off to the point that I'll either wash off and leave, or ask the guy to go. Shit happens, and I'm philosophical when it does. There are limits, however. More...