TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Sometime this coming weekend, I'm projecting that A Breeder's Journal will hit a quarter of a million visitors. A quarter million of a unique visitors since I installed my counter in April, that is. No matter how you look at it, that's a whole lot of unique visitors. To celebrate my trek to a million unique visitors and eventual world domination, I'm having a giveaway. The lucky winner will receive a pair of my underwear that I've been using as a cum rag for the last couple of weeks. They're pictured below. Click on the photos to see the full-sized versions. Yes, as you can see, the shorts in question—a pair of black bikini Jockeys—are pretty well-frosted with several of my loads, as well as some of my pubic hair (and probably a few stray pet hairs as well). Not all of you will be interested in such an accessory, of course. But I know enough of you are to make the contest interesting. How do you enter? Glad you asked. All you have to do is leave a comment on this post before 8 a.m. eastern time on Monday, September 20. Be sure you're willing to do the following, though: - When you comment on the post, make sure you have an easily-identifiable name or handle. Those of you with blogger accounts or some other account that links with blogger are already identified when you post here, but if you don't have such an animal, don't worry. Just sign off with some name or nickname so that I can identify you. I'm trying to avoid saying, "Anonymous #5, you're a winner!", here. - If you enter, be prepared to check back next Monday or on the couple of days thereafter in order to see if you're the lucky person to get a pair of DNA-encrusted shorts. - If you win, be prepared to send me your mailing address through email. Do not include it in your comment, for the sake of your own privacy. All clear? Don't be totally anonymous. Check back. And don't give me your address now, but be ready to do it later. Monday morning I'll use a random number generator to pull a lucky name from the pool, and will announce the winner. Don't be shy about entering, even if you rarely or never comment here. It's all in the name of fun! If you don't want other people to know you're entering this sordid grab for my shorts, don't worry. You can enter privately. (That sounds dirty.) Simply send an email to my address, which you'll find in the sidebar of my blog. And finally, if you want to comment but do not wish to run the risk of receiving a pair of cummy shorts in the mail, let me know in your comment that you're contributing merely for the sake of speaking up. Now that we've got that over, let's look at some of the Google search phrases with which people have been hitting my journal since the hundred-thousand milestone. big sweaty mr steed blogspot Why, thank you. Though I like to think I don't perspire. I glow. cumming in my shorts thread-bare or skimpy -she -her I think today's contest is made for you, sir. "liam cole" photography shoot Yeah, I have dreams of that myself, sir. If only. African violet use during sex You know, I was certain that the person who asked me that particular formspring.me question was doing so in jest, but now that I see not just one but several people on Google have queried variations of this phrase, I'm a little worried. bj in the bathroom blog I considered this title for my journal when I created it, you know. who is that blogger who is the former football player with the big dick I'm not really sure, but he isn't me. people who have never been touched And this definitely isn't me. guys into fishing tackle sex Um. If I don't hoover my mattress should I start to? I fear some domestic-minded person accidentally got an eyeful of the wrong thing when he or she looked at my journal for bedbug prevention tips. pictures of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac All I can say is that there are some people with extremely specialized tastes out there. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I could tell the guy had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. While I’d sat with my friends at a table in the far corner of the dark room, he’d sat at the bar, clutching his vodka and tonic and bobbing his head to the thumping beat, his body angled so that he could snatch little glances my way from time to time. When I went to the men’s room to wash my hands, he swiveled around to watch as I passed. I thought he was going to say something when I stood near him, picking up another bottle of water from my bartender crush on the way back. He remained silent, though, while I received my dewy plastic bottle and left my money and a tip on the bar. It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said. Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.” “Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully. “Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.” One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!” He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures. My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?” Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added. I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.” He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?” I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.” I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again. The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show. He licked his lips, nervous. “So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?” “Yes,” he said in a raspy voice. I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?” At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.” “All right then.” When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested. But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room. He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went. I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better. “Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go. I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening. More...

I don't disagree with you at all, Boycunt. A lot of tops are flakes, two-minute men, and guys who would be better off fucking their hands than wasting the time of a well-intentioned bottom. Many of us are definitely better than others. (You'll notice with which category I like to side my reputation.)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here His head was what I touched first, after that sweet first moment when our mouths met in the dark room. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. I could feel the bristles bending to tickle the hollow there, then spring back once free of my hand. He shivered, bowing so that I could more easily reach. When I ran my hands over the back of his neck, his lips parted. He sighed, like a kitten about to fall asleep. “Come down here,” I whispered, pulling him down onto the bed. We sank into the mattress and covers; his face got lost among the rumpled pillows as I continued my relentless stroking of his skull. He would squirm, almost unable to take the soft, invisible paisley shapes I traced from his ears to his lips, from the planes atop his head to the dent of his nape, around his eyebrows and down his cheeks. Then, without warning, he would relax again, releasing another rustle of breath. “Are you okay?” I whispered, tracing the shape of his jawline. He nodded, then replied. “Yes.” It was little more than a whisper. “Yes,” he repeated. His arm crooked around my shoulder, holding me. From time to time his hand would attempt to wander and stroke my arm, but every time I returned it to its resting spot. “Let’s take this off,” I suggested, tugging at the T-shirt he wore, which sported the logo from the tattoo parlor closest to my home. The two sleeves of tattoos on his arms would have been enough to speak of his obvious fondness for ink; the colorful fantasy images were like a second, more colorful skin that wrapped him around, from biceps to wrists. He paused, dazed, and then nodded. Before I knew what had happened, he’d skimmed off the shirt and buried the front of his torso in the blankets and shadows again, leaving his back exposed. Surely, I thought to myself, someone used to being looked at for having ninety percent of his body covered in ink can’t be shy about showing himself to me. I didn’t think about it much. Now that I was being given permission to touch him—hell, encouragement—other thoughts didn’t linger. Both my hands moved over the baby-smooth skin of his back, traveling up and down his spine, tickling over his neck, dipping under the waist of his pants and reading his buttocks like braille. I felt shivers ripple over his skin, followed by waves of gooseflesh and more sighs of pleasure. Sometimes I would let my face move down next to his skin, lightly rubbing the bristles of my beard over his sensitive spots to vary the touch. “Help me help you,” I said at last, tugging at his pants. I couldn’t get them off by myself. He was too deeply pressed into the mattress. Groggily he got to his knees and skinned them down. Beneath, he wore a pair of navy briefs with broad yellow horizontal stripes. It made me think, absurdly, of bees. I discovered that the backs of his knees were particularly sensitive. I stroked there, then licked, then sucked and bit and ran my beard over the slick flesh. With every new torture he’d gasp and cry out, or try to jerk away, but I was relentless. “You’re really into back-of-the-knee pleasure,” I teased him, buzzing the words in his ear. He only groaned in reply. “I’ve got some nasty back-of-the-knee porn you’d really like. Greased-up backs-of-the-knees bent over stiff dicks. . . .” “You're a sick back-of-the-knee pervert,” he managed to pant out. “I’m joking,” I admitted. After a moment more, I pulled at his shorts. “Turn over for me.” Before I could get him to flip, he pulled himself up and closed the distance between us. Our mouths met again. “You’re still completely dressed,” he murmured. When I looked down, my shirt somehow had become unbuttoned. My elbows pinned it in. Every insecurity I possess came surging to the fore. I was actually frightened for him to see my body. To me this moment, this first impression, really mattered. Before I could resist, though, he’d turned me around. His own mouth traveled over the length of my neck, sending my body into a shivering convulsion and my mind into oblivion. I felt his hands on my chest, my nipples, moving down to my waist, then tugging at my belt. Like a child too sleepy to be of much help as his father undresses him for bed, my hands tapped helplessly at his own while he loosened my buckles and snaps and zippers. Any reservations I’d had about exposing myself to him evaporated from the heat of his palms. He pulled off my shorts, and then his own, and tossed them both in the direction of the pile of laundry. We were naked, and alone, and we stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. I relaxed, exhaling slightly, and then settled with him down onto the mattress, never unlocking my gaze from his. Then I reached out to touch him again, for the first time since he’d undressed me. His head was what I touched first. The cup of my palm seemed almost made to fit the curve of his skull. He sighed, and bowed, and then we started all over again. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Today’s entry is not about a guy I’ve fucked, I’m sorry to say. It’s about a guy I go goony for, every time I see him. I remained awake in bed last night trying to remember who were the objects of my first childhood crushes. I remembered a girl named Beth, sometime in the third grade, for whom I nurtured an unspoken passion. There was my intense crush on my absent brother that was more akin to hero worship, starting around the time I was ten. In high school I had a deep unrequited love for the valedictorian of the class ahead of mine, a girl who lived in my neighborhood who proved the age-old complaint of She doesn’t even know who I am! when I got up the nerve to ask her to sign my yearbook at the end of her senior year, and she scrawled someone else’s name before the words, “Have a nice summer!” In college I had a multi-year crush on a boy I saw from afar during freshman orientation, and hungered for him without a word every time our paths would cross on campus. He too seemed to have a crush on me, but neither of us did anything about it until the night before we graduated, eight semesters later. At the same time I juggled a wild passion for a girl in my sophomore dorm, who in turn burned with passion for a bearded buffoon who treated her like crap while I showered her, unnoticed, with attention and occasional flowers. All I got in return was the dubious privilege of being her confidante, which involved having to listen to her mope about her buffoon while I ached inside. Early crushes are painful things. One doesn’t have the life experience to know what they are, or to take them philosophically. All one really knows is that there’s desire there, sometimes a desire more frightening and overwhelming than anything one’s ever experienced before. The force is so strong it seems almost like a tidal wave, yet the only thing one can think to do is suppress it and let it go unspoken. Which in itself, is tragic. I’ve had a rich crush life since my college days, but I learned something about them during that time. A fledgling sprout of a crush is sweet. Its seed is affection—undiluted and pure. It’s delight in the presence of another. It’s joy in its truest form, and it’s supposed to be enjoyed. The problem I had in my teen and college years is that I’d want so much more from my crushes than what that little sprout could support. When I learned finally to relish the feelings of a crush without hanging excessive expectations on it, or building from it an imaginary future that I expected to come true through sheer force of will, I finally could accept crushes for what they were, and enjoy the people upon whom I had them, without resenting them in the end. My current crush tends bar once a week, Sunday nights, at a dive I occasionally go to with friends. And he’s so pretty. When I started crushing out on him four or five years ago, the kid was a tiny twink dancer whose only asset was a perky and round little butt on a skinny little body. Now he’s twenty-five, no longer a dancer, and has filled out nicely. He has a man’s shoulders and arms, a slightly furry chest, and a lean, narrow waist. When he’s tending bar, he’ll usually remove his shirt to show off that body (and increase his tips). It’s hard to keep me from turning my chair across the room to face him, when that happens, so I can stare at his jeans hanging low from those slender hips. Here’s what I love about my bartender: his floppy, jet-black hair, which has gone from short to Jesus-length to shaved to long and shaggy again, over the last five years. I love the dark, haphazard swoops that are his eyebrows. I love the roundness of his face, sometimes covered in scruff or outright beard, sometimes clean-shaven. I love his dark brown eyes. I love the way he stands, stares blankly, and hums to himself when he thinks he has nothing to do, though someone at the bar’s other end is trying to get his attention. And on those occasions when he gets up to sing karaoke, I love how awful he is at it. He’s not so terrible that it’s amazing, but he’s endearing because he’s off-tune and wooden and stiff and doesn’t really seem to give a damn. And because afterward, when the noise ceases and he steps down off the stage, his little smile of relief at being done is so, so cute. I like all those little things, and appreciate them for what they are. I don’t try to think about nailing the kid, much, or about the little mountain cottage the two of us will share when we’re old and gray. I just like how alive the little things make me feel. My friends tease me about my bartender boy, because I can’t talk to him. I’m too shy. I know! It’s totally unlike me. When I have to buy a drink from him, I mumble my order and avert my eyes in a way that makes me roll my eyes and shake my head at myself when I think about it at home, after. I’ll gaze from afar, and sigh, and let them tease me, because I know something they don’t. I did attempt to talk to the bartender one time. It was a Sunday night on which I was there by myself, for a change. Without my friends to hang with, I sat at the bar and let my crush tend to me there. Silently I decided that it would be the night I got to know my bartender boy. We’d strike up a conversation. I’d find out that he was really a serious young veterinary student, or a talented musician waiting for the moment to make his break. He’d want to talk about literature, or he’d intently lean over and give me his opinions on Stanislavsky. We’d have one of those friendships in which I’d add him on Facebook and we’d wave and call out each other’s names when I walked into the bar. That’d show my friends, all right, when the bartender boy and I were best buds. Then the bartender boy came over and, from beneath the bar, and right at the spot where I was sitting, produced an enormous Tupperware container. I mean, seriously large. It had to be a four-gallon tub, and it was filled with an opaque red-colored liquid studded with chopped carrots, potatoes and noodles. With a plastic Taco Bell spork in one had, he popped open the lid. I could smell the vapor of a slightly-warm tomato-vegetable mixture. Clutching the tub to his belly with one arm, my crush wrapped his fingers around the plastic utensil, dug it into the tub, and stuffed a dripping sporkful into his mouth. Then he chewed it with bulging cheeks. “I like soup!” he announced to me. Then he stuffed another sporkful into his mouth before he’d finished chewing and swallowing the first. “Soup is good!” he asserted, giving me a good view of the see-food buffet. All the little fantasies I’d had about the intellectual conversations I’d be having with the bartender boy went flying out the window. “Yay, soup,” I said wanly, and turned around in my seat so that I didn’t have to watch the gruesome scene any more. Since that night, I’ve stayed across the room from the kid, so that I couldn’t let him give me any more reason to stop going moony-eyed over him. Because that’s the thing about crushes. They’re fragile things. Sometimes you really don’t want to confront the reality behind them too closely. Not if you want to keep them alive for a time. More...

Boycunt, I think it boils down to something like this: when a guy starts making inquiries about whether I can bring a substitute for myself, it can be interpreted as an insult, as 'you're not enough for me/you're not good enough.' For me, that'd be when a bottom asked if I knew other tops. For you, it might be when a top asked if you knew another bottom that he could fuck instead of you. When someone wants to see you doing what you do best, however, it can be a high compliment, just like you'd be flattered if a top wanted to see if there was a limit to your ability to take dick, and suggested bringing another top buddy. Or I'd be flattered if a bottom buddy suggested bringing another bottom for me to fuck. Guys who know each other fairly well should be able to ask each other about anything at some point, tops, bottoms, donkeys, whatever. But in the early stages of acquaintance, particularly in that time before you've even met in the flesh, some approaches can be interpreted as rude.

I get a lot of weird-ass questions. Someone was parodying them. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I tend to be an early riser. Chipper, even. Yes, one of those annoying guys that sane folk talk about behind his back. Who does he think he is, getting stuff done at seven in the morning? Ass! Well, today I'm not that person. I crawled out of bed at 9:45 and even now am considering heading back there. It's the weekend. Daddy deserves that, right? My customary Sunday exercise is to amass questions that some of you guys have been asking on formspring.me. If you have questions you'd like to ask anonymous, feel free to use the service. As long as the questions aren't too invasive, I'd be happy to give them a go. If you have questions you'd like to email me, I'm always good with that too, for the more personal touch. Ever since I put out a new call for questions a couple of weeks ago, you guys have been coming through with some interesting and challenging queries that I'm still working on—just probably not this morning. Oy. My head. If you were a voyeur, what one sex act being played out & exhibited before you would give you your most thrilling & memorable woody of the week? If I have to be the voyeur, I really like it when another top man shows off for me how well the bottom under his control performs for him. I've had many private shows on cam in which a top dad puts his boy through his paces, and it always turns me on. Are you poz? I know my HIV status and post it in my online profiles. I don't post it in my blog, because I do not want my blog to have serostatus as its focus. Would you consider accepting payment for a chance to be bred by you? Absolutely. I've done it before, too. Using a cell phone, do you ever photograph yourself? You've seen my blog and my Xtube page, right? Have you & another guy ever lain on each other head to foot belly to belly torso to torso thigh to thigh & frotted cocks to mutual orgasm, with no penetration? No. Have you ever had a three-way with another dude and a vampire where the three of you shot your loads in a planting of African Violets without getting any on the leaves because they don't like that? Oh my god, this is the BEST QUESTION EVER. And oddly enough, yes, I have. favorite sexual roleplay? When it comes to roleplay, dad/son is pretty reliable for me. Blindfolded and anonymous is also another favorite. Dogs or cats? I've never topped a cat. Oh wait, what were you asking, exactly? What is the most disappointing sex act you have ever done or had done to you? I've had my share of disappointing sex, but it's always been because either I or my partner simply wasn't present and connected to the other. However, when it comes to sexual acts that don't live up to the hype, I'm nominating two. 1) Autofellatio. In my teens I was often paid to suck myself while guys watched. Either they'd jack off and watch, or watch and fuck me after. However, for all the pleasure guys got out of watching me choke down half my dick and then cum on my face, I always thought it was a major chore. It was uncomfortable, it left me with indigestion, and frankly, it didn't really feel that good. There's a huge difference between sucking yourself and getting sucked by someone else. The former never excited me. 2) Double penetration. Two dicks in a single hole looks good in porn. Maybe it's exciting for the bottom. For me, however, as a top, my pleasure in it has been small. The stimulation is marginal, as is the amount of control over the pleasure you're getting. Double-penetrating an ass might be a bit of a mental kick, knowing what you're doing, but it's almost just too much for not a lot of reward. How long ago was the last Persian? As compliant as this one? My last Persian guy was a younger buck with a wife and several children and a hunger for dick. He was a fun, fun guy. I thought I was a reformed English major, but I can't get this out of my head, now: That's my last Persian painted on the wall, Looking as if he were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there he stands. I want to be your Duchess!! My readers are so literate and filthy. It's a good combo. Your preference in masturbating: (a) all alone by yourself? or ( in the company & with the help of someone else? I always prefer to be with someone rather than masturbate by myself. I do like to show off my stroking skills, however, if I'm turned on by the audience. most men fucked in one hour? Probably between seven to eight, at some parties I've been to. I didn't shoot in them all, however. If you wanted to know how many different men I've bred in a single hour, the answer would probably be three. Do you think flight attendants are disproportionately bottoms? No, I think 99% of them are bottoms, just as 99% of the general population is bottoms. Why are you relocating? How do you feel about it? The relocation is for a new job—not mine, though. I'm looking at the whole thing as a new adventure. To spurn change merely because change is scary is not something I tend to do. At the same time, I'm finding the process of putting my house up for sale a huge pain in the ass, and I haven't had much time to myself as a result. I've never fucked a guy in a sling. Have I missed something? Fucking a guy in a sling is much the same as fucking a guy on a table, or on a bench, or on a bed, or on any surface for which you need to be standing. For the top, the only real advantage to fucking a guy in a sling is that its natural swinging motion can aid and enhance your thrusting. For the bottom, a sling can be a comfortable resting place for a long and rough fuck. I've always found the advantage rests squarely with the bottom, when it comes to slings. Lucky bastards. How can I meet you??? Contact me and be in my general vicinity. It's not that difficult. :-) More...

You know, I'd be fine if a bottom guy I knew already asked if he could bring along another bottom buddy (the emphasis there is on 'I knew already'). I can't think of a single time in my fucking career that I've asked a bottom, 'Hey, you know someone else who wants a go?' I can find bottoms pretty well myself, thanks. It's one thing to expand horizons after you get to know a guy and his appetites and you're comfortable expressing these things to each other. But like sub-cumhole said in another comment, it's easy to imply that the guy you're with isn't enough for you, no matter which position you're assuming. When that happens, it's a shame.

It's a sad but true fact of life, sub-cumhole . . . at least in this country. On the other hand, it's not carte blanche for a top to act like a total douche, either. A top who's a total asswipe still isn't going to get much action.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I see him first from a distance, against the sunny morning horizon—short and rounded among spear-like trunks shooting toward the sky. Back and forth his silhouette ambles. When I walk through the woods in his direction, my feet shuffling along the dirt trail and kicking up leaves and small branches still wet with dew, he grows more distinct. He has one hand shoved into a pocket. The other presses a cell phone to his ear. He’s a young man. Twenty. Twenty-one. Something like that. Though the weather is crisp and still waiting to be warmed by the September sun, he wears baggy shorts that expose his hairless legs. He seems skinny, though it’s was tough to tell from the oversized plaid flannel shirt on his back. We’re the only two souls rambling through this out-of-the-way place where men come to meet each other. Still bowing his head as if he’s listening to someone of interest on the line’s other end, he looks me over quickly, covertly, just as I study him. He’s not talking to anyone at all, I realize with certainty. At most he’s listening to a voice mail; there’s no response, no sign of engagement. He’s just stalling. Waiting. Waiting for someone like me. My brisk walk crawls to a slow. When I lean against a tree, the impact of my shoulder against its bark makes the slender sapling’s leaves shudder. My thumbs hook in the pockets of my jeans. The fingertips of my right hand drop low, across the crotch. Casually, slowly, they quest—searching for the mound of spongy flesh. When they find it, they rub across its length. Without hurry, yes, but there’s an urgency in the way they show off the length of the hardening inches beneath the denim. As I suspect, he’s watching. The kid’s mesmerized. As he stares at my crotch, I take in his tousled blond hair, the green intensity of his hungry eyes, the sharpness of his beak-like face. He lowers the hand holding the phone, and shoves the device into his pocket. Then he looks me in the eyes for the first time, and nods. I nod back. He strolls over. Now his left hand is rubbing against a growing protrusion in his own pants. His right hand reaches out. His eyebrows rise, asking permission that I give with another nod, and then I feel his palm cupping me, his fingertips pressing against where the underside of my sac would be. I jerk my head in a gesture that tells him to follow. Men meet in the central area of this heavily-wooded park, but they don’t usually play here. It’s too open, too exposed to anyone walking in. I lead him over a trail so faint it’s barely distinguishable, a mere spoor made barely visible by leaves lightly trodden by men such as ourselves. Over fallen trees and little rivulets it leads toward the deepest and most inaccessible parts of the woods. There’s a clearing there, large enough for five or six men, screened by evergreens and shadows. I nod again when we’ve stopped. He unbuttons my jeans, and pulls down the waistband of my Gap trunks. My dick springs out. Even among the sweet-smelling evergreens and the dank, fermenting leaves, I can smell its unmistakable, freshly-washed scent. To the boy it’s irresistible. He puts both knees on the forest ground and cups his left hand around my length as he inhales, and then covers my dick with his wet mouth. I sigh as he sucks me, and let my pants drop to the ground. My hands shift restlessly over my stomach, my hips, the sides of my balls. I run my hands through his hair and find it stiff and full of product. He looks up at me with short, sideways glances, like a baby bird. I nod again, giving him the approval he wants. Then his eyes close as he savors the sensations of sucking. While he slurps over my increasingly sloppy dick, he unbuttons and removes his shirt, revealing a sky-blue tank top beneath. He pauses for a moment—but only a moment, no more—to lift his dirty knees and yank down his shorts and kick them off, so that he’s dressed only in his hiking boots, nubbly gray socks, and that impossibly blue tank. His dick is an uncut six inches that drools from the tip. When he settles down again, it curves up into the empty air, rock hard, and juts into his own abdomen as he moves back and forth. It’s quiet in the woods this morning. A road lies around the park’s perimeter, but no cars make their noisy presence known along its length. We can’t even hear the distant hum of the nearest busy avenue. Just the restless trees, the irregular sounds of the forest, and the slurps of his stretched-out lips over my dick. I could be satisfied with that perfect moment there in the woods—the silence, the boy, and the pleasure he was giving my dick, but I want more. My hand reaches down and cups him beneath the chin until I’ve pried him off my cock. I lift him to his feet. Not caring whether he’s into it or not, I press my mouth against his. His eyes remain closed, but his mouth opens to receive mine. It’s wet, and tastes sweet like my precum, and of my dick, and of distant, almost forgotten sugared coffee. His eyes only open a moment later, when I remove my mouth from his and look him in the face. Even then, they’re heavy-lidded, and addled from cock. He’s all sensation, the boy. He’s in the moment, asking for nothing, but ready to receive anything. So I say the only words that will pass between us: “Bend over.” He obeys. The animal cry that cuts through the woods a few moments later, as I enter him, seems to bring the forest to a halt. Even the trees pause in their slow gyrations. For a moment, all is silence. Then, as the cry becomes memory, the sighs and the breath of the woods resume. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday I wrote about one of the French professors I bedded in college. With a little bit of pride I should point out that he was not the only French professor I disrobed as an undergraduate; by the time I’d finished my four years at the school, I’d managed to have sex with all three of the professors who comprised the faculté Français. Oh yeah, I collected them all. If the campus had been a Monopoly board, I could’ve built hotels in Romance Languages and Economics. One of my readers yesterday commented that it was so ‘very me’ to have found a four-year fuckbuddy in my first hour of freedom on my college campus. In a way, I suppose it is. But to squash the illusion that I am some gifted superstud with a supernatural ability to ferret out the good fucks in any situation I’m in, let me assure you that within the first day of arriving at college, I had my first stalker as well. I wasn’t the most social kid at my college. I was a year younger than most of the freshman, and I’m pretty sure it showed. Tall and gangly though I might have been, I still was an extremely young-looking seventeen when I left for school. I was quiet where the other kids on my dorm hallway were loud and crazy. My roommate was a bit of a lout who, the moment his parents disappeared, began drinking so much beer that he was drunk by 4:30 and had vomited all over his bed, his desk, and out in the hallway before nightfall. The other guys on my hall thought he was hil-ar-ious, and had turned my dorm room into party central. So I took advantage of my first couple of days at school to find all the places on campus where guys went for sex. There were a few. I’d already located the basement of the student center with the French professor. I went back after dinner and sucked off an older student in the same place. Then I discovered that the first floor of the campus center had a little action going on itself. I cruised the library and found that the second and third floors in the stacks were a place to find dick even fairly late in the day. I sussed out a toilet in the psych building with some promising graffiti, though I wasn’t sure it would pan out as a sex spot. (It never did.) And then I found the tourist restroom. My college, I’ve said before, is one that was adjunct to the tourist spot of Colonial Williamsburg, that quaint living history display of pre-revolutionary America. When one left the modern campus and walked through its most historic buildings to the very front, the tourist attraction sprawled out before one, across the street. First was a buffer of gift shops and restaurants known as Merchant’s Square. A couple of blocks below began the attractions. Between Merchant’s Square and the historic area proper, however, was a small visitor’s information center. The tour busses stopped there every ten minutes, disgorging dozens of passengers who’d collect maps or buy tickets at the tiny booth within. It was little more than a satellite information booth, of course—the real ticketing and information center was an air-conditioned behemoth of a building a couple of miles away. I spent so much time at the small visitor’s center, however, because of the men’s room. It was perfectly set up for cruising. In the men’s room were three stalls and three or four urinals. They were set perpendicular to each other in the room so that through the cracks of any of the stalls, one commanded an unobstructed view of men whipping out their dicks and peeing. Or, more often than I thought probable, stroking themselves to hardness and showing them off to the men behind the stall doors. The place sometimes seemed to have as many cruisers as urinators. Handsome tourist daddies free of their families for a few seconds would become hardened perverts, masturbating themselves into the urinals while men watched. Professors from campus would come down, unzip, and find a willing mouth in which to relieve themselves. A couple of the bolder students, myself included, would visit and feast on the buffet of dick presented with every new busload. I’m not exaggerating when I say the place was like a Roman orgy—at all times of day, really, but particularly at night. I also found out that first night at school how the tiny little park behind the rest center, scarcely more than a handkerchief of grass and two park benches, was where men went to get into activities more involved than practical for a small restroom. When night fell, the only people in the darkness there were guys fucking—sometimes ten to twelve of them, making no more noise than the occasional grunt or sigh of relief when they came. I don’t remember exactly who got me that first night. It was just strange dick to me, and I welcomed several in my mouth and a couple in my ass in that little park before finally I slunk back to my dorm room, where the guys were still drinking in the dorm hall and bullshitting about all the pussy they’d fucked. Freshmen had about a week of orientation before classes actually started. I found myself with some free time the next day, so back to the visitor center I went. I spent about an hour watching men pee and getting the occasional flash of an erect dick, but at midday the center was too busy to be conducive for action. I wasn’t getting any, in other words. After a while, though, someone came in and sat in the middle stall, next to me. We did the dance of the tapping toes. A moment later, he handed me a note beneath the stall, written on toilet paper and wrapped around a pen. Would you like to go somewhere else? he wrote. Sure, I wrote back. I know a spot where we can talk and stuff. Okay, I scrawled, and waited for him to pull up his pants and go so I could follow him. But no, he had more to say. Are you really going to follow me? Yes. Yes, yes, a hundred times yes, I thought to myself. Just get going! After what seemed an eternity, he finally rebuckled his trousers and left. I followed him out a moment later, and looked around for the guy with the shoes I’d seen once I was outside in Merchant’s Square. I wasn’t too pleased with what I found, either. The guy was not at all attractive. He was obese, for one thing. While I’d been with big men before (and since) and hadn’t really minded very much, there was something off about the fellow that didn’t make me want to follow him. He couldn’t have been older than thirty or thirty-two, but he dressed like an eighty-year-old in cheap synthetics with elastic at the waistband and snaps instead of buttons; even his dock siders looked as if they’d been extruded in shiny plastic. He was effeminate to the point that his shiny shirt had a not-so-subtle floral print. His eyes were tiny and set far back in the shrunken apple doll head that was his face. He was just an all-over not very attractive man. But I was young and stupid, and instead of disappearing into the crowd as I should have, I decided to do the polite thing and go through with it, even though every atom of my body was telling me not to. When he said he knew a place to talk, he wasn’t kidding about talking, whereas I’d been expecting more ‘and stuff.’ He took me to a little green alley by the Governor’s Palace where tourists didn’t really venture—only Williamsburg employees rushing to and from an employee restroom hidden behind a privet hedge nearby. He sat down on the grass with his ankles crossed like a kindergartener, and settled his hands onto his lap and stared at me while I sat across from him, but not too near. He was like a baby and a gross old man, all wrapped up in one unappetizing package. “What’s your name?” he asked. Like a fool, I told him. He addressed me with it. “So you’re a homossssexual,” he said. I stared at him. I was a restroom cocksucker, and a park slut. I had been bent over picnic tables and thrust up against trees and had my head knocked against urinals. I’d seen more dicks than the average urologist and done it in every conceivable position and variation, but I’d never had anyone who had intentions of banging me sit down and make me identify my sexuality. “I think it’s best that you admit you have homosexual leanings,” he said, smiling patiently. I was furious. I almost wondered if he was some kind of evangelist who’d infiltrated the restrooms to find gay guys to proselytize. “Well, sugar, you’re lucky you found me,” he said, reaching out to clasp my knee. I scooted back to avoid his touch. “I’ll be gentle your first time, unlike most of the brutes who hang out in that place.” Now I understood. He thought I was a virgin, cruising the restroom for the first time. “You know, I don’t want to. . . .” I started to mumble. “Of course you don’t want to be a homosexual,” he said. “It's awful. But you are. You should just admit it.” I wasn’t going to admit anything to this weirdo. If I’d been bolder or more assertive—in short, if I’d been then the man I am now—I would’ve excused myself, or simply said something like, Listen, bub, you’ve got the wrong impression about me. But I was not as adroit then, and unused to maneuvering out of a sticky situation. He used my name again. “Do you want me to tell you the names of famous homosexuals throughout history? Or do you want to hold hands?” I did not. So I did what I shouldn’t have done, which was to bolt. I mean, I stood up and ran like a wild man, pell-mell down that little gravel alley, kicking up colonial dust in my wake. The entire time it happened, the enormous baby-man yelled out my name in my wake. The nightmare should’ve been over at that point, but no. When I went back to the visitor center that night, thinking I could get some dick without a hassle, I sat down in one of the stalls and started jacking myself erect when I looked to my right and saw my name scrawled on the partition, in black marker. It makes me sad you can’t admit what you are, it said. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I yanked up my pants and recomposed myself. Before I left, though, it struck me to check out the other stalls. Sure enough, he’d written in all three. You are a homosexual, it said in the middle one, with my name prominently attached. In the third, beneath my name, it said, Admit the truth. I have to confess here that what upset me so much wasn't the notion that I was gay. I had kind of figured that out, by this point. It was that he used my name, so publicly. In a panic, I left the men’s room and walked out to the little park where I’d had so much fun the night before. Men were moving in the gray shadows. I couldn’t make out what they were doing, exactly, but I was sure I wanted a part of it. A tall man brushed by me. The tips of his fingers stroked the corduroy of my pants. He looked back over his shoulder and jerked his head for me to follow. Then I heard a familiar voice from the bench, saying my name loudly and breaking the hushed spell of the park. “Fancy seeing you here,” said the baby-man, in the most meaningful of tones. I fled again, as he called my accursed name at my back. In short, I allowed myself to become victim to someone who delighted in making me uncomfortable. These days, I know pretty much how to handle it. Then, I didn’t have the resources or experience. I’d avoid the park and the visitor center for a couple of weeks at a time, then go back for a few days and enjoy myself until I ran into the baby-man again. He would always use my name, very loudly and prissily, as if he took great pleasure in embarrassing the hell out of me. From time to time he would refresh the graffiti, coming up with fresh words to rekindle the hell of my mortification. It’s hard to believe now that I allowed that shit to go on for three and a half years. It wasn’t until my senior year that I got rid of the guy. I used to meet up with a guy who worked for Williamsburg as a slave—by which I mean he was an actor from Brooklyn who was paid pretty well to strip to the waist, adopt an African accent, and portray a colonial slave, of course—who would change into street clothes and hang out at the park with me on warm nights. He was a muscular man of great comeliness who always made me feel very flattered when we’d make out and swap blowjobs in the bushes. When one night I started to flee because of the baby-man, he made me stop and listened to my complaints. “Oh, that old queen,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Fuck that shit,” he said. “Just pretend he’s not there and do whatever it is you want. That’ll make him stop.” I was dubious, but I took the advice. And sure enough, once I pretended I didn’t care, the baby-man left me alone. When he’d call out my name and say something insinuating and sly, I’d pretend I didn’t hear. If he wrote on the bathroom walls, I pretended I didn’t see. There were other people with my name, after all. Eventually he got tired of playing a game without a partner, and disappeared for the last semester of my college career. Fuck that shit was one of the best lessons I learned in school, frankly. I apply it on a daily basis, still. I wish I’d just been a little quicker on the uptake. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here At the little southern college I attended, he was the most senior of the French faculty, yet I never heard him speak the language. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of pewter-colored hair around the shiny dome of his head. When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen. I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve. As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and from little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, while Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life, I realized something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. Those minutes flew by quickly, and soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest. I stood with my own mother and father, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my jeans, wishing that the whole goodbye thing could be protracted as short as possible. “Well, okay then,” I said, and gave them awkward hugs. After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off, and I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick. I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d have them in mind when the time came to use them. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, at the moment. But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti. I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction. I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me. I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be at least in his late fifties. “Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.” I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted. The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently seemed toyed with the outside of my hole. I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth. I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.” I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?” Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and take a walk with him, usually to the nearest quiet restroom or sometimes to his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school daughter, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm. The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .” “Of course I remember you,” he said. “You graduated.” “I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but it wasn’t coming out. It didn’t need to. He smiled. “So do you have time to take a walk?” I always had time to take walks with my favorite French professor. More...

You'd think they'd realize that most of the guys in my little black book are bottoms, RawTop. I mean, I know some tops, and yeah, sometimes I share bottoms with other tops, but they're in the minority. There's no secret Top's Lounge where we all hang out between fucks. (Or is there and no one clued me in?)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Dear Bottoms of the World, You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you. I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you. However. May I make one simple request? If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?” I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind. That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know. My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger. If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite. Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hand-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well. That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble. I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it. And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.” Until we meet, The Breeder More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Gentle readers, I'm still a little bit down from the events of the weekend. Judging from the website statistics of the past couple of days, everyone's out of town or at the beach anyway. So in lieu of an entry today, let me just wish all of Breeder's Readers a most happy, warm, and sandy Labor Day, and safe travels to those of you fortunate to be spending the holiday in some nice vacation spot. Oh, and a click-to-enlarge dirty photo: More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We've had a bit of a sad weekend in the Breeder's household, as one of our pets was taken ill and had to be put to sleep, Saturday. So we're all a little bit more sober and sad—and that's all I really have to say about that. If you have pets yourself, readers, give them an extra treat or hug them a little more closely today. As is usual for a Sunday, I'll be compiling some of the queries I've lately answered on formspring.me, that curiously addictive service in which one's online acquaintance may ask (anonymously or not) whatever questions come to mind. If you have a question, don't be shy. Submit it through the service, or email me directly through the link in the sidebar. I am a fan of your blog. Have you ever considered doing a weekly podcast? I know there are a lot of us that would subscribe! Your suggestion made me chuckle, but I'm laughing with you, not at you. I kind of doubt that anyone wants to hear me pontificating on a podcast. I tend to do my best talking when growling in someone's ear. From behind. I love the honesty and vulnerability you show in your blog. Would you ever consider retiring as "The Breeder" and just keeping Scruffy as your bottom? I'm very jealous of him by the way. :-) I'm too much of a horndog to be monogamous that way. I'm also not possessive enough to want to keep someone like Scruffy out of other mens' beds. Sex to me is a way of connecting with other people. I really enjoy finding out how different men respond to my attentions, and learning more about them through the ways in which our bodies connect. The prospect of not having to learn about other people that way seems almost as perilous as losing another sense, like sight or hearing. Lots of your readers talk about how much they want to have sex with you. How many actually have? Three. Two by appointment, and one sprang it on me after I blogged about him. It should be more, dammit! Have you ever had sex with a Roman Catholic priest? Two of them, yes. While having sex with someone and learning more about them through the ways your bodies connect have you ever learned something you did not want to? First of all, thank you. This was a really interesting question. One of the most common things I learn about people through sex is the measure of their sincerity. When I'm inside of someone and they're really in the moment, and responding to the things I'm doing and letting their body relax and tense in entirely natural ways, I can almost guarantee that they're the kind of person with whom I'll get along outside of the bedroom. When I'm fucking someone and they're doing it in a rote way, or imitating some scene from porn they've seen, or faking their way through it, I'm never surprised when I later discover they bring degrees of insincerity to their everyday lives. I wish I could tell you some bone-chilling story about making love to someone who was totally soulless and empty and then discovering they were a mass murderer, but I don't have one of those stories. I fully believe, however, that the way someone fucks is a micro-portrait of himself, and often more revealing an introduction than any words can form. I have a regular bottom who wants to bring in another bottom. Got any advice for what will keep it fun for all? If you're the only top with two bottoms, do one of two things. Divide your attentions between them, or focus on one at a time. If you do the former, you'll be fucking one while keeping your hands busy on the other. While you're thrusting, keep your hands fingering the other's hole. Or verbally make him eat your ass, suck your tits, or make out with him. Keep him busy while you're enjoying the bottom of the moment, then switch off and do the same for the other. That way neither will feel neglected. If you focus on one at a time, put on a damned good show. Make it like porn for the one who's watching--be aware that he's there and make him feel that everything you're doing to his buddy, you're doing for his enjoyment. Either way, it's a win-win situation for you. Just relax and enjoy it. How do you answer guys who question you about leading a double life? I ask why they assume I am leading a double life. How does it feel to have so many guys want you? It would be infinitely more flattering if even a small portion acted upon it, that's for sure. I am always flattered to be desired. Anyone who takes that for granted is a damned fool. Have you ever had sex with any of your co-workers at your (former)place of gainful employment? Years ago I had a student assistant who worked for me who would bend over my desk on a regular basis. Good times. Your a smart person aren't you afraid by bare backing you get hiv or sphyllis? We all take health risks with which we are comfortable. Yours may be smoking, drinking, poor diet, too much sugar, lack of exercise, too much stress, daredevil sports, living near a power substation, using your cell phone frequently, working with chemicals, driving while talking on the phone or texting, or any other number of life-threatening behaviors. Merely because my acceptable risks are with sex does not automatically make them worse than yours. If you could pack up and run away to start a new life right now, where would you go and what would you do? Well, I am having to pack up and start a new life in a couple of months. But if I had an opportunity to drop all my current responsibilities without regret, leave, and start over again? I wouldn't. I like my life too much to abandon it. Running away is a romantic notion at times, though. I've sometimes yearned for it when I've met someone I find sweet and companionable. If you suspected that a stranger & candidate for your physical favors & intercourse might be too young to risk fooling with, have you ever asked to see his driver's license or other proof of age? I have done just that, yes. You spent your youth in the South. Did you ever have a drawl/accent? Do you now? I grew up with a mild accent—enough that on my first visit to New York City in my college years, the taxi cab driver I talked to immediately after deboarding the plane said, "Wow, you're from the South, aren't you?" Years of having my accent mocked in the midwest has more or less erased it, though it returns when I visit home for an extended period. That's the midwest for you. They surely like to brag about how tolerant and advanced they are, but they love to make fun of accents that aren't their own. And races other than white. What is Garlic Whip and do you have a recipe you can share for it. It sounds something like Hummus, which I really, really like! I'm a hummus lover too. Had it for lunch, actually. Garlic whip is an emulsion, like mayonnaise. Here's a recipe I like. Note that it's four bulbs of garlic, not four cloves! http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Lebanese-Garlic-Sauce/Detail.aspx Mmm, it's a wonder anyone ever makes out with me. Do you lubricate when you masturbate alone? Not usually. I produce a lot of pre-cum that renders lubing unnecessary. I have been a bottom my entire life. My boyfriend wants me to top occasionally but I just can't stay hard. Do you have any advice? I have tried many different things without success. I have a friend who swears by (and I've recommended this before) a masturbation sleeve like a Fleshjack. Like you, he was primarily a bottom and had problems maintaining an erection when he topped. He swears up and down that practicing on a Fleshjack made him a longer-lasting and rigid top. If it doesn't work for you, and little blue pills don't help, you might want to consider that you're simply not wired that way. There's no shame in preferring to bottom, after all. You might consider bringing in a third party to fuck your boyfriend. And you. Like me. Just a subtle hint. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the questions I used to get with frequency—though I haven't received it lately, for some reason—had to do with my blog's veracity. Usually it would be phrased in the form of, Come on, tell the truth, how much of this shit you write about is real? Because apparently if I were making it all up, I'd tumble like a house of cards before the confrontational tone and confess that I was twenty years older than I claim and a neurotic near-virgin with access to a good imagination and a thesaurus. But no, everything I write about is right out of my life. It's the real, non-fictional deal. The events I describe are encounters I have from week to week—or from my past, if they're clearly indicated as being from previous years. The photos are mine. People who meet me in person will tell you (or at least I hope and think they will) that there's very little dissonance between my online persona and the type of guy I am when I'm sitting across a table from you in a bar or coffee shop, telling a story about my life. I therefore don't have a lot of vested interest in trying to persuade anyone I'm a super-stud, or a beast on the prowl, or a pick-up artist with an unparalleled track record. I simply am what I am, and I lay that all out here, without apologies. There are aspects of reality I fiddle with in my entries, I readily admit. One of the most frequent accusations I receive, mostly made in a veiled way, is along the lines of, "Nobody can shoot as many times as you in a single encounter!" I'm afraid I do. Yet I have on a couple of occasions—only two come to mind—fibbed about the number of orgasms I've had, in an entry. I don't exaggerate them, though. I've cut climaxes out. In the "Cunt" entry, for example, I think I wrote about giving Cunt's hole two loads, when in reality I gave him three. I chopped one out because I was running short on writing time, and because occasional suggestions of exaggeration made me self-conscious about shoe-horning in the third orgasm, even though it took place. Otherwise, the details I change are circumstantial. The names of individuals, for example, or their professions sometimes. I've altered the descriptions of a couple of people who would've been extremely distinctive otherwise. I eliminate information they might tell me that would give away an identity. In other words, I tend to be pretty protective in a lot of ways of my sexual partners. I don't want anyone harassed, or recognized, or singled out, because of the careless remarks of some random bareback blogger. The other line of questioning I get most frequently—and as the questions about the 'realness' of my blog have gone down, these have increased—have to do with my family and home life. A lot of men are fascinated by what they imagine my situation must be. If I'm protective of my sexual partners, I'd like to say that I'm even more so of my nearest and dearest. That's why, as open as I tend to be about my picaresque sexual life, I tend not to talk very much about my home life with readers. I will say this: I ask my readers, however, to check their assumptions at the door when they think about my home life. I've had all kinds of fantasies projected upon me, from treacherous cheat to anything-goes swinger. I'm not really one to conform to those archetypes. Don't assume that my home life is built upon any of them, and most especially don't assume that it's built on a foundation of lies and deceit. Your assumptions are likely to be wrong, if you do. I'm writing this admission not to discourage people from writing me, or asking questions on formspring.me, or reaching out in any way. Rather, I'm hoping to explain why sometimes I discard or evade a very small handful of questions of the many asked of me. If they overstep that one boundary I try to maintain, you may find me weaselly, and I apologize for it. If the questions are outright aggressively invasive, I will probably ignore them altogether. I recognize and honor your curiosity. I merely reserve the right to keep some things to myself. I'm also writing this non-sexual entry because I'm fundamentally lazy. It'll be easier in the future to point readers and correspondents here than it would be to type out my reasoning, every single time. Thanks for bearing with me today, and enjoy your Labor Day weekend! More...

I don't know whether to thank you or recommend you do a thorough BB sex hunt before you read me. :-)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My friend Milton is a weird mix of sexual insecurity and braggadocio. He likes to talk about how awesome he is in the sack, but he rarely ends up there. The last time he admitting to having sex, to my circle of friends, was something like a year back. He develops wild, insane crushes on men at the bars we visit, but he won’t speak to them, or approach them, or often even look at them for fear they might notice. It goes a long way, I figured out last night, toward explaining why he never recognizes the same guy during different bar visits. He only takes one fleeting glance before hulking down to the bar table and saying, “Oh my god, that guy is so gorgeous. Did he see me looking at him? Is he looking? Oh my god, I can’t look at him. He’s not looking, is he? Oh fuck, I hope he’s not looking. If he’s not looking, I’m going to sit up, but I’m not going to look at him. Is he looking? Okay, I’m not looking.” Milton knows I have an active sex life. I don’t rub it in his face or boast about it to him, or indeed talk to him about it at all. There have been enough times, however, when he’s developed a crush on some guy in a bar and I’ve been able to whisper in his ear a complete rundown of what the fellow’s interested in, and whether he’s any good or not, while encouraging him to go talk to the guy. Milton’s reaction is always one of envy and disbelief. “Nuh-uh!” he’ll say, obviously stung at the fact that someone might’ve had sex with me instead of staring at Milton’s resolutely-turned back in the bar. “Did you? You didn’t. You did? With him? Nuh-uh! You did? You didn’t. Did you?” Last night I was out with Milton and a couple of other people at the bar when a barrel-chested, masculine bruiser walked in with a friend. The guy was at the attractive height of his late fifties, and sported a set of worked-out arms and a deep, brawny chest that would make most of us feel like the 98-pound weakling about to get sand kicked in his face at the beach. “Oh man,” said Milton. “Look at him. No, don’t look at him. I can’t look at him. Did he see me looking at him?” I paid about as much attention to Milton’s nattering as I usually do. Which is to say, none at all. I’d already raised my hand to the guy in greeting. “You don’t know him,” said Milton. “Don’t try to play like you know him. You don’t know him. Do you know him?” “Gentlemen!” boomed a voice. Bluto and friend had made his way over to our table. Our other friends were busy examining their cell phones, but the brawny guy slapped his hands on my shoulder and Milton’s. He gave them both a good, bruising squeeze. “How goes it this evening.” Milton shrunk to approximately half his size. “Good,” I told the guy. “Nice to see you.” “Nice to see you,” he said. “In the flesh.” Then he gave me a lascivious wink. “You know, I gotta tell you.” He continued talking in a booming, loud voice that carried over the noise of the bar, but his tone was intimate. “You have got the hardest and most fucking photogenic COCK, man!” Milton’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.. “I know, right?” I agreed, trying not to laugh. “I mean, that thing is. . . .” The muscle man lifted his hands up and made them into loose fists that he vibrated in the air, to indicate his speechlessness about it. “So fucking juicy, too. You seen it?” he asked Milton, who rapidly shook his head and tried to pretend he was in some other bar in some other city in a foreign country where they didn’t speak English or talk about each other’s dicks quite so loudly. “Milton hasn’t seen a cock since 2005,” I said sadly. The guy shook his head and sighed and clapped Milton on the back out of sympathy. “I mean both photographs and on cam. When you’re on cam, you’re there, brother. You’re out there, showing it big and hard, and I’m sitting on the other end, like, damn! I want me a piece of that. That is a photogenic cock. Other guys, they’re like, doing their homework and eating breakfast cereal.” This odd, last detail perked Milton up into conversation. “Are you talking about Manhunt?” he asked, in a timid whisper. “Milton,” I asked loudly. “Do you eat breakfast cereal on Manhunt?” He flushed and hung his head. The bruiser leaned down and continued talking in what I think he thought was his version of quiet, but still could’ve been heard at the back of a good-sized opera house. “There’s this thing I like to do,” he announced. “Where I lay you down right on the floor on your back. Then I do my pushups over you. Only my dick is in my mouth.” He leaned the heels of both hands onto the table’s edge, then mimed doing some pushups, grunting between each one. He’d caught onto Milton’s mortification by that point—it was palpable, a deaf and blind man couldn’t have missed it—and was enjoying himself at Milton’s expense by this point. “That way you get to watch me do my workout and I get my dick sucked.” He did a couple more faux-exercises and threw in little handclaps at the apex. “Oh nice,” I said. “Highly expedient.” “I have to go have a smoke,” Milton announced to no one in particular. When he attempted to rise, the man clapped a hand back down on his shoulder and pressed Milton back into his seat. “Then I go to town on your god-damned-fuckin’ beautiful prick of yours like I’ve always wanted to, and you eat out my ass until it’s real slippery. Then I’ll go to town on yours, and make it real sloppy with my spit. It’ll feel real good, I guarantee it. Then I’m going to lube you up, and when you’re all relaxed, boy? I’m gonna fuck the living daylights outta your hole. And I’m going to make it VICIOUS. You think about that,” he concluded. “Oh, I definitely am!” My dick was hard in my shorts. “I definitely am.” “You don’t even know him,” Milton growled at me when the guy went to pay attention to his friend, who’d kind of stood by pretending not to hear everything for the previous five minutes. “Do I have to?” I pointed out. It was a little later in the evening, after the brawny guy had left with a hug and a promise to drop me a note online, that Milton complained of a neck ache. “Massage my neck,” he asked. “Right here.” His hand grappled for a point below his right shoulder blade. I pressed against the spot. There was a knot there the size of a plum. “Ouch,” I said, recoiling just from the feel of it. “It’s so hard!” Milton said, leaning over to give me better access. “Can you feel it? It’s so hard, isn’t it?” “It is,” I agreed amiably. “But not as photogenic as I am.” That’s when he whirled around and punched my bicep. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There are a lot of men who see my dick online and want to suck me. Well, says the Breeder modestly, I can’t blame them. I’d want to suck me, too. And in my youth, I kind of made a career out of doing just that, but that's another story. On Wednesday I got one of those guys beating down my door. WOW! said the message that arrived in my Manhunt mailbox. That rod is AMAZING. Let me suck it off for you. The guy’s profile didn’t reveal much. It showed a photo of his dick, I think, and said he was my age and lived in my neighborhood. I wrote back what I say to all these guys up front: Hey, thanks for the offer, but I always tell oral-only guys up front that while I like getting sucked, I almost never get off that way. I'll suck you to completion, he wrote back. Obviously he wasn’t getting it. Like I just said, I told him, oral almost never gets me off. I meant what I said. I find it very frustrating and almost scary to hook up with a man who just wants to suck, because it always ends the same way. He’ll suck and suck, and while I remain rock hard the entire time, his mouth will eventually start to get tired. He’ll then begin ordering me to shoot for him—like that’ll make it happen. I start to feel pressured to shoot, which makes me want to shoot less. He’ll get frustrated and then start to beat away on my dick frantically, which I don’t like in the least. Then I have to tell the guy that it’s not working for me, and he’ll leave upset and I’ll stay hard and unsatisfied. So I’ve taken to telling guys up front that if they just want to suck on me, they’d do best to adjust their expectations beforehand, because I’m 99% sure they’re not going to get a mouthful of sperm as a reward. This guy wasn’t taking no for an answer, though. I can do tricks with my mouth you will not believe, he said. Fine. I was horny, available, and none of the guys I was hitting up for ass were following through. He lived nearby, and I figured that at the very least, I’d get a journal entry out of it. (Right?) I told the fellow that as long as he realized he wasn’t going to be guaranteed a load and wasn’t going to complain when it didn’t happen, he could suck on me. I gave him my address and waited. And waited. And waited. He only lived all of five minutes away, but after ten I began to wonder if he was one of those fakes who got off on getting a guy to say yes and then vanishing. When I went upstairs to look out the window, though, I noticed a commotion going on a couple of doors down; three police cars were surrounding a white van nearby and questioning the driver. Heady stuff in my sleepy little neighborhood. I’d watched the goings-on for a couple of minutes when my phone rang. “Hello?” I said. “There are cops on your block,” said a gravelly, hushed voice. “I see that,” I told the man. “This is the cocksucker,” he said. “Yes, I’d figured it out.” “So why are there cops on your block?” I blinked a few times. “I think they pulled over a motorist, that’s why. It’s got nothing to do with me.” “Well, it’s freaky, that’s all. I don’t want to get involved in anything.” I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of anything he thought I might be involved in. The secret cocksucker cops on patrol, looking out for dick-swallowing gay guys doing it behind closed doors? “Are you going to show up or not?” I asked him. “Because I have other stuff to do if you don’t want to.” He paused a moment before answering. “I’ll come back. It’s just freaky, that’s all.” It struck me afterward that he must’ve driven here, turned around, and gone all the way back home to make that phone call. Eventually he showed, though. When he got out of the car I could see he was a tall, muscular guy wearing a white T-shirt and track pants. However, he sported coarse white hair and skin with the general consistency of nubbly red leather, so I pretty much knew right away that in no way was he my age. My age plus another decade, maybe. Which would’ve been fine, you know, if he’d been up front about it. His build was good, however, and he wasn’t unattractive, so I let him in. He was trembling like a leaf, either freaked out by the police (who’d left by then) or by me, or both. He couldn’t even look me in the face. “So do you want to suck me, or what?” I asked at last. “Yeah,” he nodded. I led him upstairs and into the bedroom, where I shucked my cargo shorts and pulled down my trunks. My dick was already hard. I pointed it at him. He got the message. When I hopped up on the bed, he got on both knees and bobbed down to take my dick in his mouth. “Oh yeah,” I said when he got his mouth down to the root. “That feels good.” Because it did. And then, suddenly, it didn’t. I’m not sure what he was doing, but although his mouth had felt good on the downstroke, when he pulled back I thought he was going to take my dick, or at least a layer of skin with him. “Not so much teeth!” I told him. He didn’t say anything. He kept sucking. Or something that approximated sucking anyway. He enjoyed deep-throating me and did a generally good job of that, but he’d always follow it up with something obnoxious and unenjoyable—like applying painful amounts of suction to my cock’s head (it still feels raw), or raking his teeth over delicate spots, or biting my balls in a hurtful way, or nipping at the underside of my dick. My meat can take some pretty rough treatment, but I sounded like the whiniest guy getting head in the world for a few minutes, as I’d have to bark out, “Less teeth!” or “Don’t Hoover the head!” or “Ouch! Stop that!” every few seconds. Eventually, though, he managed to settle into a groove that while not wildly enjoyable (though to be honest, what functionally-competent fellatio isn’t at least minimally fun?), at least wasn’t leaving me with contusions or teeth marks. I let him do that for what felt like a very, very long time. He hadn’t touched himself, the entire time he’d been sucking me. “You care if I get it out?” he said at last. I shrugged. He pulled out a tiny, rock-hard dick from his track pants. “It’s not as big as yours,” he said. “You like my big dick, huh?” I asked. “Yes I do,” he said, burying his face in my nuts. His own dick was dribbling pre-cum. I suspected I could make him shoot quickly, if I played my cards right. “You love slobbering all over this big fat dick, don’tcha?” I said, pulling it out of his mouth. I was kneeling over him at this point, and had been face-fucking his mouth to discourage him from spending too much time trying to remove my head from the rest of the shaft. “Oh fuck yes.” My cock was wet with his spit, but I drooled into my own palm and curled it around my cock, adding to the natural lube. With an overhand grip I showed off my dick to him. “I bet you don’t get many dicks like this.” He shook his head, utterly mesmerized by the sight of me stroking myself. His own hands scrambled for his meat and began to beat it furiously. I pursed my lips and let out a hiss of sexual pleasure, then started thrusting my hips back and forth as I put on quite a show for the guy. I played with my nipples. I grabbed my nuts and pulled them out and waggled them back and forth, and brutalized them a little. He watched every little motion as if he had sat down in the front row of an adult movie theater to see the latest porn flick, up close and ten times larger than life. Then I whapped my dick into the palm of my hand, several times, hard, so that it made a loud, wet slapping sound. “Fuck yeah,” I growled in my deepest voice. That sent him over the edge. He let loose with four or five tiny spurts, grunting as each one hit his belly. Then, the very second he’d finished, he hopped up to his feet. “Sorry, once I shoot, it’s over,” he said. “No problem at all,” I told him. I gave him a washcloth I had close at hand, and tossed it down the laundry chute once he’d mopped up. “See you later,” he said at the front door. Without any thanks or pleasantries at all, he was off. I watched as he jogged down the steps and out to his car. Before he got in, he looked both ways down the street, shielding his eyes against the sun so he could see clearly. I’m pretty sure he was looking for the cocksucker cops. More...

I'm down for pretty much all that, buddy. Nothing gives me more pleasure than a good tag-teaming with another top man.

Not at the tme, VersBareCub. Now, though, I laugh at it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The first time he wrote me on Manhunt a couple of years back, I wanted to toss away his note. You know you want to come over, get down on your knees, and suck my big dick through my home gloryhole, it read. So when can you get here? No please, no hey how’re you doin’, no hiya or hey or ‘sup. Just that arrogant, cocky assumption that I wanted the dick in his photo. It was curved and a good seven and a half inches, on the slender side. The guy’s profile name was Urlipsmypole, which was right to the point. His profile stated that he was looking only to receive oral from good-looking guys in their thirties and forties through the private gloryhole in his house. His dick was the only thing showing, but I could tell from the stance and trim waist in the photo that the guy was tall and built well. Still. What makes you think I’m so hungry for that dick? I wrote back, a little bit affronted. Dude, if you weren’t interested, you would’ve ignored my note. I know tops. Every top likes to bitch out his mouth for a dick like mine once in a while. If you want it, now’s your chance. He named an address that was only a quarter-mile from me. You want it? I thought about it for a minute, then closed my laptop and grabbed my car keys. He was right. I do like to bitch out my mouth for a good cock, and his was pretty damned good. Plus I love a private gloryhole, and it had been a long, long time since I’d sucked through a new one. The guy’s house is a well-kept bungalow in my neighborhood. In summer it’s a flower-filled paradise for butterflies and hummingbirds. The first time I visited was in December, when the shrubberies were wrapped with canvas to protect them from the snow and wind; I unlatched the back gate as I’d been instructed, and walked up the steps to the door of an enclosed porch. I was surprised to find inside a small electric heater blowing warm air into the tiny enclosure. On the porch’s floor lay an ocean of towels and a couple of old pillows, on which I was careful not to step with my snow-covered shoes. Then, right where the door to the guy’s kitchen should have been, was the gloryhole. It was set in a sheet of sturdy wood affixed somehow to the door frame. I pushed on it tentatively, and was satisfied to find it held. Beyond the well-sanded hole I could see a shadow shift beyond. As I always do when I visit, I unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick, which was already rock hard. I arranged the pillows so that they would be beneath my knees as I knelt down to the floor, and brought my lips to the hole. When it began to push through, impeded by nothing but moving slowly, as if it thrust through some invisible obstacle, the man’s dick looked like it had in the photo. I wrapped my hand around it and was gratified when it leapt and twitched in my firm grasp. It was smooth to the touch, and pinker than mine. When I brought my face to it, he smelled of soap—the mildest brand, meant for babies and soft skin. The first time we met, I didn’t know what turned him on. Through practice, I do now. He likes to be ramped up slowly and brought off with a quick finish. So I start on him with nothing more than my lips and mouth wetting his dick. At this stage it’s not all about his penetration, either. I’ll run my lips and jaw up and down his wet dick, or pause to tickle with my tongue below his head, or blow cool air over his slick skin. He’s not verbal. I’ve never heard Urlips speak a word. I’ve never seen his face, or seen his body, or know anything more about him than what his dick looks like. I know his responses, though, and when he groans and leans into the wood of the board separating the two of us, I know he’s a happy man. There reaches a point when his nuts draw up and he begins to grind through the hole. He wants my mouth, then. I oblige by giving it all to him to use as he wants. He controls the thrusting, the speed, the angle. If he wants to pound the back of my throat, it’s there for him to bruise. If he wants to tease me with the head, or withdraw and make me tongue precum beading from his dick’s slit, it’s his choice. Usually, though, he prefers at this stage to withdraw slowly and plunge back in with a mighty thrust, over and over again. It’s excruciating, almost, how leisurely he can be on the outstroke, taking his inches from my mouth and leaving emptiness behind. Then, after a pause, he’ll ram it home, bringing a red glow to my lips when his hips meet my face. I’m full again, choking on his dick and loving its strength and power. I play with myself while he face-fucks me, but I know how to keep myself under the threshold of maximum pleasure so that I don’t shoot too quickly. I’m not there for my pleasure, for a change, and he knows it. I’m there to give him pleasure, which I do by grabbing his wet, spit-slick dick. My fingers wrap around it as I take over and pick up the pace. First my index and thumb follow my lips in a tight circle. The pressure and extra stimulation make his dick swell; I can always feel his nut sack shifting and tightening as I work. Then I add my middle finger, then the ring finger. After a few minutes, I’ve got my entire fist curved around his dick. It’s a wet, slippery tunnel for his meat to travel through. As he approaches his climax, I pick up the pace. He’s thrusting too, now, but I’m impaling myself onto his pole more vigorously than he’s working. His groans are louder, now, and the wooden board is shuddering from the weight and intensity of his thrusts. That’s when I bring him off. It’s easy to do, when he reaches this stage. I simply add one little bit of extra stimulation that pushes him over the edge. Sometimes I’ll use my other hand to stroke the sides of his balls, lightly, lightly, with my fingertips. Or I’ll reach through and tickle his hole with my fingertip. This last Sunday, I grabbed his nuts roughly and pulled. It was at that point when he roared and began to empty his sperm into my mouth. This is my chance for pleasure. As he shoots, I jerk my dick. I love the taste of his cum, which is always mild and never bitter. I keep both it and his dick in my mouth as I stroke myself to a climax. He knows what I’m doing; he can tell by my breathing and the grunts of pig-like concentration as I hold every inch of him in my throat. When I shoot, I do it right onto the towels, onto the floor, onto the pillows. He’ll wait until I’m done, and then he’ll withdraw. I’ll see him walk away from the door and into the darkness of his house. Then I swallow, pull up my pants, and go. When I was at the man’s house over the weekend, it was the same as always. Routine it might be, but it’s never dull for me. When I got home a few minutes later, I found Urlips had dropped me a note thanking me, as he usually does. Maybe it’s time you joined me on my side of the hole, he said. I know a cocksucker who wants two dicks. Think you’re interested? I haven’t replied yet. I think I’m going to turn him down, though. Part of me worries I’ll find something about the guy I won’t like, when I’m exposed to the whole of him. It’s a silly fear, maybe, but the relationship’s worked well so far—why fuck with it? Part of me, too, is just there for the dick. Because yeah, top I might be, but sometimes I just want to bitch out my mouth a little. More...