TheBreeder

I don't think you're a bad gay guy. Relax. You like what you like, and there's nothing wrong with liking oral sex. I don't think you should be expecting to find action bareback sex sites, though. I don't join a bareback sex site because I'm interested in oral only.

A4A offers three options. 'Anything goes' indicates that they openly play bareback. Guys who've chosen not to answer the safer sex question have neither Anything Goes or Safe Only in their profiles, and it usually means they bareback but don't like it bandied around openly. Guys who have 'Safe Only' in their profiles (in my experience) usually want it bareback, but they really don't want anyone else to know. I find on Manhunt that guys openly into barebacking put 'pig play' as one of their interests in their profiles. A lot of them hang around in the bareback room in the video chat section, too. The number of men from that site who have warnings like SAFE ONLY!!!! in their profiles but who want to make an 'exception' for raw sex with me when I get to their place is still pretty astonishing.

I don't really worry so much whether I'm a zero or a ten, because I know all I have to do is pull out the eight and I can pull pretty much anyone I want. Worrying about one's attractiveness in relation to others is, I think, a time-waster. The real question is, are you getting laid? And if not, what can you do to remedy the situation?

11 and a half inches of Latin meat that was very thick, when I was twenty-two or three. The only reason I could take it at all was that he was remarkably persuasive, took his time, and that he made sure I didn't have anywhere to go when he started sliding in the painful back four inches.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I was in tenth grade. I was fifteen. And I had a tortuous crush on my neighbor’s sixth-grade homeroom teacher. For the nineteen-seventies, Mr. McConnell was a foxy man. He had a handlebar mustache and a wedge of brown hair that was flat on the top and puffed out in a wide arc to the sides of his head, only to be cut off below the ears. I thought he was dreamy. If today I saw a photo of him as he was then, I would probably think he looked like a porn star. But in the seventies, any man with a ‘stache, tight pants, an open shirt, and a little bit of chest hair looked like a porn star. My crush began in the eighth grade, when I would encounter Mr. McConnell leading his columns of students, lined up two by two, from the lunchroom back to their class. We eighth graders would be on our way to our lunch shift. Every day we would pass in the hallway. I’d stare at him with unspeakable longing. Mind you, I was sexually active by then. I’d taken hundreds and hundreds of fucks. I was hopping on my bike and hitting the local parks for sex the minute I got home from school, most days. I’d worked sex parties for cash. I’d had a (sadly unconsummated) affair with my sixth-grade teacher, for the love of gawd. But when I was confronted with a crush, my reaction was to go slack-jawed. My mouth would dry up. My eyes would have the mournful expression of a bloodhound’s. Little by little, I gleaned what small bits of information I could about him. He was thirty-six. He was married, though his wife lived in her native England. His first name was Nathaniel. Oh, how I ached to be the boyfriend of Nathaniel McConnell of the handlebar mustache, the hairy knuckles. and the smooth, ironed shirts with the scoop-necked t-shirts underneath and the neatly-tied neckties hanging to his slim waist and with the alleged wife. I knew the wife was a myth, a cover, a beard. England? Whatever. It was almost as if he’d never heard of the my girlfriend, who lives in Canada cover. I could’ve made up better lies than that in my sleep. Every day that year at 12:35 in the afternoon I would see him approaching, his class trailing behind him, and I would look at that impossibly handsome face and covet it for my own. And then he started looking back. It was about a month into the school year when it happened. He would search me out in the crowd as we approached each other, nail his eyes on mine, and then, at our perigee, the corners of his lips would raise into a smile. Day after day it would happen, so I was certain it was not a mistake. I would then go into lunch with butterflies in my stomach, unable to eat or concentrate. No wonder I was so skinny. All through eighth and ninth grade we exchanged our daily glances and smiles, fleeting and sweet. When I would be walking alone in the halls and happened to encounter him, he would even sometimes bestow upon me a much-treasured ‘Hi there.’ And then, when I was in tenth grade—the high school and middle school shared the same building—my neighbor got him as her homeroom teacher. I was jealous. It drove me crazy that this twerp, this nobody, this little sixth grader got to see him every day and bask in his glorious mustachioed presence for hours at a time. I would grind my teeth whenever she dropped his name casually in conversation, with a “Oh, Mr. McConnell said this” here and a “Mr. McConnell thinks that” there. The only thing I wanted to hear was that Mr. McConnell said he wanted to strip me down and have his wicked way with me. It was during the tenth grade that I was at the peak of my fascination with ancient Egypt as well; for years I’d wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up. I’d seen it as my natural destiny, somehow. In fifth grade I won a city-wide art ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ contest with a watercolor self-portrait of myself posed in front of a pyramid. The prize involved someone from the administration erecting a pyramid in our school auditorium (it was made out of sticks and bedsheets, and its construction did not involve slave labor) and getting someone from the local museum to visit and give our class a talk about ancient Egyptians and their daily lives. The museum guy brought a mummy foot in a plexiglass case. I felt oddly gypped when I wasn’t allowed to keep it. In sixth grade, the King Tut exhibit came to the U.S. and I went to see it with my parents. I felt as if they’d flown it over just for me. The fire continued throughout grade school. By tenth grade I had an especial enthrallment with hieroglyphics. I devoted massive amounts of time memorizing them and how they were constructed. I pored over The Book of the Dead. And one day, when she was hanging around our house waiting for her mom to come home, I showed the next-door neighbor a fun way to create her own hieroglyphics. “This is cool,” she said, after one of my impromptu lessons. “You should come show it my class!” “Excellent suggestion,” said my dad, who was passing through. He had an eye on my resumes for the colleges I’d be sending out the following year. How many other kids could put hieroglyphics instructor on their applications? “I’ll see what I can do.” What he could do, apparently, was talk Mr. McConnell into letting me teach about hieroglyphics in his class for one hour a day, one day a week, four weeks in a row, at the beginning of the next semester. Ordinarily I would’ve met my dad’s meddling with a surly teenaged reluctance. But this particular scheme involved Mr. McConnell, and as long as I got to see that dreamy face of his up close, I would’ve taught anything my dad suggested. Even clog dancing. It was my first experience teaching—oddly enough, I was fantastic at it. Probably because I had teachers for parents. For some reason, Mr. McConnell never met with me to make sure I knew what the hell I was doing. He just let me into the classroom and watched from the back, arms crossed, while I tried not to get distracted. Much of the time I was in my neighbor’s class I spent helping the kids understand how Egyptian pictographs represented specific sounds, and how those pictures and sounds, combined in different ways, could make entire words. I started out with them making their own hieroglyphics. They used construction paper and glue to make cartouches of their own names—oval loops containing the pictographs they’d come up with to represent the sounds. It was a lot like rebuses. One kid was named Monique. She came up very quickly with a pictograph of a person with a round mouth who was obviously in pain, and then another of someone (or at least their heel) leaping into the air to escape a rat. Moan + Eeek! = Monique. A kid named Walter drew a picture of a wall, and then of a turd. Everyone thought that was hilarious. Mr. McConnell did, too. And the kids were loving it. Around the classroom I would go, person by person, helping the kids break down their names into their component parts and brainstorming a pictograph to represent it. Mr. McConnell would help out, squatting down and murmuring with the students to pass the time along. At the end of each session, he would stand beside me and tell the class to thank me for the great time they had. I wasn’t so much grateful for the obedient chorus of thanks as I was for the warmth of his hand on the small of my back, where he would always place it while we stood there together. It was as intimate as we ever got. The fourth and final session happened to coincide with my birthday. Every student had, at that point, two cartouches of their names created from construction paper to take home—one with their own hieroglyphics, and another with the real Egyptian pictographs. We’d spent most of the class with the students showing off their handiwork and explaining why they’d chosen the various images, and when it was all over, Mr. McConnell came to my side and as usual, put his hand in the small of my back, which longed to be touched. “We heard it’s your birthday,” he said to me. I’d not said a thing—I flushed at the thought he’d actually done some research on me. “So as a gesture of appreciation, we made you something.” From his desk he pulled a simply enormous homemade birthday card. It was easily two feet high by a foot and a half wide, and decorated with glitter and smiley faces and stickers and everything a sixth-grader loves. Inside were wishes for a happy birthday, with all the names of the students in big old magic market letters. In a neat cursive, in the page’s center, was my crush’s signature. Nathaniel McConnell. “Oh wow,” I said aloud. I was genuinely stunned. “Thank you guys!” The classroom was moderately noisy at that point when Mr. McConnell once more put his hand on my back. “So how old are you today?” he asked. “Sixteen,” I told him. I remember his voice as being intimate in the words that followed. “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed?” Whatever poise I’d developed around Mr. McConnell during that month instantly vanished. I stood there with my jaw hanging open and my tongue unable to produce speech. If I know myself, I probably turned beet red. When my vision stopped swimming, I gathered my materials, took my card, and spirited myself out of that classroom. And that is as intimate as Mr. McConnell and I ever became, sadly. But wow. It meant a lot to me at the time. I saw him for the rest of the semester when our classes would pass each other down the lunchroom hallway. His eyes would bore into mine, and I would stare at him, mute and longing. We’d exchange smiles. But as much as I longed for him to find me in some forgotten corner of the school building—in my imagination, it was always the shop—and shove me against the wall and press his mustache against my tender boy lips, it simply never happened. What I do have, though, is a sweet memory of the warmth of his hand, the tones of his gentle voice, and a birthday memory of his words to me. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. As far as mementos go, I’d say I came out pretty well. I know I kept that card at my parents’ house until after I graduated from college. I don’t know where it is today—my folks probably threw it out. I wish I still had one of my middle school yearbooks, though. I’d like to look through its pages at the faculty photos and see if Mr. McConnell’s face is anything like my memory of it, intense and brown-eyed, alert and alive. More...

Whether it's Craigslist or A4A or some other web site, I only look at profiles with visible photos. I don't care to waste a lot of time begging guys to send me shots so I know whether or not I'm attracted to them. The more upfront a guy is about what he's looking for, and the more definite he sounds about meeting, the more inclined I am to make a connection happen.

When they're on their knees begging for my dick, they all are, Mike.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “What do you want?” I ask him. He’s kneeling on the floor, naked, knees spread wide. His wrists are crossed as if they’re bound, though nothing is holding them together. His little peter curves up to point at the ceiling. He’s mesmerized by cock. My cock, which is dangling in front of his face. It’s bait to a hungry fish; his lips work in and out as unconsciously they strain for it. His eyes are the size of saucers, as he stares at the heavy, blood-filled meat exuding heat a few inches above his face. “What do you want?” I ask again. He delivers his answer with a rattle in his throat. “I want that cock.” “Why do you want my cock?” I demand. He thinks about it a moment, trying to suss out the response I expect to hear. “Because it’s big. Because it’s beautiful. Because it’s yours.” All true enough, but it’s not the answer I want. “It’s because you’re a greedy little cocksucking whore,” I inform him. “And big dick is what you were made for.” For the first time in a while he removes his gaze from my dick, and looks me in the eye. “Yes.” His agreement arrives on a sigh. “It’s because you’re a nasty little faggot,” I tell him. His eyes are locked onto mine. They’re full of adoration. I’ve penetrated right to the secret core of him. I’ve spoken the words that unlock his deepest secret, and in the speaking, unburdened him of it. “Because you’re nothing more than a fucking little skank hole.” “Yes,” he repeats. “I’m a nasty little faggot boy.” “Anyone’s cum dump.” His eyes are beginning to glaze. His cock jerks once, twice, three times. He wraps his hands around it. “Nothing but a cum dump.” I grab my own dick, thwack it into my palm with a heavy slap. “Well fuck, son. What’re you waiting for?” When he lunges at my erect cock, I halt him with my hand on his forehead. “You don’t get it yet. Fuck. Work your way up, kid.” I shove him back so he’s on his haunches again. “From the feet,” I explain, like he’s simple. “Like a nasty little faggot does.” The look he gives me is of sheer worship. And that pleases my dick. No one around this tony community in which I live would recognize this guy as he is now, sprawled on the floor, sucking at my toes, squirming around like a worm in the dirt. He’s one of those fastidious types in public. Neatly dressed in trendy fashions from Zara, little Harry Potter spectacles on his face. I’ve seen him and his boyfriend out and about at the local bars and gay gatherings for a couple of years. When we meet, he and the boyfriend recognize my face well enough to smile and nod, and occasionally exchange pleasantries. We’re not social friends, by any stretch of the imagination. “That boyfriend of yours know you’re here?” I ask. “No,” he says. He’s tonguing out the space between two of my toes. He looks up at me in sudden panic. “Please don’t tell him.” “That really depends on how good a job you do, doesn’t it?” “Yes sir.” It’s a rhetorical question, but it spurs him on. He’s slurping his tongue all over my feet now, obediently licking the soles when I lift them up, one by one. His ass is pointed in the air; his back arch. In his head, he’s already getting fucked. “You want me to tell him how you’ve been putting that pussy up in the air for me for months? How you begged me to break that bareback cherry?” “Please don’t,” he begs. “Why, are you ashamed of what a little cumdump whore you are? You don’t want him to find out how you’ve been slutting around behind his back with some guy at the bar you barely know? You worried he’d dump that ass when he finds out how many strange dicks have been up it since mine?” “Please.” He huffs out the word. His face is red. He’s aroused. “Please don’t tell.” “Suck it, faggot,” I tell him. I grab him by the hair and lower his mouth onto my dick. “No teeth, or I’ll slap the shit out of you.” This is the root of him, the inner core deep inside that fuels his every waking dream. Daily, in public, he cultivates an air of fastidious perfection. Impeccably-dressed, nicely-coiffed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate. Genteel. Arm candy for his older boyfriend. In private, he wants to be a dirty little whore. The kid wants it all: Men’s Vogue days, Treasure Island nights. Which side of him is closer to his real nature? I think I know. The artificial tends to fall away from a guy when I drop my pants in front of him. My cock is slick with his spit. He’s choking on it by the time I withdraw and shove him roughly onto the bed. He howls with pain as I drive into the hole. I can tell by the way he clamps down on my meat that he’s in distress, but this is how whores get fucked. No mercy. Relentless. By the time his mind and body catch up to the heat that’s already pulsing through his still-hard cock, I’m halfway there. “That boyfriend of yours would kick you out on your ass if he knew what you were doing right now,” I say as I pound his quivering butt. “Please don’t tell . . . !” “I don’t know. I think it might be fun to see the expression on his face when he finds out what a cum-hungry little bitch you really are,” I muse. “I bet he’s all polite in bed and shit. Probably thinks a wild time is turning on a fuck flick and jacking off together. Am I right?” “Only if I’m lucky,” he moans. The words are heavy with rue. “Who gives you what you really want?” “You do,” he whispers. “You do.” “Who gives your faggot holes the sperm they really need?” “Fuck . . . you know it’s you. It’s totally you.” I’m close. “Then fucking take it, you little whore.” My cock pulses. I drive in to the root, and let the seed blast out deep inside him. His back arches more, his butt rises to meet me. He wants every fucking seed I’ve got, and I’m hostage to his need. Finally, after a long time in which his hungry holes milks my meat for every drop, he slides off me. “Clean it off,” I tell him. He’s already on it, sucking any traces of sperm from my jizz-slick dick. I hold his head on my dick as I maneuver myself onto the bed, and then I cradle it as he continues to suck and suck. “Good boy,” I tell him. “I’m your little faggot,” he murmurs, before losing himself in the scent and sensation of my semi-rigid shaft again. “Just a little faggot.” Yeah. I won’t be telling the boyfriend. This time. More...

This. It's easy for guys to be brave when they're hiding behind a computer screen. The moment I suspect that someone's chatting me up and making all kinds of promises they don't intend to keep, just for the purpose of titillating themselves, I'll ask him to make a firm commitment to prove he's not just wasting my time. If he can't or won't, I'll tell him to get back to me when he's serious, and ignore him until then. I've got a good instinct for weeding out the bullshitters, and there are a lot of them. Even on this site. Every time, the more they talk, and the closer the chat gets to cyber-sex than conversation, the less likely they are to act on it.

The vodka boycott was uninformed and unfocused and unlikely to make any impact; it was more like the stupid 'Freedom Fries' boycott of 2003 when organizers attempted to boycott and rename French fries because of France's opposition to the Iraq war. Rather than cherrypicking evidence to defend apathy, I'd suggest looking at the history of product boycotts in the past. That kind of pressure has produced results. Not, as I say, in a weekend, or in a month. Over time, however, it can work and has worked. France isn't in charge of French fries. Never has been, never will be. The Barilla boycott hits at the company's bottom line, however. The Barilla mouthpiece's statement was indeed a "Oh my Gawd never" response, and included a gratuitous slam against gays as prospective adoptive parents. He then added that if the gays didn't like it, they could buy another pasta. Which is basically inviting people to boycott, isn't it? A lot of gays don't like it. A lot of us won't be buying his product in the future. I'm just taking his gentle suggestion to heart. If you don't, that's your choice.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Things I’ve Learned About Gay Guys After Being Subjected to Twenty Berjillion Facebook Posts About Pasta Last Week 1. Immediately after someone posts a notice resolving to boycott a brand of pasta, the first three comments are going to be along the lines of That brand sux! __________ is soooooo much better! Well, welcome to the conversation, Miss Fancy-Pants. I’m really glad that the latest cause célèbre involving outrages against gays and lesbians has given you the perfect opportunity to leap in and show everyone what superior taste you have. I am so compelled by your exquisite discernment that I am hoping, when I prowl back in time to 2011, I’ll find a sensitive comment from you about the devastating Thailand floods that affected over thirteen million people and killed hundreds that reads, Phuket is sooooo overrated anyway! Go to Aruba if you want a real vay-cay! That brand of pasta was one I used for over a decade and a half because it was recommended to me by a close female friend’s father, who owned a popular and highly-rated Italian restaurant for years and years. If it was good enough for him and his family—who were all born in Italy—it was good enough for me. I can’t begin to count the number of meals I’ve served to my family over the years made from that pasta. Thank you, but I can do without you seeing my anger and upset at the unkind words of the company’s leader merely as an opportunity to show off what’s in your pretentious little home pantry. 2. The fourth comment is going to be some queen saying So what??? Gays shouldn’t be eating carbs anyway!!! Hey, thanks. Like we didn’t have enough self-image dysmorphia as a population without some little body Nazi shrilling at us what we can and cannot eat, and what we should and shouldn't look like. Now sit down and shut up. I’ve got some donuts to eat without guilt while you watch. 3. The fifth and subsequent comments are going to be, I don’t know why you buy your own pasta. Making your own is soooo easy and soooo much more delicious! All you need is flour and eggs! Oooooo, gurrl. You have picked the wrong stay-at-home husband for this hair-pulling catfight, Martha Fucking Stewart. I am a man who kneads his own bread. I am a man who boils and bakes his own bagels. I am a man who keeps track of what month it is by what fruits he’s currently making into jams and preserves. Bitches, I am a man who makes his own yogurt. (And even I think that’s a little excessive on the home self-reliance front.) I know that making pasta only requires flour and eggs. I’ve made pasta. And you know what? The next time I want to spend two hours making a mini-volcano out of flour and pouring some carefully-whisked eggs into it, and then trying to roll out and slice fresh pasta on the two square feet of kitchen counter that I currently have, before actually making dinner itself, instead of simply taking a box out of the cupboard and boiling the dried noodles inside for eight minutes, I will give you a ring-a-ling on the cell so that you can coach me through the process. I wouldn’t advise holding my breath until it happens, though. 4. One of the comments that follows will be a passive-aggressive statement to the effect that OMG the Chick-Fil-A boycott was a failure! Why are we buying into the media frenzy? It just makes us look mean and vindictive instead of like nice people! I’m just going to toss out a quote from Nietzsche, here: When the oppressed, downtrodden, outraged exhort one another with the vengeful cunning of impotence: "let us be different from the evil, namely good! And he is good who does not outrage, who harms nobody, who does not attack, who does not requite, who leaves revenge to God, who keeps himself hidden as we do, who avoids evil and desires little from life, like us, the patient, humble, and just" -- this, listened to calmly and without previous bias, really amounts to no more than: "we weak ones are, after all, weak; it would be good if we did nothing for which we are not strong enough." We make a fuss because we are strong and growing stronger. We make a fuss because things matter. We cause a ruckus because we realize we’re no longer weak and without power, and because we understand people are listening. Boycotts don’t work instantly. Progress comes slowly. Over time, though, and with education tactics like boycotts work; companies and institutions will change and have changed under constant pressure. To assume that every battle will be won instantly, and without setback, is naive. The show-offs, the diet fascists, and the guys who spend too much time with the Food Network are nothing. They’re comic relief. The apologists who would have us and our allies do nothing, however, so that we don’t ruffle feathers? They’re obstructive. They’re dangerous, because they’d have everyone believe they’re the nice gays, the gays who aren’t controversial, the gays who behave at the table and never make a fuss because it isn’t decorous. They’re also the gays who accept slaps and pretend they’re kisses, who would rather see us all kicked and beaten rather than run a risk of not seeming nice. In the long view of history, they’re the most dangerous of all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Anyone remember mix tapes? When I first started buying popular music, back in my late teens and early twenties, it became important for me not only to listen to the music I collected, but to share it with the people I cared about. My first real stereo was a system I bought straight out of college, from Sears—I know, real top of the line audiophile stuff. It was affordable, though, and I bought it because it was perfect for my needs. Not only did it have a turntable for my burgeoning collection of LPs, but it had a dual cassette tape deck. With high-speed dubbing, no less. Double tape decks were rare in those days. The high-speed dubbing was almost unheard of. I loved that system. During grad school I would spend entire nights in my apartment in my parents’ basement, sitting on the cold tile floor cross-legged while I made mix tapes for my friends. I’d choose songs that not only they’d like, but that I was pretty sure they’d never heard before—songs for which I had a lot of enthusiasm. On my electric typewriter I’d type up the names of the songs and the artists, and then I’d make some custom art. Usually it was a chunk of a New Yorker cover, which when snipped down to fit in the cassette case would be colorful but abstract. Then I’d lovingly send them off to my best friends and hope they loved the mixes as much as I. Over the years the typed inserts became computer-printed; a couple of years later, I burned my first mix CD. Even the concept of ‘burning’ a CD was exotic at first. The phrase brought to mind images of a blacksmith’s forge, and using a pair of white-hot tongs to pull a shiny CD from the flames so I could hear the sizzle when I plunged it into a horse bucket of cool water. The last mix tape I made was for Spencer, shortly before we parted ways. It was a thumb drive with a dozen mp3s on it. But the thing is, people remember those mix tapes. I have friends who mention long-forgotten songs I sent them decades ago, and who’ve talked about all the love I put into those gifts of music, from the thoughtfulness of the song choice to the New Yorker artwork in which they were wrapped. One of my oldest friends recently went through all the tapes I’d given him over the years, and bought digital copies of all the songs from either Amazon or iTunes, so he could keep them as playlists on his computer. Those little gifts mean something, years and years later. That makes me smile. Spencer used to go to sleep to a set playlist of songs on his iPod. He’d chosen them to lull him gently into his dreams. During the year when I was living on my own, trying to sell my house in the midwest, he was spending most of his nights in my bed. After he’d taken his bedtime shower and slipped into bed, steaming and warm and wet, we’d make love and drift into slumber in each other’s arms. The last memory of would have, most of those nights before I nodded off, would be of his strong, muscular arm reaching over me to my clock radio, so he could turn on his iPod and start that playlist. It lasted for nearly an hour and a half. I know the first four songs well. I wouldn’t recognize the latter hour if you played it for me. I’ve always been deeply asleep by the time it played. The last night before I left Michigan for good, at a going-away party thrown in my honor, Spencer sat next to me as my guest of honor. We held hands beneath the table. Before the night’s end, he slipped back to me the thumb drive I’d given him a few weeks before. It held his Sleepytime mix. You know, I still listen to it. There are nights when I can’t sleep. I keep a pair of earbuds by the bed. I keep the Sleepytime mix on my phone. I’ll plug in, turn on, and listen to the songs Spencer cultivated, the songs to which we fell asleep month after month, night after night, holding each other. And little by little, I drift off, comforted. I still haven’t heard the back end of that mix during my waking hours. I’m not sure I care to. But I do know it’s the mix tape that means the most to me. It always will. Let’s get to some questions from readers before I start bawling. If you’d like to ask something, come on over to formspring.me and ask what you’d like. If you’d prefer to email me, just put ‘Sunday Morning Questions’ in the subject line of your email. My address is in the sidebar. I’ll answer anything, trivial or not, so long as it’s not too invasive of my privacy. Do you ever fantasize about being forced to "service" a dominant stranger? I do. My twist on it, though, which I’ve shared several times, is the fantasy of being forced to service a dominant bottom, as a top. I'm not convinced the bottom for that task exists in real life, though. thanks for your blog, i'd never have the courage to be out there,too much catholic guilt, your blog is my guilty pleasure, thank you sir If you are so burdened that even reading about someone else having sex makes you feel guilty, my friend, I think it's time to do something about it. I never look at my sex writings as prescriptive. I don't set words to paper as a recommendation of how anyone else should live his life. My acts are my own, and that's how they should remain. No one should push themselves past their own natural levels of comfort with any sexual exploration. However, sex is a blessing. If you're religious, I don't know how you can justify to yourself that God made such an abundantly beautiful world with so many wonderful things . . . and yet believe that sex is supposed to be an awful act, a torture, a torment, or something that only a man and a woman approved by a representative of the church may do solely for procreational purposes. That's just not the way this world works. Religion might try to regulate sex in order to keep its adherents in line, but sex was given to us for pleasure, and for us to make connections with each other. It's a true gift. Not a source of guilt. So if reading a sex blog brings you pleasure . . . enjoy it without guilt. Start with that leniency, and move on to others. You'll be a happier person in the end. What's the last fun thing you bought for yourself? A rice cooker. Does that count? If not, I buy myself video games on a fairly regular basis. The last one I purchased was Game & Wario, I think. Oh, and I bought some nice dress boots for myself last week. They’re classy. Some of your fans (me included) lust after you, do you lust after anyone in the world? Hmm. I think all my readers know I’ve had some pretty serious (and by serious, I mean goofy) crushes on various pretty bartenders. Long-term readers might remember I had a serious case of hotpants for my backyard neighbor, back in Michigan. (No, that’s not a euphemism. I wish it were.) I manage to work out my lusts on available asses on a pretty regular basis, so instead of burning with lust for various people, I just get schoolgirl crushes on random guys who delight my eyes. What's the dumbest thing you’ve ever done to impress somebody and what's the dumbest thing anyone's ever done to impress you? I once bought a rose a day for someone I wanted to woo, when I was in college. I thought it was beautiful and romantic as a gesture, but after about three days I realized it was coming across as creepy and stalkerish. Most of the stupid things people have done to impress me have also leaked over into stalker territory—guys who follow me around the city, or who bombard me with hand-written notes—or who send me frantic instant messages the minute I get online, or who keep calling many times repeatedly over the course of a day—say they're doing it to show their devotion, but it's the kind of behavior these days that makes me wish I had a restraining order. More...

If I were a 21-year-old stripper I'd have a chance. I'm not, though, and nor am I interested in him that way!

I agree with both you and evilqueerpig. It's something that happens when you simply decide (without evidence, usually) that you're unworthy of affection or attention. It's fear at its most basic and crippling.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve mentioned before I occasionally see a friend of mine I’ve known at this point for nearly a quarter-century. He’s a glum personality; I’m afraid that in a couple of past entries in which he made appearances, I assigned him the unfortunate soubriquet of “Eeyore.” But it’s fitting. He’s a sweet guy. I genuinely believe he’d give to me the shirt off his back if I complained I was chilly. In all the time I’ve known him, though, he’s always been a bit of a downer. Not a whirlwind of drama, mind you. More like a powerful but silent magnetic force that can walk into a room full of the most upbeat and high-spirited folk around—a real Baz Luhrmann Great Gatsby of a party with hot jazz and hotcha flappers sipping bathtub gin and doing the hot new sensation called the Charleston—and without really meaning to, can suck up all the fun until there’s nothing left in the room but some limp crepe paper streamers and a sad, tattered print hanging on the wall of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” Within minutes he can have every single person in a five-room radius moping, contemplating the futility of his existence, and reaching for the extra Ambien. Come to think, I’m pretty sure I saw that exact situation on an episode of Fringe. I went out on the town with Eeyore and another friend of mine not so long ago. As a trio we bar-hopped our way across Manhattan, pretty basically. We had drinks at a few establishments along Christopher Street. We stopped off for happy-hour $3 Long Island iced teas and drag queen fun before dinner. (I drank bottles of water.) We decided to have dinner before heading off to the Eagle, which involved me, the sober one, guiding them up Seventh Avenue and restraining them at intersections by planting my hands on their chests, so my two extremely inebriated friends wouldn’t blunder out into oncoming traffic. For all of those three hours we were together before dinner, the entire time Eeyore kept talking about the guy he’d taken home the night before. I hadn’t paid much mind to the story, because all the guys Eeyore takes home are strippers. Dancers, I mean. (When I fuck dancers, they’re ballet dancers or former contestants on So You Think You Can Dance. When Eeyore gets with a dancer, it’s a stripper.) You know those newly-engaged women who, when you’re trying to relate your father’s medical issues and your own recent work woes, lean forward and flash the rock on their fingers and manage to turn every conversation into OMG your diamond is so BIG! ? Well, it was like that with Eeyore and the stripp . . . er, dancer. I was trying to recap the plot of Blue Jasmine for someone and it would trigger Eeyore into saying, “That reminds me of something my dancer said last night after I took him home. . . .” Or I’d ask Eeyore how was his vacation in Chicago, and he’d reply, “Oh, it was fine. I found out the dancer I took home last night was from Bushwick. That’s not very far. Do you think it’s too far?” It wasn’t really until we were sitting down at dinner and Eeyore picked up the menu and said, “I think the dancer I took home last night would really like this place. They have hamburgers,” that I turned to him in surprise. Here I’d been kind of politely ignoring his dancer stories in the same way I might have overlooked a big old booger hanging from his nostril. I’d been thinking, Oh my god, how many times can he bring up the fact AGAIN that he had sex last night? And when a sex blogger who’s constantly parading his tricks in front of an international audience of thousands is getting annoyed with with someone exhibitionistically talking about fucking, you know it’s got to be excessive. But over the hamburger menu I realized that for the first time in I didn’t know how long, Eeyore actually seemed kind of happy. I commented on it. “Well yeah,” he said. “Of course. I mean, I almost got laid for the first time last night in twenty years.” And I shouted, “WHAT?!” He repeated it for me. “I said, last night was the first time in twenty years that I was close to getting laid.” “Twenty years,” I said. He nodded. “Two decades.” He nodded again. “Since 1993.” By now he was looking at me like I was a blithering idiot. “Well, yeah.” I stared at him for a moment and then, with outrage, demanded to know, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” I have a tendency to think of myself as unfairly deprived if I have to go for five days without sex. Twenty years, to me, sounded like the stuff of science fiction. I’d known that Eeyore’s track record wasn’t stellar. All of his stories tend to end with the dancer (stripper) stealing his wallet, or leading him on, over the course of weeks or months, for lap dance money and then leaving him high and dry. Or else they involve the mercenary cleaning out his bank account and moving on to the next john. But jeez. I assumed that from time to time in there, there’d been some actual nookie. “There are just things in play that prevent me. . . .” he started to say. I wanted to know what. “My job. . . .” “. . . . doesn’t involve a vow of celibacy and allows you plenty of hook-up time,” I countered. “It’s a crazy city. . . .” “. . . . where I manage to have sex several times a week.” “I just wasn’t raised that way. My parents. . . .” And here’s where I lost my patience. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had people—friends, lovers, readers of my blog who’ll write in to me or engage me in social media—tell me that they want to experience sexual joy, but that they can’t because of outside factors. I’ve had men tell me that they want to let go and play with whom they choose, but they can’t do it because they were raised in a religious household. I’ve had dozens and dozens of guys tell me they want to play with men, but they can’t because they’re married. They’ll tell me they were raised in the South and their upbringing prevents them from seeking sex with men. Or any number of other factors—all external, all allegedly beyond their control. When a guy tells me that he wants to be more sexually adventurous (or, you know, to have sex more than nearly once every twenty years), but then rattles off a number of outside forces preventing him from achieving his goal, I know it’s not any of those externals that truly restrain him. Religion can be overcome. There are pigs worldwide from every ethnicity, nationality, and regional background. Not every relationship comes with a lock and key. No, what I hear is a man telling me that his inaction is a result of a mysterious societal conspiracy. Other people, vague and undefined, are making his choices for him. What I hear is a man telling me that he’s too frightened to make his own choices. Look. I grew up in a family with no less than four ordained and practicing ministers, all Southern Baptist. It doesn’t get much more religious than that. I’m married. I was raised in the very same South. I know I’m not everyone’s touchstone, but none of those things keeps me from being a total whore. I don't allow any of those factors to keep me from pursuing sexual adventure any more than they I would allow them to keep me from reading what I want, watching the television shows that interest me, or listening to that demon rock and roll. I don’t allow external, invisible forces, up to and including God himself, to dictate my day-to-day happiness. If Eeyore had, in answer to my question of why he’d been celibate for two decades, replied, Well, I’ve decided that it’s important to me to wait for a special someone, I would’ve thought about it, probably privately decided that his response wouldn’t be mine, and then given him a pat on the back and some words of support. That would’ve been a choice he’d made, based on a philosophy he believed in. If a married reader tells me that he wishes he could fuck around, but that he’s made a choice to stay true to his marriage vows because it makes him a more honest and committed person—fuck yes, more power to him. I admire anyone who makes a choice and owns that choice and isn’t afraid to stick to it. For me it all boils down to whether a person is an active protagonist in his own life, or whether he’s passive and adrift and allowing invisible forces to carry him downstream. An invisible god shouldn’t be making choices for you. Kowtowing to the a disapproving, inchoate society or the thought of frowning and unhappy parents (who, in Eeyore’s case, have both been deceased for years) means you’ve taken the passive route. Thinking about your choices, and making the ones that are right for you—even if you’ve been told that they’ll make Baby Jesus cry—make you a warrior in your own life. It really doesn’t take a lot to move from passive floater to an active leader of your own life. Mindfulness helps. Reflection. Learning to recognize when you’re allowing fear and commonplace external forces to dictate your direction. I truly believe it’s important to take as much control of our own lives as possible, because every one of us one day will find ourselves facing external obstacles that will throw the triviality of everything else into sharp relief. I’m talking about illness, and accidents, and irreplaceable losses of love and family. It’s when those roll around—and they always do—that we realize that we had happiness within reach all the time. Whether or not you grasp it, or at least chase it, is up to you. All of us are living on borrowed time. Every single one of us. One day it all comes due. Trust me, I know from experience that it’s possible to drift for long periods of time on tides that seem beyond our control. But some day we wake up and realize that a year has passed—five years, twenty years—and we’ll never again have that time or the opportunities it presented. I know that I’d rather face that moment knowing I threw myself into those waters and relished the sport and challenge of them. I’d rather splash and make noise and make a goddamned mess than drift quietly and apologetically through life. I’d rather regret the choices I made for myself, crazy as they may be, while I can make them, rather than regret fearing everything, making no choices at all, and blaming it all on forces beyond my control. Again: I know my choices are my own. I don't expect anyone to follow in my exact footsteps. I just want people—I want you—to be the person at the helm of your own life. I want you to conquer those fears holding you back, whatever they may be. For Eeyore, breaking a twenty-year dry spell is a first step. Learning that it’s not too late to quench his thirst is up to him. More...

Thanks for the shudders.

I used to take zinc and it seemed to increase my volume as well. Keeping well-hydrated is also important.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So this guy’s sexy. Latin. Short—maybe five-three, five-four. Twenty-five. He’s got thick black hair that’s been swept in a wave up over his forehead. It glistens with pomade. Thick coal smudges for eyebrows. Dark eyes that bore into me when he opens the door of his third-floor walk-up. “Hi,” he says, with a thick accent. “‘Lo,” I tell him, as I step into the kitchen. “You’re hotter than your photos,” he tells me. I smile and accept the compliment. Then I reach down, tilt up his jaw, and hold it in my hand as I kiss him deeply. The guy’s a hot kisser. His lips are loose, and soft, and wet; his tongue dips eagerly into my mouth. Mine slithers deep into his, invading his tiny lips and reaching to the very depths. A taste of things to come. The apartment is immaculate. He’s not one of these guys who expects me to fuck in a shithole. The sofa’s white leather. The chair’s white leather. The rug on the living room floor is white and furry. The bed’s the only furniture in the room beyond. It’s fussily made with a half-dozen pillows at the top. There’s a crucifix hanging over the wrought iron headboard. He lets me lower him to the mattress. I press my knees on either side of his hips. Straddle him. Let the weight of my chest press down. Crush him, a little. He’s breathless and purring with desire. His hands are everywhere—on my hair, running down the sides of my beard. His legs reach up and wrap around my waist, pulling me into him. We roll, entwined, until he’s on top of me. His fingers fumble to undo the buttons of my shirt. Once my skin is exposed, he covers me with soft little kisses. I lift his head, pull his face to mine. Again we kiss deeply. My dick is rock hard from making out with this sexy little fucker, and it’s straining in my shorts. He knows it, too; he’s grinding his hips against me. Making me want him. I intend to have him. Make him mine. He’s bringing out the conqueror in me. I’m going to plant my flag at his summit. Make my mark on him. Down he goes, sliding down my torso and off the bed. I feel hot breath through layers of fabric. There’s pressure as he unbuttons my shorts. I lift my hips for him, so he can pull them down. He yanks at the elastic of my shorts. My dick—thick, full, already beaded with precum—flops out. I hear the percussive sound it makes as it strikes my abdomen. “Oh, papi,” he croons as his hands clasp around the shaft. “So sexy. I want this big dick so bad.” “It’s yours, son,” I say, as I softly stroke his hair. “All yours.” I lift up my chin to encourage him. “Suck it.” Then I lay back to enjoy. I feel the heat of his mouth. The softness of his lips. The velvet wetness of his mouth as he closes it around my inches. And then I feel some of the worst pain I’ve experienced on this side of the kidney stone I had a few years back. I mean, seriously. It feels like fucking razors on my shaft. Or like I’ve stuck my dick into a warm tankful of hungry fucking piranhas. It takes a second or two for my brain to realize that my dick’s being subjected to rough treatment, but once I’ve made that connection, I’m springing up from the bed and trying to get my dick out of that house of horrors. “What what what?” I yell. He looks up in surprise. “What the fuck are you doing?” I shout. “I want your dick, papi,” he says. “You want it, what, to be a bloody stump? Chrrrrrrist!” I examine my dick. It’s still hard, though wilting slightly from the torture it’s been through. His teeth have really done a number right underneath the crown. I can actually see the scrapes his incisors have left. The skin’s broken; there are dark ovals of a darker purple than the angry red of my arousal. “Holy fuck,” I say. “I’ll kiss it better,” he says, trying to grab my dick back. “The hell you will,” I say, annoyed. I try to modulate my anger, though. I’m not normally so pissy. But this is my dick in question. The fuck? Who gives the kind of blow job that feels like thrusting one’s meat into a sprung bear trap, and then expects the guy to like it? Who chews on a guy’s dick? That’s not just bad technique. That’s a crime against the good will of tops everywhere. I wore clunky metal braces for two and a half years in my teens, sucked hundreds of dicks with them on, and never once nicked a guy. “Just get out,” I tell him, waving my hands and shooing him away. It takes me a minute, as I pull my pants back up and put on my shirt again, to realize that I’ve sent the guy packing from his own bedroom. And even more surprisingly, he’s let me. He cowers back a little as I limp out of the bedroom. The motherfucker between my legs stings. “Maybe you’ll come back sometime?” he asks, as he lets me out. “Maybe,” I say. But it’s in the same probability range as maybe someday I’d like to bend over and let Pat Robertson from The 700 Club sodomize me with a spiked baseball bat. It’s been four days and my dick’s still out of commission. It’ll get there, with some ointment and time. But damn, boys. God gave you lips for a reason: to shut up and wrap around your teeth when you suck so that nobody gets hurt. More...

Man, that body-builder story was steamy, Dr. Scorpio. I don't know how you could've resisted. I would've fucking melted. And I know that Joel's generalization about math departments was broad at best. I even warned another of my readers I know is a math professor that I wasn't badmouthing him. The math faculty at the university where I was at the time, though, was pret-ty sca-ry.

Sounds like the college I attended! My biggest coup was getting all three of the French professors.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Truth: Any faculty member who tells you he hasn’t had a student come on to him is either a liar or in the math department.” That’s what a faculty fuckbuddy of mine said to me the first year I taught at the college level. He happened to be nuts-deep in a female sophomore at the time. I remembered the lesson through all my teaching years. I’ve noticed in the past decade that more and more people assume a teacher/student relationship—and by relationship here I mean fucking—is a taboo. I’ve noticed that men and women alike seem to assume that colleges ban it. (A few do, but most don’t. Why should they? Their students are adults.), They assume that it’s the kind of thing that happens only in porn scripts and maybe Kentucky. If you look at popular culture of the last century, though, you’ll see find a preponderance of novels and movies and even stage musicals (hi, On Your Toes) in which female students basically treat college like a pre-internet match.com where they expect to land a tweedy faculty husband. During my college years it was easier to figure out which faculty member I hadn’t slept with, than name the ones who’d bent me over their desks. Without thinking much I could probably tick off between a dozen and a score of names of my professors who’d ended up marrying female students. And if you think those relationships were chaste before the wedding vows, I’ve got a bridge built by Foucault to sell you. No, throw a bunch of horny post-teenagers into an environment with authority figures like faculty, isolate them in a small campus town in which there’s no other form of entertainment, and the fucking is sure to follow. Is sleeping with students ethical? Depends on who you’re asking. Of the ones who’ve talked about it with me, I’ve known professors who would consider a dalliance with students who weren’t currently enrolled in any of their classes—but who would draw the line at slipping it to a current student, just to steer clear of charges of harassment. I’ve known faculty who’d push that line a little further—who’d fuck a current student as long as it was clear between them that the student’s grade wouldn’t be affected either way. And I’ve known professors like my old fuckbuddy who had no problems fucking students in exchange for better grades. To him it was simply a transaction, plain and simple, in which each party had something the other wanted. If everyone agreed to the transaction, there was no need for anyone to bring up ethics. Joel was his name. He was a full professor in his late forties who taught in the business school; I met him when I was cruising in the restrooms, back in the nineteen-eighties. I was in my mid-twenties, the fresh and proud possessor of a master’s degree, and newly hired as an adjunct by the university where my parents taught. Joel and I had exchanged blow jobs below the stalls of the cruisiest bathroom on campus and had enjoyed each other enough that we spent a few minutes talking outside. When he discovered I wasn’t an undergraduate (or a high school student, as he’d assumed—I’ve always had a tendency to look about a decade younger than I am), he took me under his wing. Joel was one of those faculty who fucked students for sport. Male, female. Enrolled in his class or not. Bright shining stars or barely-lit bulbs. He didn’t care, so long as they’d strip down for him, spread their legs, and open up a hole. Once they’d consented, he enjoyed pushing their limits as much as possible. He’d keep a Polaroid camera and packs of instant film in his desk drawers, so he could take fuck photos in his office. If the kids were in one of his classes at the time, he’d tell them where to sit and what to wear to the next class—and what not to wear underneath. And he especially got off on sharing holes with another guy. I was good for that. I liked Joel. He was an open-minded pig during a time that most people were pretending they didn’t have sex at all, especially the variety not carrying the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. He got me laid. And he taught me lessons I never picked up in the faculty handbook. (Mostly because there was no faculty handbook.) “Don’t you go chasing after them,” Joel told me. “They’ll come looking for you. They’ll come up to your office and hang around, trying to shoot the shit with you. If they’ve got no reason to be there, that’s the reason they’re there. Trust me.” I remembered those words my second semester, with a former student named Allan. He’d been in the very first class I ever taught. It met at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, three times a week. The class was mostly freshmen, and even though the average age of the new admissions at the university skewed way upward from the standard eighteen, the genuine adults knew better than to register for an eight a.m. seminar. In a class of young and very sleepy faces, Allan was a standout. He was twenty-two or twenty-three and just starting college; he was tall and handsome. He wore a neatly-groomed beard in a time when very few men who weren’t aging hippies wore beards. He was intelligent, and wrote well. He easily earned the A I ended up giving him. During the semester he was in my class I’d found myself hugely attracted to Allan, but I’d never shown him any special favoritism. I did cheat a little with him, though. One of my assignments through the semester was to ask students to keep a creative journal; I assigned a weekly number of pages they needed to scrawl out, and told them I wouldn’t be reading them but would only be checking the journals to see that they’d made the page count. Every couple of weeks I’d collect their notebooks, hand out a test, and sit in the hallway where I’d count pages to make sure they were keeping up. I never read any of the journals, save Allan’s. I felt dirty doing it—like I was stealing his soiled underpants from his gym bag, or something. I’d save his notebook for last. I read about his car problems. I read about the ho-hum details of his everyday life. I read about his job at a body shop, where he’d worked since high school to help support his single mom. He never divulged any details about his sexual or romantic exploits, but the entire time I dipped my toes into his personal life, I’d be erect. It’s probably a good thing he excelled at his work, because I had such a boner for the guy that I probably would’ve given him an A regardless. He showed up in my office the semester after. I was sharing a small enclosure with two other adjuncts at the time. I’d never seen them; we all kept different office hours. I looked up from whatever I was doing to see his handsome, bearded face as he lounged in the door. “Hey,” he said. “Well, hey,” I replied, gesturing him in. “What’s going on?” I expected that he’d come to ask about a recommendation or something. But no. He was there just to hang. We made small talk about other students for a few minutes, and then came a point when the small talk ran out. I started to wonder exactly why he'd stopped in. Then Joel’s words came back to me. Allan had no fucking reason to be there. If he was there, his reason was fucking. And my heart began to pound. What followed formed the basic template for every student come-on since. Allan cleared his throat, screwed up his courage, and nervously asked, “So . . . in your spare time, where do you hang out?” My throat was dry. “Hang out?” “You know. When you’re not working.” I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t had much experience with a student coming onto me on my own. I didn’t know how I was supposed to react. “Bars, that kind of thing.” He started rattling off a list of Richmond hot spots. It was Richmond in the nineteen-eighties. There weren’t that many. And the very last one, which he pronounced at a softer volume than the others, before letting his words trail off, was Richmond’s only gay bar at the time. I’ve had so many former male students do that exact same thing in the years since. They think they’re being clever and coy, casually dropping the name of a gay bar in the conversation to see if there’s that spark of surprise or recognition in my eyes. They think it’s never been done before. Little do they know that Allan beat them all to it, in my timeline. And little do they suspect that my poker face is better than theirs. Pulling a stunt like only leads to me standing up from my desk, pushing shut the door, and then shoving them against the wall. It’s not my eyes that are sparking with surprise, at that point. But I didn’t have the confidence then I have now. I wasn’t the aggressor then that I’ve become since. So I simply stared at Allan, wet my dry lips, and finally said in the blandest tones possible, “I don’t think so.” “Oh, okay,” he said. “I just thought if you wanted to grab a beer sometime. . . .” I was still frozen by the opportunity. Simply put, I lacked the experience to know how to deal with it. So I blinked over and over again for a few seconds, probably looked as uncomfortable as I was, until at last Allan stood up, mumbled some vague goodbye, and made a speedy getaway. “You’re a fucking fool,” is what Joel told me when I reported the incident to him later that week. “That kid wanted you, and you blew it.” His words only confirmed the way I felt about myself. I was a failure, and I’d managed to let an opportunity slip through my fingers that would likely never repeat itself. (It never did.) Joel slapped me on the back, though, as if my fumble were only a temporary setback. “There’ll be other chances,” he told me. “Just you wait. There’ll be others.” And he was right. There were others, and plenty of them. More...

There's a lot of mediocre sex to be had out there. I've had sex with many women that was way hotter than the sex I've had with many guys. Fucking someone who just lies there, or who is distracted or not into the moment, is a bum experience no matter what gender. That said, I find with guys that it's less work to break down the barriers of gentility and self-control to get to that wild pig within. And I think it's a societal thing, since there's a basic assumption that men are brutes and women are the civilizing force that keeps them in check. There are exceptions to both, but when both genders live a life aligned to those assumptions, it's easier for men to go wild in the sack.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I have a tendency to meet people and make new friends, when I go out. I also have a tendency—perhaps you’ve noticed—to accumulate new stories all the time. Sometimes the two things go hand in hand. And I guess sometimes they work against each other. Through another friend, over the summer I made acquaintances with a sexy Asian banker in Manhattan. He’s a nice, down-to-earth guy with a dry sense of humor that matches mine. I’d kind of guessed, from a couple of dropped hints he’d made on our first meeting about slings and leather, that he was perhaps sexually attracted to me. The explicit text bombs he made to my phone, later on, confirmed it. But for whatever reason, we haven’t done anything about it. (Yet.) We were sitting at a midtown bar last week when he expressed the wish—one I’ve heard many times before from gay guys—that he could sleep with one porn star, once in his life. I suggested it’d be easy enough to pick up a copy of Next and riffle through the escort ads in the back, as they’re nothing but porn actors selling sex, but apparently the notion of having to pay for it didn’t appeal to him. He wanted the porn star to want him for himself. Kind of the way that guys who love strippers and prostitutes and other sex workers want them, but want it to be a freebie. So I told him that I suspected even with porn actors, he’d find the whole spectrum of sex from good to bad, and that just because they’d fucked on film didn’t make them super-lovers or even spectacular human beings. “You don’t even know any porn stars,” he told me, scornfully. Oh-ho-ho, but I do. I pulled out my phone and opened up my contacts, which has its own ‘Porn Actors’ section. (Not because I’m bragging, mind you, but because I’m anal about classification.) “Oh my god,” he exclaimed, over the first name alphabetically on the list. “I’ve seen all his movies! How do you know him?” I didn’t want to say that I write a sex blog and the man in question was a fan, so I just mumbled something about how I’d known him for years. My acquaintance had already pulled out his phone, though, and was looking up some of the other names. “Oh my god!” he’d say after each once, once he’d Googled some photos. “Oh my god! You’ve had sex with all of these guys?” “No, no,” I said, laughing. “I haven’t had sex with any of them. Well. Almost, with this one.” I pointed to the last name in the list. “But I know who that one is! I love him! How do you know him?!” The him in question was a kid who’s been in a lot of scenes lately. I’d met him over the summer at another bar near Grand Central, when he’d been out celebrating his twenty-first birthday. He’s a short, muscular little thing. I’d taken a pee break and he’d followed me into the single-person bathroom. We didn’t have sex (I thought he was too drunk for it, and I do have ethics), but we did make out against the slate walls of the restroom for a good ten minutes (my ethics only go so far). And then I had to listen to him talk to me about what cars he liked for an hour afterward. Truth be told, I didn’t know he was a porn actor until later in the night when one of the bartenders told me. Then I, like my friend, looked him on my phone and realized that yeah, I’d made out with a porn actor. A twenty-one-year-old-that-night porn actor. I’d thought he was just some dumb kid who liked cars. “And I’m not saying he’s dumb,” I said, with the implication that I was saying exactly that. “But he does have an L and an R tattooed on his feet.” “Liar,” he snarled. “No really.” I brought out my phone, googled a couple of images, and sure enough, on a couple of them you could see the fancy L on the kid’s left foot. The shot was of him with his legs over his head, but the right foot was out of frame. My acquaintance stared at me for a moment. “I think I fucking hate you now,” he said. Then he stood up and stalked away. I’m still trying to figure out whether or not he was serious. Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. And if you have questions, please feel free either to ask them through that service, or via the email in the sidebar. (Don’t be offended if I don’t get to yours immediately. I put them in a big backlog and choose them at whim. But I’ll get to them!) Have you taken part in a "naughty librarian" fantasy/role-play? Would you like to? No, I've never engaged in that particular kind of roleplay. One of my grandmothers was a librarian. (Hence my anal tendencies about keeping contacts rigidly classified.) I had a severe crush on a librarian once, and I actually had fun with a naughty librarian several times. Sadly though, with the latter, it was never actually in his library. What movie is better than the book from which it was made? The English Patient. Good god, that book is a terrible read. And I usually love that arty literary crap. Also, the Emma Thompson Sense & Sensibility is a hell of a lot better than the original Jane Austen book. Hey, I’m a Jane Austen lover who picks up Mansfield Park every other year for fun, but Sense & Sensibility is a tiny bit underbaked and a whole lot overwrought. Did you have a favorite store to visit to buy snacks and pop when you were in grade four? Johnson's Hardware was the name of the store, and it was a dinky little mom and pop hardware store in Richmond's north side that had what I felt was the most amazing nickel candy display in the world. I bought Wacky Packages and Bottle Caps there almost nightly, after a long bike ride from home. Additionally, the store had a soda machine outside that sold both Grape Nehi (which was my favorite) and Brownie (which Wikipedia describes as a 'whey-based chocolate drink', making it sound as unappetizing as it probably really was). Plus, two doors down was Willey's Drug Store, where I could buy a chocolate or vanilla cone for a dime. My, I was a little glutton. What are (in your opinion) the oddest search terms that have brought people to your blog? Most of the search phrases that people use to find my blog are pretty straightforward: things like "mrsteed's blog" or "a breeder's blog" or "mr steed sex journal." Those I understand. What mystifies me every time are the phrases that seem to be very, very specific. So specific, in fact, I can't fathom why or how my blog came up in the Google search. Phrases like "depraved tops who bang out six loads in a row" (well, maybe that one I can figure out!), or "African violet use during sex." I also tend to get a lot of Justin Bieber sex-related searches as well. However, I think my two oddest search phrases have been "photos of young men having sex in poses of the zodiac", and "spongebob squarepants sucking dick." If I actually had written about those things, my life would be a whole lot more interesting. How many times do you think your parents have had sex? My parents had a lot of sex. My parents had a LOT of sex. They were not shy about it. If they were cuddling on the sofa watching TV, and the cuddling turned into making out, and the making out got them hot and heavy, they would have absolutely no qualms about leading each other to the bedroom and shutting the door. They made absolutely no attempt to pretend they were doing anything other than what they were doing, either. Growing up I remember being barred from a couple of motel rooms for an hour or so while we were traveling, so they could fuck. Sometimes I was sent to the local store on errands on my bike so they could have the run of the house to themselves. They once did it in the back seat of my dad's 1963 Dodge Dart so that the windows fogged over. I always accepted it as something natural—which it is, and should be. The only time it bothered me was the night before I moved to Michigan for graduate school, and my parents screwed with their bedroom door open, thinking I was asleep down the hall. That was loud and a little annoying. Not because it was my parents having sex, but because jeez, at least try to keep it down a little, folks! More...

You're very kind. Thanks! And thanks to anicker834 and precumlvr, too!

Yeah, the renovation is nice if you're a traveler, not so nice if you're a cruiser. I haven't been back since it reopened.