TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Part of the reason my recent trip to Toronto wasn’t an outright fuckfest is that I was traveling with a few other people—friends who were also there for Toronto Pride. My propensity to flirt with both sexes and pick up guys isn’t exactly unknown to them. When I would announce that I was going to take the evening to myself, it was a bit like watching an old VH-1 Pop-up Video bit in which over each of their would appear a little thought balloon with the word Slut! in the middle. I’m not the kind of guy who throws his sexual conquests in the faces of others, however. (I just blog about them for thousands worldwide to read.) So even if I’m not as completely on the down-low as I’d like to believe, I’m also not the sort who stands at the dinner table and announces, “Well, chums, I beg your pardon, but I’ve got some boyhole to split.” One of the friends I’ve mentioned before in here, whom I’ll call Matt, is a little more aware of my sexual adventures than the others. Early on in the vacation he asked if I’d take him with me to one of Toronto’s bathhouses. On our last night, I took him aside after dinner and said, “You know, if you want to do the baths still, tonight’s got to be the night. Are you in?” He was. He wanted to do Steamworks, where I generally have a good time and thought that he would enjoy himself. After dinner and dessert, when we finally separated ourselves from our other two friends, he began to chicken out. “Steamworks is going to be filled with muscle guys who won’t want to pay attention to me,” he said. “Plus we’ll have to buy a membership. That adds up.” “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do The Cellar instead. It’s cheaper, and there’s no membership.” “I don’t think I’ll like the Cellar,” he said. “You liked the last time you were here.” “I’ve never been there.” I almost stopped in the street to stare. “You went to it twice,” I reminded him. “You went once by yourself, and then went back the next night with me because you liked it so much.” “No I didn’t.” I could have argued it with him, because I knew I was one hundred percent right, but I didn’t. Instead we opened the almost invisible black door on Wellesley (honestly, you’d never know it was there unless you were aiming for it—it’s like searching for Platform 9 3/4 for the train to Hogwarts) and clomped down to the basement, where the guy behind the cage asked Matt if he’d ever visited there before. “No,” said Matt. “Yes, he has,” I assured him. The poor guy didn’t know who to believe, so he went through his whole spiel about the facilities. Then he buzzed us in. “Oh,” said Matt, the moment we were through the door and standing in a dark hallway lined with lockers. “Now I remember.” Doofus. The night’s encounters can be summed up in roughly three acts. Act I: The Free-for-All After I’d removed my clothing and changed into some cheap flip-flops from my bag (Matt: “It’s like you came prepared or something!” Me: “Um, yes.”), I made a circuit around the bathhouse. The Cellar is known not for its amenities, exactly, but for the dimness of the lights within. Save for the showers, everything is dark. The rooms are murky pits where it’s hard to see anything more than vague and indefinite shapes. The hallways can be almost completely black. In the center of the facility is a small set of gloryhole booths in which it’s possible to slip into the darkness and seem little more than a shadow yourself. I noticed there were several guys watching the film in the movie theater, a few more in various rooms, sprawled on their beds, and several milling around just as I was. I also noticed, after a few minutes, that I’d developed something of a trail of men behind me. I was like the Pied Piper of The Cellar, playing the skin flute and beckoning all the men within hearing to follow my path into the darkness. I paused in the darkest of the hallways, completely enveloped in the darkness, and leaned against the walls. I didn’t have long to wait. I felt an invisible hand on my face, and a pair of lips on mine. Someone with a goatee and a shaved head was kissing me softly, and gently, and with a lot of passion. He moved slightly as someone else knelt down on the floor to remove my towel and take my dick in his mouth. Within a few seconds I had more men crowding in on me. A few were handling my dick while the unseen cocksucker continued to service it; someone played with my hole. There was a mouth on one nipple, and then another mouth on the other. I was being attacked by hungry carnivores. I saw Matt turn the corner and see me at the center of it all, then adjust his towel and walk away. Conceited as it sounds, the phenomenon of being beset upon in a bathhouse like this isn’t novel to me. It’s not because I’m particularly attractive or have the best body. I have no illusions of being a stud. It was simply because I was the fresh meat, and because I let myself be approachable. So many guys in the baths spend a lot of time stalking around, arms crossed, not doing anything. I tend to walk in and let possibilities happen. When the action starts, it cascades. Men cluster up and join in. All it takes is one person for all that to happen. I’m absolutely willing to be that person. All during the free-for-all, guys were coming and going, joining in. Men took turns on my dick, but I was too given over to the pleasure of it all to keep track of how many, or who. The guy I was most into was the bald guy; eventually I pulled my dick out of some cocksucker’s mouth and knelt down on the ground to suck the man who’d been kissing me so passionately and well. He groaned with delight as he face-fucked me with his uncut dick. I stroked the sides of his balls and tickled his asshole until he came, long and hard, in my mouth. Then he pulled me up to my feet, shoved me against the wall, and plunged his tongue in my mouth, sharing the last traces of his own sperm with me. Afterward, he did something unexpected. He turned me around, pressed me against the wall again, and covered my neck and shoulders with the lightest of kisses. Then he did the same to my chest, my chin, the front of my neck and shoulders, my cheeks, my forehead, and my nose. The little touches of his lips against my skin were so soft and sweet that I shivered in delight. It was ironic, I thought, that I’d visited one of the sleazier baths in Toronto simply for the pleasure of butterfly kisses on my skin. But it was the nicest moment of all the sex I had while I was there. After that liberating experience, though, I had a frustrating encounter with Matt. I walked out of the dark hallway to find him putting on his clothes in the locker room. “Are you going?” I asked. “There’s no reason for me to stay here.” He slammed his locker shut and tossed his shoes on the floor. “Not if you’re going to take all the guys.” There wasn’t a lot I could really do to counter the pissy mood. I tried pointing out that the only reason I’d had ‘all the guys’ on me was because I’d been receptive to playing. I also pointed out that if he’d, oh, stood beside me instead of walking away in a huff, he could’ve shared in the bounty. In the end, though, he walked out somewhat angry at me, and I let him go. It’s not my job to babysit and handhold. Act II: The Asian Bottom I’d noticed the Asian bottom in his room when I’d passed earlier in the evening. He was short, and lean, and lightly muscular. His left arm was completely covered with a sleeve of tattoos, and hung over the side of the bed where he lay face down, pointing at the door. Even in the dark I could tell he was good looking. I paused in the opening of his room. He beckoned me in, and I removed my towel. Almost instantly his mouth was on my dick. He sucked badly, and with too much teeth, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me pull out. Besides, it wasn’t his mouth I intended to stay in for very long. Within moments, he was on his knees, pointing his boy-like ass at my dick. I slid in. “I love your big white dick in me,” he gasped with a little bit of an accent. I’d barely touched bottom, though, when suddenly his body began to quiver. Little droplets of cum sprayed against the wall as he shot without warning. “Fuck yes,” he said, immediately hopping off me and handing me my towel. The total amount of time I was in him: maybe all of thirty seconds. At least he had fun. Act III: The Man from Montreal He could have been French, actually. All I knew is that he was a fucking hot little slab of manflesh covered in muscle, sporting a bald head and a tattoo shaped like a barcode imprinted at the back of his neck. Unlike everyone else in the facility, he’d shunned a towel and walked and lounged around completely naked, save for a metal cockring, a pair of heavy black workboots, and some thick brown socks poking out of their tops. The Man from Montreal been part of the group play in the back hallway, and was probably the hottest guy in the entire bathhouse, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to get any one-on-one time with him until later in the evening. I saw him stare at me as I passed through the movie room on the way back from the showers; he followed me to the warren of gloryholes. Once I’d slipped into the shadows, he sank down to his knees and began sucking my dick. He was one of the noisiest suckers I’ve ever encountered. Every time my knob reached the back of his throat, he’d gag and choke and sputter, spraying spit all over my pubes and nuts. When I reached down to play with his eraser-like nipples, he groaned and began beating furiously at his cock. And when I squeezed his nipples and simultaneously began to fuck his mouth, he was in heaven. “Harder!” he said, in a heavy French accent. I savaged his nips, squeezing them so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d burst, much less bruised. “Harder!” He didn’t last long under the nipple torture. When he came, it was so violently that he fell against me and pushed me into the opposite partition, hard; the entire gloryhole booth structure shuddered from the impact. He remained on all fours for a moment, then struggled up to his feet. His sweaty arms clasped around my neck for the briefest of moments as he clung to me, his smooth head on my chest. Then he said, “Messy!” and vanished. I thought it was to clean up. Then I realized he’d actually been thanking me, in French. Even though I hadn’t shot the entire time I was at The Cellar, it was late enough that I decided to head back to my hotel. I’d put back on my polo shirt and shorts when the Man from Montreal joined me at his own locker, almost right next to mine. In his baggy athletic clothing he looked even more Frenchified than he had naked. The little pair of rectangular black glasses he stuck on his face gave the impression that I could find him eating croissants and reading French literary theory at some outdoor cafe, during the daylight hours. He followed me up the stairs, out of The Cellar, and into the muggy Toronto summer night. At the Wellesley stop light, he stood beside me with his hands in his pocket, looking somewhat sheepish. It seemed we were both headed in the same direction, and I thought he was perhaps a little embarrassed to be seen with me in the street’s lights. At the subway stop I paused when he did. We faced each other a little awkwardly for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shook his head, and smiled. I smiled back at him. “Thanks. And have a nice night,” I told him in benediction, before entering the station, with its rush of noise and air from the speeding train below. Then I watched him turn, wave, and continue his walk down the street. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There’s a certain breed of guy who lurks on the online hookup sites. His profile contains several carefully-chosen photos of himself—face, torso, ass, whatever—and a minimum of information. He’ll engage in conversation, particularly if you tell him he has a beautiful face, torso, ass, or whatever, and make the vaguest of noises about meeting sometime. Enough noises to keep hope alive, or keep you on the hook, but not enough ever actually to commit. He’s the kind of guy, in other words, who seems to be online looking for some kind of validation from others. Validation that he’s pretty enough, sexy enough, fuckable enough. He enjoys hearing the compliments, especially from the guys he finds attractive. He rarely hooks up, though. I’m not fond of those men, myself. They’re the styrofoam peanuts you have to dig through in order to find the elusive delivery inside. Like the peanuts, they’re messy and clingy and all over the place. But you know, my philosophy is that someone else can tell me what I can and can’t do with one of my online profiles when they’re playing my monthly fee to belong to that site. And since they ain’t, nay-sayers should keep their mouth shut. So I mostly do. My second night in Toronto, though, was full of those guys. I had some downtime after an early dinner in which I was cruising BBRT and coming up absolutely dry. None of the men who’d promised they’d be around and available that evening was online. One guy whom I found extraordinarily attractive talked to me for a good fifteen minutes about how he was close by and wanted me to come over, and was I interested? Heck yes, I was interested. Sounds like I could be there in five minutes, I wrote him. Give me your address. Then nothing. He'd been responding within seconds to every other note we'd swapped, but though his profile said he was still online, he didn't communicate at all. It was over an hour before I got a response back. During that time I went from a mindset of Oh, he’ll be writing back soon to Maybe he’s in the shower, getting ready, to Fucker. When finally he did get back to me, he told me that he had to clean up and get ready, and that it would be maybe an hour and fifteen minutes more, would that be okay? It was not okay. Sorry, but no. Good luck, I replied. During that long waiting time, I discovered that my BBRT profile had shot up to the most-viewed profile of the day. It’s happened to me enough times that it’s not a novelty—usually when I’m traveling and I’m the ‘fresh meat’ in a new big city—but it’s always a pleasant surprise when it does. The site displays your photo on its front page, and my experience has been that your mailbox simply explodes with people telling you how hot you are. Not just the local guys, but men all over the world. On one level it’s kind of gratifying to know that at this point in the site’s history, just about as many people have looked at my profile as have looked at porn star Brad McGuire’s. On another level, when you’re alone by yourself in a hotel room, having extricated yourself from your travel companions in order to do a little screwing, having over two hundred guys singing your praises without actually offering to take your dick gets to be frustrating to the point of actual comedy. Then finally a local guy messaged me. His profile photos were hot to the point of intimidation—they showed a starkly handsome thirty-five year old with pronounced, angular features. His intense eyes seemed to bore out of the computer screen. The soul patch beneath his lower lip was the only hair on his shaved head. His body was buff and muscular and made him look like an adult industry model. He could have been, for all I knew, the way he posed in his photos in nothing but boots and skin covered in ink. He looked hard. Like a bad boy. Dangerous. Come fuck me, he said, naming the cross-streets to which he was closest. Now. The frightened part of me that comes to life whenever I’m intimidated by a man’s good looks wrote my reply. You realize I’m not built like you, right? You’re hot, he wrote back. Come over. When he gave me his address, I realized that if I didn’t follow through on this one, I would be one of those men who hung around on the site looking for validation, instead of action. So I obeyed. His apartment was expensive and furnished similarly. It looked as if a decorator had swept through only moments before, adjusting the glass vases of flowers and wiping the last fingerprints from the glass dining table. And there was Mr. Dangerous on the living room sofa, on his knees with his ass in the air. There was enough light for me to see one of his hands playing with his sizeable dick, while the other rubbed his hole. “Come in,” he said in a brusque, deep voice. “Get comfortable.” I kicked off my sneakers on my walk over to him. I almost expected him to be in a druggy haze, but he was lucid and clear-headed. “You like what you see?” “Oh hell yeah,” I said into the quiet. “It’s all yours. You rim?” I didn’t have to be asked twice. I went down on my knees and separated those beautiful butt cheeks with my hands so I could bury my face inside. He grunted and shifted his weight from knee to knee as I sucked away at his hole. His hairy balls and the base of his dick kept banging against my chin as he gyrated away. “Fuck,” he said. “I fucking needed this. Guys always want me to top. I love topping, but sometimes I really need to be stretched out and bred by a big one. You know?” I couldn’t honestly say I did. It didn’t matter, though, because suddenly he wheeled around on the sofa. We were face to face, both of us on our knees. Without warning, he pulled my face to his and began making out with me. The guy wasn’t the greatest of kissers, but the shock of finding my fuzzy beard pressed against his handsome face made it hot. “You rim great,” he growled at me. “Now let’s see how you fuck.” I tend to get rock-hard when I eat ass, especially for an extended period of time. When I stood up to let him slather my dick with the lube he had on the coffee table, I was dripping with precum. “Stick it in there,” he said, leaping around to present his ass once more. “Rip it up. Make me feel it.” He was still talking like that when I pushed against his hole and began to slide in. “Yeah, fucking big dick. Rape this tiny hole. Make me fucking feel it stretching my pussy.” When I reached the base, he let out a long, almost unending sigh, like a balloon deflating slowly. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s what I needed.” “Feel good?” I asked. It did to me. The guy’s hole was warm and tight and inviting. I could have stayed in there a long time. He shook his head as if clearing stars from his eyes. “Fuck yeah. Feels great, man.” Mr. Dangerous held himself upright and craned his neck over his shoulder so we could kiss again. Then I pushed him down so I could fuck him on all fours. For a good ten minutes I slid in and out of his hole, figuring out what he liked best. He responded the most whenever I pull out all the way and plunge in again, or tease him by moving only the first two inches in and out of his hole. “I can feel that big head stretching my boypussy wide open, fucker,” he groaned. “Give it to me, daddy.” It might have been that he was figuring out what buttons of mine to push as well, because the daddy-talk got more pronounced and nastier the longer I fucked. I felt like my skin was flushed and prickly; every hair on my arms and neck seemed to be standing on edge the closer I got to climax. “Big daddy dick invading my little hole,” he muttered, with his head hanging low to the sofa. “Fucking me like a real man fucks. Giving his boy what he needs. Fuck. Give it to me, Please give it all to me, daddy. I need it. I want it. Give it to me.” It was to that muttered supplication that I unloaded inside him, grunting noisily and letting almost-painful rasps of air from deep within my lungs. He urged me on through the last spurt. Then he said, “Stay inside—please don’t pull out. Don’t pull out. I gotta feel that load inside me. I love your daddy dick stretch me—oh fuck . . . fuck . . . .” He came like a bronco, bucking and jerking and thrashing around so violently that not only did my dick flop out of him, but a rope of my cum squirted out of his hole and onto the floor as well. He managed to catch his own load before it hit the expensive upholstery, though, and knelt there for a moment, panting. Still out of breath, he hopped onto his feet, grabbed a hand towel from the coffee table, and offered it to me. Then he took another for himself and wiped off his face and bald skull with it. “Fuck. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, laughing. “I needed that bad. You ever get the feeling that you need a good fuck to sort you out, but you can’t find one to save your life?” My mouth wrinkled in wry agreement. I knew that feeling well. I did indeed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In his profile he described himself as muscular, piggy-minded, handsome, versatile, and a great attitude. His photos portrayed a well-built guy with a round bubble butt posing in tight underwear, or standing in front of his sling in a casual posed, arms clutching onto the frame in a way that showed off his guns. But photos sometimes lie, you know. Or they might have been true at one point, but when you show up to the guy’s place, you find out he’s aged a good fifteen years and fifty pounds since. The hotel where I was staying in Toronto this last weekend was a little bit off the beaten track; it was downtown, but not in the direct epicenter of gay nightlife. I was convinced I’d hate the location, but I actually didn’t. A subway stop lay nearby, so all I had to do to get anywhere was step out of the hotel’s leaded-glass front door, walk across the street and a half-block north, and I could get where I needed to be within ten or fifteen minutes. When I walked to the muscle guy’s address from the College station stop, crowds were streaming to and from Church Street, where the Friday night Pride parties had begun. Although the soundstage was several blocks away, the bass pounded my ribcage so loudly that it made me feel a little breathless. I made it past Church Street and the piano bar to the guy’s high-rise, where he buzzed me in and gave me his apartment number. To my relief, when he answered the door, he was exactly as he’d appeared in his ad. Beefy, handsome, bald, and beaming at the sight of me. “Wow, you’re tall,” were his first words. “Handsome, too.” My first words, logically, should’ve been man, you’re short! His photos hadn’t given much indication as to his height, but my first Toronto trick was a short little dude. Well-proportioned, certainly, and handsome as well, but he still topped out only at about five-foot-five. I couldn’t believe the muscles on him, though, or the perfect shininess of his bald head. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a mighty squeeze. “Nice to meet you,” I said. I leaned down, and brought my mouth to his. His lips parted slightly to accommodate mine, and we kissed. It was a good kiss—wet and soft, with enough tongue to make me respond with passion. He fell back against his hallway wall with a thud, craning his neck to make out with me for a moment. “Wow,” he said softly. Then, “Come on in.” The apartment was tiny—despite a closed bedroom door, it was barely a step above an efficiency. The view of Church Street directly below couldn’t be rivaled, though. Music and the sounds of the crowd drifted up a dozen stories over his balcony rails and into the dark living room, where my new friend was removing his muscle-T and stripping down to a black jock. Before I’d arrived he’d laid out several towels on his futon. Now he hopped up on top of them and beckoned me over. “Let me see that big dick,” he said. I obliged. My hands pulled at the denim of my jeans and popped open first the button, and then lowered the zipper. My friend licked his lips a little in anticipation. “Fuck,” he said, when it flopped out. “That’s way bigger than eight.” I shrugged. I didn’t think so. I’d shaved my nuts and trimmed my pubes before I’d left for Toronto, though, so that might have contributed to the impression. I’m not over-concerned with my size in general. I’m bigger than most, smaller than a lot, and fortunate to have a piece that attracts attention wherever I go. That’s really all the inches I need. What did matter to me was his mouth, which was wet, warm, and more than willing. He gobbled at my dick like a starving man, slobbering over it, fighting with his own inhibitions and throat to take all of it down. I let my camo shorts fall to my ankles, then stepped out of them while he sucked and slurped. He didn’t notice when I removed my T-shirt and shivered slightly in the breeze of the room fan. “God.” His eyes were glazed with lust and desire when he looked up at me. “That dick is fucking amazing.” “It will be,” I promised. I lowered myself onto the sofa on top of him, grinding my meat against his pecs as the two of us made out some more. The man was really a very good kisser. I could have lain atop him and enjoyed the taste of his lips for hours. I had other plans, though, and limited time before the man’s boyfriend arrived home. With my hands I indicated that he should flip over. Without hesitation he presented his ass to me. I ran my palms over the perfect globes. He let out a sigh and rested his forehead against the sofa cushions, anticipating my lips against his hole. I didn’t deny him the pleasure for long. His ass tasted of soap and clean, natural sweat; the light hairs growing around it lingered on my tongue as I sucked on it. Whenever I blew a column of cool air on the wet skin, he gasped and arched his back. Soon he was ready to fuck. “I’m going to need a lot of lube,” he gasped out. “I’m always very tight—aaaahh.” I’d already lubed him plenty with my mouth. A bit more spit on my dick was all I needed. “Oh fuck . . . fuck . . . yes. Maybe I was wrong about the lube,” he breathed. I know how to judge when a man needs more lube, and when he doesn’t. I know when he’s ready to be fucked, and when he’s had enough. That’s why I get paid the big bucks. I helped the guy’s tight and muscled body down onto the futon and mounted him with my knees on either side of his, and began to glide in and out. All through the first fuck he was extremely vocal. “Oh my god,” he kept saying, in a voice of wonder. “Oh my god. I haven’t . . . it's been too long. . . .” Gradually, as my pace and vigor increased, he was reduced to little whimperings. His hands reached for a pillow high above his head. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. Please. Please.” For a good twenty-five minutes I fucked him. I made him squat on it, so that I could sit upright with him and make out as I ground my dick in his hole while we made out. I perched him at the sofa’s edge and drove in from behind. I even took him out on the balcony and made him clutch the rail while we fucked in the darkness outside. We were on the sofa, fucking doggie-style, when I realized how close I was. I leaned down and nipped at his ear, and then whispered into it, “You know I’m going to breed you.” “Yes,” he said, his breath catching. “Ask for it,” I told him. “Please breed me.” “Ask me nicely.” “Please. Please breed me.” His voice had been weak and submissive, but suddenly grew steely and demanding. “Mark me,” he commanded. That was what I needed to hear. My dick unleashed, flooding cum in his guts. I almost accidentally fell out before I was done, and had to shove deep inside to deposit the rest of the load there. He twitched, and shuddered, just as I did during the last throes of the orgasm. “Oh fuck,” he said, when I pulled out. There was something in the tone of his voice that made me ask what was wrong. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just rock hard. I never get hard when I’m being fucked. I mean, absolutely never.” I sat down and pulled one leg beneath me, and settled him so that he was lying down with his head on my chest. I reached down and stroked his dick, which was small, but hard and dripping with precum. “Why not?” “Because I—I just don’t,” he said. “Most guys with big dicks like yours just pound away but leave me feeling dead. You—fuck.” His eyes were wet with tears. He bit his lip. “Thank you.” “What’s the matter?” I asked, moved by his obvious emotion. “That was fucking transformative,” he said. “I haven’t had anyone fuck me like that in a long, long time. Seriously. Believe me.” He was still on the point of tears, and turned his head so that I wouldn’t see his embarrassment. With my hand I turned his handsome bald head back to face mine, and then covered his lips with mine. “It’s okay,” I told him, still squeezing his leaking meat. “Do you mind if I shoot?” he asked. “When I don’t get hard with other guys. . . .” “Of course I don’t mind,” I assured him. And that’s how he shot that night, lying in my arms while I made out with him and squeezed his nipples. His orgasm was violent and noisy, blocking out the sounds of thousands of people and the heaviest of bass beats with his own shouting and buckling and expletives, when finally he shot. Most men stop kissing, once they’ve cum. My little muscle stud grew hungrier, relaxing into me completely as we continued to make out for long, long minutes in the sticky summer night. “I’ve got one observation, and one question,” he said, when at last our mouths separated. “What’s that?” He looked up at me. “Your dick is still hard.” I nodded, and assumed that was the observation. “Do you still have enough left in you to go again?” If that was the question, it was a question I could answer readily. “Absolutely.” Then I showed him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (While I'm on the road today, enjoy these old dirty photographs of mine from 2001.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Just because I'm on vacation doesn't mean I can't carry on with the tradition of Sunday Morning Questions. As always, if you have any questions you'd like to ask, feel free to address them on my formspring.me page. I'll answer just about anything that I haven't answered before, or that isn't too invasive about my home life. you ever make it to Atlanta? just discovered your blog and would love to service you if your travels ever take you here My mom's family lived in Atlanta, so I know the city well. I haven't been down there much recently, though. The last time was three years ago. I'm always open to being serviced! Is The "Mark" story real? it looks dramatic at the end I don't make up stories for my journal. Yes, it really happened. Hi Breeder, I am new to your blog. First congratulations, it is fantastic and very hot. How would you react to your son, as a teenager, following a similar liberated, approach to sex (and unprotected sex) with men or women. Would you discourage him? I think too many parents these days prefer their children take no risks at all. It's easier to manage people when they never step out of line. I sympathize with the impulse. It's easy to want to overprotect your children. Life is far from risk-free, and shouldn't be risk-free. Consequences come from risk--some utterly beneficial and worthwhile, others tragic. My personal philosophy, which I hope I've passed on, is that life is all about educating oneself about risks, assessing what the potential benefits are versus the hazards, and making choices with eyes wide open. I, of all people, am not under the illusion that adolescents are sexually inactive until the day they're of age, when some switch is thrown and an internal generator begins to thrum. If he's picked up anything from my sex education talks, it'd be that sex is a fine and fun way for people to express their feelings for each other, and that the pleasures are also counterbalanced by issues of health, safety, decency, and simple human consideration. Have you ever had sex while sleeping (I know it sounds odd, but it is technically possible)? Was it consensual? Well, kind of. When I was a poor graduate student, I used to see a guy who would pay for an evening of companionship with groceries. He was from Spain originally, and very courtly and gentlemanly, and although I'd spend an entire evening and spend the night, he never did anything before the lights went out. Like clockwork at four in the morning, though, he'd wake up and beat the hell out of my butt cheeks, then fuck them while they were still red and stinging. The first couple of times it happened I was shocked. After the third time, I sort of would just stay three-quarters asleep for it and let him do his business. Do you use lube when you jerk off? how about when you bottom? I don't usually use lube when I jerk off, although I produce plenty to self-lubricate. The times I've bottomed, there was plenty of lube, believe me. Have you ever had sex with an offshore oil-rig worker? Not knowingly. I'm 18 and never been breeded before would you fuck me good? Absolutely. Visit me. Do you watch SVU? Would you do Chris Meloni (the guy who plays Stabler)? Chris Meloni is the only reason I put up with multiple seasons of the grisly prison drama, Oz. That man can lick a metal spoon and melon-ball my hole anytime. You've mentioned that you believe that there is a clear difference between emotional monogamy and sexual monogamy. Some would disagree, suggesting that they are one and the same, or, at least, equally egregious. My question is, do you believe that emotio I don't know where your question was leading, but let me assure you that I'm aware that for many people, emotional and sexual monogamy are entwined. I respect that. I simply suggest they don't woo someone like me, who disentangles the two. I also request that both ideals recognize that they can coexist side by side. Just probably not in the same relationship. Damn. Hate it when that happens. My question was, do you believe that emotional unfaithfulness is "wrong," so to speak? And if so, what do you do when you become emotionally attached to one of your fucks (assuming that you have...)? You're only going to be 'unfaithful' if you're lying to your partner about being emotionally attached, or infatuated, or having a crush upon someone else. If you're in a relationship in which you've agreed upon certain rules and boundaries, and you cross that line, that's when the concept of 'unfaithfulness' occurs. In my opinion, anyway. Now, if you're in a traditional monogamous relationship, that line is going to be drawn the moment that you start fucking around with someone else, or searching for someone to fuck with. If you're in an open relationship and there's leeway to be had, the line is more flexible, depending upon what the two partners have agreed upon. I've become emotionally attached to several men throughout the years. The relationships have been sweet and tender, and the sex wild and intimate. Was I unfaithful? Not according to the lines drawn in my relationship over the years. There's no real black-and-white answer here. It's all an issue of your partnership and its boundaries, or if it's never been discussed, how much you choose to live with. Don't you think? I need some advice, say you meet someone and right off he tells you not to get attached to him it's all about the sex. A couple of months have gone by and you've spent 95% of your free time with him but he randomly says don't get attached. I'd take him at his word. It may be that he's amended his original statement so that you're doing more than sex, but if he's telling you not to get attached two months in, you're not going to do yourself any favors if you're harboring romantic fantasies about a guy who isn't ready to take it to the next level. If you're having fun, though, why not enjoy it for what it is? will you ever make some more and, importantly, longer videos of you fucking? Man, go for two weeks without a new video and you get hounded! The only way I have of recording video is either with my digital camera or my iPhone, neither of which is ideal for extended clips. Also for some reason, not every guy I know wants to be videoed taking my dick. I know, crazy, right? But I'd like to make some longer movies. Damn I'm 18 too and want to be bred by you. Any plans to visit New York City any time soon? Where are all the 18-year-olds in my state? I do visit NYC from time to time and usually stay midtown, but I don't have plans to visit at this time. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Yesterday's trip down memory lane made me think of another Bijou I've visited in the past: Chicago's Bijou Theater, a dirty movie house/cruisy gloryhole maze/clothes-on bathhouse where I've had more than a few good times. In 2002 I wrote the following entry about it, when I visited the place with my friend Matt. Enjoy it, while I'm on the road in Toronto! At the intersection of Wells and Goethe--the latter seems appropriate somehow--is an old one-story garage built, I'm guessing, sometime around 1925. The outside is all white polished stone, while heraldic emblems and Notre Dame-like gargoyles thickly cluster around the top of the facade. There are some tame birds staring blankly away from each other, and some unremarkable lions roaring from shields. The real stars of the garage's architecture, however, are the animals sitting at the bottom of the pillars at eye level: rabbits and monkeys, their eyes wide and plainly terrified of something. But of what? Horseless carriages? The humans walking by? Both species have their paws stuffed in their mouths, as if gnawing on their fingernails. I love those monkeys. Jutting down over the centers of the garage door openings are gargoyles of a store. With their long necks and their dog-like faces, they remind me an awful lot of the sock puppet that used to be the spokesman for pets.com. Near the garage is a bar we occasionally visit when we're in town. The last time I was there I got picked up by a guy I've talked about for the three years since; he looked like Bob Villa of This Old House save that he's twenty years younger, leaner, and pretty basically all muscle and fur. "What do you think the chances are you'll see your Bob Villa guy again?" Matt asked as we walked past the sock puppet gargoyles. "Probably about the same as being struck twice by lightning," I told him. Remind me not to go out in thunderstorms. Scarcely did I get there when I saw a fellow with salt and pepper hair and a matching beard and eyes that skewered me when I walked in. I took a swig of my Pepsi and he yanked his head back to motion me into a back room. "That's Bob Villa guy," I told Matt. "No way!" I followed and saw him standing in the furthest back corner, hips jutted out to the side and his hands in his pockets. I didn't think he'd remember me, but the first thing he growled was "Fucker, it's been too long since I saw you last." The only thing I could really say was "Uh-huh," because scarcely were the words out of his mouth than he proceeded to strip out of all his clothes. Then he pulled off my belt and yanked down my jeans. I wasn't wearing anything underneath. On my own I pulled the front of my henley shirt over my head. So there he was, beautiful body displayed for everyone in the back room to see, wearing nothing but his boots, while I was mostly naked save for the shirt hiked back around my neck and my Doc Martens. Did we ever put on a show. Sexually it was pretty mild--mostly we made out, chewed on each other's nipples, and sucked while barking out orders and appreciative comments to each other. But it was sweatin', growlin', swearin', pullin', chewin', gropin', butt-slappin' stuff. The scene could've been filmed for porn. Convincingly aggressive though it was, it was obvious to both of us that neither of us took it too seriously. I think we're both pretty much hams. We did a lot of it, though, and we did it in front of a highly appreciative crowd of about fifteen or eighteen guys crowding around to watch at any given time. I emerged about forty-five minutes later, a sheepish grin on my face. "Jeez," Matt said, shaking his head and pretending not to grin. "Are you like that all the time?" "I couldn't help it," I told him. "I just like that Bob Villa guy." The funniest part of the evening came after several members of my audience helped me get dressed again. I was crossing the room when I passed a guy on his knees kneeling between the legs of another guy. He was holding his cell phone to his ear with one hand and working on his trick's cock with the other. Despite all the juggling he was doing, he beckoned me over and began playing with my dick, too. "Listen, honey," he was saying into the phone with an impatient voice. "I'll be home in a few minutes." A pause. "I'm out, that's where I am." Another pause. "None of your fucking business . I'm just out." Another pause. "God damn, woman, I'll get home when I get home. Jesus Christ , can't a guy just come home a little late from work?" Still he pumped away with his other hand. When he wasn't speaking, his mouth was slurping on my dick. "Fuck, stop calling me. I'm hanging up now. I'll get home when I get home." Immediately after the wayward husband ended the call, the other guy shot all over him. The guy cleaned it off of himself with a hand and shook it onto the floor so he could suck me off as well. He'd just hit the base of my dick when the phone chimed again. "God damn it!" he yelled into the receiver after punching the button savagely. " Just go ahead and eat without me! " More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (I'm on the road in Toronto this week, but I wrote this memory of one of my favorite Toronto haunts, so that you won't forget about me while I'm gone.) At the end of a dreary sidewalk running down the side of an industrial building lay a red door illuminated by a stark, single lightbulb hanging unadorned overhead. The door led to a steep staircase leading into the building’s cellar, where behind an old-fashioned ticket-taker’s booth lay at the foot. A couple of toonies and a loonie, and he’d buzz you through the black door beyond. And once you stepped through through that door, everything changed. The Bijou in Toronto—now sadly closed—was one of my favorite nighttime haunts in that city in days past. It was seedy, and scandalous, and catered to a crowd too impatient to play the cruising game at the nearby bars on Church Street, or men who didn’t want to invest the energy in disrobing at one of the local bathhouses. When I discovered it in the nineties, it actually was a bar; a well-lit central area hosted bartenders and television screens playing ancient gay porn, where men would sit and drink before vanishing into the darkness around the cellar’s perimeter and getting dirty with other guys. Police raids at the end of the decade forced the owners to close the bar and declare themselves a bathhouse. It didn’t matter to me. I wasn’t there for the drinks. The Bijou had a lot of sprawling spaces for men to play. There was an obligatory steam room that I never saw saw anyone use; one had to stoop down low and crawl under a partition to get to it—and for a bathhouse in which no one ever removed his clothes, a steam room was a silly proposition at best. Late in its career, the establishment expanded to the first floor and featured a dark maze of glory holes and gloomy corners, where men wandered and would reach out to touch the men who seemed attractive in the perpetual dusk, hoping to draw them closer. There were chains of booths where men who had coupled off would withdraw and fuck, to be watched through by curious eyes through holes in every door and wall. There were a couple of movie rooms where guys would watch porn and relax with a pop, or make eye contact and discreetly stand up and move to a more private, darker section. There were two areas I usually hung out. One was the slurp ramp, and the other was the dark room. The slurp ramp occupied the largest of the basement rooms. The only light came from a television monitor playing porn next to the entrance, which in later years was a hanging of military camouflage draping. In the room’s center was the slurp ramp, a platform a few feet from the ground with stairs in its middle and two booths at its front. If you stepped up on the platform, you’d find a partition that ran slightly taller than waist-high, with holes drilled at crotch level. The platform was constructed so that there was a tight, dark corridor along the three sides at the room’s farthest end. When the Bijou was busy, that little corridor would fill up with men jostling and fighting for position at one of the holes, which were at mouth level for those at the floor. Anyone who wanted his dick sucked would step up on the platform survey the seething masses of men below, and stick his cock through the hole and almost immediately into a warm, waiting mouth. I played both sides of the slurp ramp, many times, but it was standing up on the platform I liked best—being on display, being argued over, even fought for. If one mouth was too toothy, or the guy was a lousy suck, or even if I just felt bored and wanted to try something different, I could walk to the ramp’s other side and find a new, wet anonymous mouth for my meat. The variety was never-ending. The dark room was even more to my liking. Around a corner, through a series of hallways and rooms with no lights that grew progressively darker, was an old cement room that was pitch black by the time you reached it. Only by feel could you tell it was perhaps fifteen by fifteen feet square; a wooden rail was hammered into the floor around the perimeter, on which it was possible to perch one’s heels. The only light that ever entered that room was when someone brought a lit cigarette in, or struck a match; the brightness from those tiny sources of illumination, after a while, seemed blinding. There’s nothing I didn’t do in that back room. I’d stand there with my dick hard and running down the leg of my jeans, or pulled out of my shorts and hard in my hands, and wait. I’d hear footsteps and see the vague shadow of someone approaching through the antechamber. They’d enter, and feel their way around to an empty spot on the wall. Then I’d feel a hand grope me, or a mouth on my neck, searching for my own. Sometimes I’d feel a hand on my ass, turning me around and parting my ass cheeks. Sometimes the hand would pull me down and beneath, pulling me into a greased and sloppy hole. Often I had multiple men on me. I remember one occasion in which I was making out with a tall man with a beard, while two other men each sucked at one of my nipples, a fourth man slobbered on my dick, and a spectator had two of his fingers up my ass. If men entered and heard the grunting sounds of copulation in one of the corners, they’d sidle up, linger, and gradually try to work themselves in on the action. Even on the coldest of Toronto nights, sometimes I’d emerge from the dark room covered with sweat and cum, trying to find a place to cool down. It was strange, how I learned to recognize the men in that dark room, blind as we all were. A man might have played with me and left for an hour or more, but when he returned I could tell who he was by the way he kissed, or the way he stroked my face to learn more about me. Sometimes I could tell by his scent—the cologne he’d worn or the soap he’d used. I remember one night returning to my hotel room on a hot June evening, at three in the morning, and looking at myself in the mirror before collapsing in bed. My shirt was covered with cum. Countless loads, dripping down the front in a dried deluge, as if someone had thrown a paint can of the stuff at my face. Proudest night of my life. I miss that place. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Earlier this week I passed something of a milestone for A Breeder’s Journal: my one hundredth entry. No plaudits necessary. I’ve kept a journal for basically thirty years now. I have an entire bookshelf devoted to my old notebooks, and that’s just through about 1995, when I started to document my life electronically. A hundred entries is a drop in the bucket. Breeder’s Readers—that catchy name I call you guys—have learned a lot about me over the last months, but I’ve learned a lot about you guys, too. After a couple of tentative steps outside my comfort zone, I learned that most of you aren’t quick to rush to judgment. You’ve been supportive when I’ve revealed a few of my frailties and burdens, and for that I thank you. And on the whole you’ve been extremely generous with your praise and your gifts of kind words. It hasn’t all been rainbows and puppy dogs, of course. There’ve been a couple of times I’ve cringed when I’ve felt I inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. I’ve had a couple of moments of anger at some of the comments I’ve gotten. I’ve learned that some of you have buttons that are easily pushed. And I made the connection yesterday that one of you unleashes with profanity and foul-mouthed insults at me whenever I’ve documented having sex with an African-American guy. That was an ugly eye-opener. I think most people respect that I’m not some soulless corporation pumping out pornography for your wanking pleasure on a daily basis, here. God knows I don't get paid for it. This is my real life I’m documenting, day by day. Sometimes it’s hotness itself. Sometimes it’s dull. Sometimes it’s even disappointing or just plain appalling. I love having my audience—I really do—and there have been times I’ve done some outrageous things just so I could write about it for you guys. But in the end, happy as I am to have you all in the passenger seat as my sidekicks, I’m still the one driving this crazy car. I love having you along for the ride, though. Now, a bit of housekeeping. I’m going to be visiting Toronto on my own for a few days over the weekend. I’m hoping to line up some entries to auto-post while I’m gone, and I’ll have my iPad with me at my hotel, so hopefully you might get some live entries while I’m on the road, or replies to emails if you send them. If I miss a day or two, however, don’t be dismayed. I’ll be back before you know it. Hopefully with some tales to tell. Toronto guys (or guys traveling there this weekend)—call me. I’ll be downtown. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Free gutter care for a year! the text message read, at ten on Monday morning. Text yes or no to this number! Yes, I texted back. When can you be here? Give me twenty minutes, the Bulldog texted back. It was his code, he’d explained earlier in the morning. The code he used with men who were attached, out of discretion. To my surprise, he’d shown up at the house in a pickup truck wearing a utility shirt, tight-fitting over his enormous chest. gutters.com, read an embroidered nametag on his chest. Either he actually did gutter work for a living, or he knew how to carry a charade to its logical extreme. I wrote about the Bulldog back in April, when I’d first met him at a hotel gangbang while I was fucking the designated bottom: The black guy came out of the bathroom naked and hard and sporting a metal cockring. He was a good looking brute with a carefully-trimmed three-day growth of beard, a barrel chest, enormous arms, and a tattoo of the Jesus Christ Superstar logo on one bicep. He didn’t so much push Mikey out of the way as take his place when Mikey stepped aside. Next thing I know, the black stud was reaching between my legs and yanking on my nuts. His thumb plunged up my ass, like a cork. The abrupt sensation could’ve done two things. It might have pulled me out of my fuck trance altogether, or it could have pushed me over the edge. I’d been fucking long enough that it did the latter. I squirted immediately while everyone urged me on in whispers. When I pulled out, the big bulldog dropped to his knees and immediately began cleaning me off. That afternoon I’d been turned on by the Bulldog so much that I actually thought there was more chemistry between him and me than there’d been between me and the bottom. My casual inquiries into the Bulldog’s identity went ignored, though, so I figured I’d never see him again save by random chance. He tracked me down on Manhunt, however, by going profile by profile through my entire suburban city until he happened upon my face; then he wrote me and told me we should get together. I was flattered, of course, that anyone would go to that much trouble to find me. “We’re both tops,” I said, trying not to sound as if I was pooh-poohing the notion. The dude was hot. Of course I wanted to get together with him. “What’re we going to do?” “I’m going to suck your dick,” he wrote back. “And you’re going to gag on mine.” Fair enough. When he unbuttoned his jeans yesterday, he exposed a pair of turquoise briefs. Papi, read the waistband. I looked up at him from my position on the wood floor of my bedroom, while he gazed steadily down at me. The fucker was handsome as he had been at the hotel, only now I wasn’t having to share him. He still had the light growth of beard, the tightly-cropped hair that was little more than a sprinkling of stubble over his skull, the tight-slitted eyes, the aggressive, cocky stance. When he plopped his dick in my face, it was soft and smelled of soap. At the base was an enormous, heavy chrome cock ring. “You like?” he asked, pulling it to the side to display it. I nodded. “I wore it for you.” I didn’t give a fuck what he’d worn, frankly. It was how fast I wanted to get his pants off that was all I could think about. I leaned forward and breathed on his dick with my mouth, stirring it to life, before my tongue flicked out to lift it up and suck it in. There’s something almost sacred about those first few moments when a dick hardens; you can feel the meat, soft and spongey, growing and separating your lips. Then you feel the flange swell and harden; the complete shaft follows as the entire dick roars into readiness. The Bulldog went from flaccid to engorged in no time flat. When I looked up at him, he was staring steadily down at me. He rang his fingers through my hair, which was overdue for cutting, and tipped my head back. “You suck good,” he told me. “Did you suck me at the hotel?” I shook my head. “Did you want to?” I nodded. I’d wanted to very badly. On the bed, he propped himself atop both pillows and lay back with his hands over his head. All I’d done was unzip so that I could play with myself while I’d sucked him in the kneeling position; he tucked the ball of his heel against my shaft and pressed his foot against my meat while I curled on my side on the bed and began servicing him. I may be a top guy, but I love to suck dick. The Bulldog’s meat was enormous. I mean, not merely huge, but fucking huge. The photo I’d seen of it in his profile made it look like a dark, shiny weapon. Up close, and between my lips, it seemed more like a blunt instrument. I couldn’t take more than three-quarters of it down my throat. Not on my own initiative, anyway. Then I felt his hands seize the back of my head, pull down as he thrust up, and grind. My furry chin grazed across his nuts; I felt my lips brush against the bristly coils of his pubic hair. He didn’t say anything as he face-fucked me. I could’ve been a sex toy to him, for all the attention he gave me. To be honest, I was fine with that. I wanted my mouth used. I loved the sensation of his shaft as it thrust in and out, mashing my lips until it felt as if my teeth had made a permanent and painful groove in their back. He was thick—far thicker than I. So thick that after ten minutes, my jaw felt as if it would give out. Tears sprang to my eyes as he continued relentlessly to fuck my mouth. As if he sensed my pain, the Bulldog withdrew abruptly. Not to have that enormous dick in my mouth was almost more excruciating. I wasn’t without it long, though. Without a word, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me down onto my back, so that my head was hanging over the bed’s edge. His feet thudded as they hit the bedroom floor. My jaw opened. Almost immediately I was rewarded with more dick, sliding in and out of my throat as deep as he could stab it. He was in complete control now. He set the pace with a quick, even thrusting, not seeming to care that I was sometimes gasping for breath when he’d pause at the base and make me choke on his meat. My nostrils were covered by his sack; the blood in my head was making me giddy. The only noises he made were little sighs of contentment and grunts of pleasure. I, on the other hand, was reduced to strangulated whimpers that only seemed to increase his girth. My jaw had ached before from being stretched so wide, but now the pain was so intense that I felt it could never stop. I didn’t complain, though. I’d asked for this. I’d wanted it from him. I could only imagine what a hole would feel like, under assault from such a weapon. After long minutes he withdrew. His dick curved down to meet my face, and a long, sticky rope of my saliva connected it to my lips. He picked me up like a doll and threw me onto my back so that my head just missed the pillows. The Bulldog stared at me for a moment, and then went down between my legs. He sucked even more aggressively than I had, taking my dick to the root. His thumb probed for my hole, but he didn’t do more than graze the outside—he tickled it tenderly. His other fingers toyed with my nuts. “Oh, fuck,” I moaned. My legs shuddered, and my back arched. Part of me couldn’t believe I was being rewarded this way. His sucking didn’t last long. The next thing I knew, he was straddling me, holding himself over me with one fist on either side of my shoulders. His narrow, slitted eyes stared into mine, but he didn’t say anything. When I looked down, I could see his rock-hard dick pointing directly at me; my own cock leapt up to meet it, butting briefly against the head. His right hand left the mattress and traveled over my head. My forehead first, where he brushed away the lanky strands covering it. Then my scalp, where his fingers gently, sweetly ran his fingers through my hair. Without warning, he tilted his head to the side, and covered my mouth with his own. The Bulldog hadn’t kissed me at the hotel—he hadn’t kissed anyone. He’d not made any move to bring our mouths together when I’d greeted him at the door a few minutes before, or anytime since. I’d mentally decided he was one of those men who never kissed, in fact. But oh, he knew how. His hand cupped my jaw as I responded by pulling him down onto me so that I could feel the full weight of his body upon mine. My legs opened and wrapped around him; I could feel his brick-hard cock butting up against my pelvis and seemingly piercing the flesh above the bone. His hand moved to the back of my head, mashing me harder against his lips, pulling me into him until my lips felt bruised and red. His tongue invaded my mouth, making me lose control of my body. I clung to him like a baby, not wanting to let go. He showed no signs of wanting to stop, either. It was as if that first kiss loosed a flood of passion he’d left unexpressed for far too long. He let it drench me, and I gladly drowned in it. The kissing erased any pain left in my jaw from nearly a half hour of being brutally face-fucked. I felt renewed. Repaired. Ageless. When the kissing ended, he said nothing, but stared into my eyes again. The corners of his mouth curled into the slightest of smiles. He planted his lips in the center of my forehead and left there a soft impression, and then put my head on the pillows and straddled my chest. I knew what was coming. With his fingers he pulled down my jaw. That enormous, meaty cock of his pushed in between my lips and tunneled down my throat. He held it there, as if emphasizing his complete dominion over me. Finally he spoke. “You want my nut?” I gulped. It was all I could do. “You ready?” I looked up at him and nodded. During that final assault, I kept my hand wrapped around his shaft. “Wet it up,” he kept saying. “Wet it up, baby.” My fingers kept a tight hold on his dick as he pistoned in and out. He lifted his hands above his head and gave me the perfect shot from below of his muscular torso. His head lifted once to the ceiling as he gave in to the sensations he was feeling, and then his eyes locked with mine. I know how long the home stretch lasted by the clock—a good twelve minutes. It seemed like an eternity to me, in the best of ways. I lost all sense of self. I was only a mouth. A thing of utility. A brainless hole, having the living shit pounded out of it. All the aches, the little pains, the uncomfortableness vanished in the sexual heat, and I was happy to be taken out of myself. When he came, he flooded my mouth with shot after shot of cum. It was bitter, and tasted of metal, but I didn’t care. It was his, and I wanted it. He waited until I’d swallowed it all to withdraw, and then to lay beside me. I couldn’t move. Nor did I want to. His hand moved to my head again, gently stroking my hair. “So who plays the piano?” he asked, breaking the silence after five minutes. “I do.” My throat croaked into use, and I realized how stretched and battered it really was. “You play for church, or what?” “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly for myself. Sometimes for some of the local schools, when they need an accompanist.” “What kind of music?” I was flattered at his interest. “Classical, mostly,” I told him. My jaw ached dully, as if I hadn’t used it for talking in years. He clearly wanted more of an answer, though. “I like Beethoven. Schumann is a favorite. And for the kids—well, it’s the kind of shit that kids sing in school. You know.” “Itsy-bitsy spider?” “Well, someone has to play the itsy-bitsy spider song to them, right?” He laughed at that, and cupped the very top of my head with his palm like a basketball. “Rocking chair, rocking chair,” he sang to me, in a surprisingly pleasant tenor. “You know that one?” I shook my head and grinned. “My first grade teacher. She taught it to us. Nobody ever heard it, though. Rocking chair, rocking chair, I like to sit in my rocking chair.” He curled his body around mine and lay on his side, so that his mouth was near my ear. Softly, he continued singing. “Back and forth, counting sheep, until my rocking chair puts me to sleep.” I hadn’t shot during our sex together, but the hum in my ear vibrated through my body, leaving me abuzz with pleasure. It was better than any orgasm. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the sound of his voice. If I had to endure nearly an hour of brutal mouth-fucking to have the Bulldog tenderly serenade me a childhood ditty about a rocking chair, it was but a small price to pay. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here For a Sunday morning, the hallway of the Marriott was quieter than I expected. I’d anticipated a hustle and bustle of patrons eager to make their way down to breakfast, or wrestling with their luggage in an effort to make a flight. Instead, the hotel’s fourth floor was silent, save for the rattle and hum of the ice machine near the elevators. I padded down the hall’s thick carpeting until I reached room 437. The door was cracked, as I’d told the man it should be. The security bar had been flipped around. Its round end poked between the door and its frame, as if the occupant had stepped out for a moment to fetch a soft drink from the vending machines. I pushed the door open, and slipped into the darkness. The man had done his best to get the room as dark as possible. He’d crushed the bottom of the drapes to prevent the morning sun from squeaking through the cracks, and turned out every lamp in the room. The only light came from a glowing laptop on the table across from the bed. On the mattress itself lay the man I’d be fucking. His legs were spread, his knees bent, like the upside-down opening of a vase of black glass. Though his waist was narrow and his torso trim, his ass was large and muscular. His profile said he was twenty-five; I might have suspected he was a good seven years younger, just from the leanness of his hips and the tautness of his skin. Two twin globes of dark flesh, quivering and grinding in the laptop's blue glow, waiting for me to make my move. I was in no hurry. Around the edge of the bed I stalked, taking slow and deliberate steps. His head was cropped close, and he kept his face buried in the bedspread. The bed was so neatly made I wondered if he’d slept in it at all, the night before. I didn’t say a word. Both the bottom and the bed sighed in unison when finally I knelt with one knee on the edge. My index and middle finger, upturned and curled, entered the cleft of his dark-skinned ass and dug for the hole. I didn’t raise my eyebrows to find he’d already slathered his ass with lube, inside and out. What did surprise me was the sheer heat rising from inside. Perhaps the air conditioning made the difference more electric, but he felt as if he could burn me. I placed my other knee on the bed, and shoved my legs up against his so that the groin of my camo shorts was close to his ass. “You want my white dick, don’t you?” I asked into the silence. He immediately began to reposition himself, trying to turn so he could face me, but I shoved him back down. “I didn’t say you could look at me.” He paused for a moment, as if he might try again. Then he subsided, burrowing his forehead into the blanket, submissive and obedient. “That’s better,” I told him. Then I unzipped. When he’d emailed me the day before, the man had gotten right to the point in one of his early emails. I have two things to ask, he said. The first is I ask that you stay completely clothed the whole time, including shoes. You can leave off the underwear to make it easier to pull out your big cock, but otherwise totally clothed...I want to be the only one naked and exposed, i find it makes me feel more sub. I would also ask that you fuck me from behind. I fantasize about a big-cocked stranger simply walking in, puling his cock out of his fly, and staring fucking my throat and ass, without even bothering to get undressed....HUGE thrill for me. Please. I need to be totally sub. What’s the second thing? I'd written back. When he had told me, I hadn't been surprised. I left on my high-top Converse and my camo shorts. I’d worn a gray athletic T-shirt that hung around my hips. My dick was already rock-hard from the sight of the man’s muscular body. The sight of my stiff rod parting his charcoal-black ass and sliding on in made me pump pre-cum like a spigot. He gasped at the invasion; his head reared back so that I could see his high forehead and the almost-straight hairline defining it. His eyes remained closed, though. I pushed down between his shoulder blades and pinned him to the bed as I slid all the way in. My zipper raked against his ass as I reached the base. I knew he could feel the cold teeth biting and nipping, because I made sure to grind and catch the sensitive flesh. Once I was in, I rammed a little harder, just to make sure he felt it, and I forced my dick to swell. The cotton of my clothes pressed against his naked skin as I lay atop him so that my lips pressed against his ear. He smelled of soap, and the mildest of sweats. “Do you feel it?” He said something muffled into the pillows. “I didn’t hear you,” I growled, and shoved in again, hard. “I said, do you feel it?” Then I used the word, just as he’d asked. His second thing. He reacted violently and submissively. At the sound of the two guttural syllables, his back arched. His ass rose into the air, and seemed to deepen. His hips swiveled, and tried to shoulder the burden of my weight and take me in past the root. He groaned. “Oh god,” he said. He buried his face in his elbow. Then, at a pianissimo, “Thank you. Thank you.” “You like this dick?” “Yes,” he said. “You like this big white strange dick up your shitter?” “I love your big white dick.” The words came out haltingly. “I need your big white dick. I need your cum. I need it so bad.” I slapped him with the word again as I rose to my knees and started to thrust. He cried out as if he were cumming, so I reached down to see if fluid was gushing from his dick. He was thick, and his meat was hot in my hand, but as slick as it was from pre-cum, he hadn’t shot yet. For a good ten minutes I fucked him, thrusting in and out and putting him through his paces. I knelt on one knee and positioned my right foot so that it was planted on the mattress, and forced him to lick and kiss my sneakers. I used the word like a cudgel, striking him with it again and again, beating him with it on the most sensitive parts of his body in order to watch the flesh pimple and rise. I battered him with it as I worked his hole into a raw pulp surrounded by skin chewed by my open zipper. Just as he’d asked. When I shot, I held my head at the back of his head and thrust it violently into the mattress, rough enough that it should have left the blanket’s stitching impressed on his cheek. “Take it,” I ordered him, using the word liberally. “Take my cum. It’s what you wanted.” He responded with gasps and chokes. My dick flopped out of his ass when I was done, slapping against my shorts before I tucked it back inside. Still face down, he murmured, “I didn’t cum yet.” “That’s not my fucking fault,” I snapped, faking unconcern. “All I give a shit about is getting my nut. You want to come, get your own fucking self off.” I didn’t need to complete my thought. Because I’d peppered my speech with the word some more, he’d shot before I’d finished my first sentence. His ass hung in the air as if suspended from invisible wires. Ropes of sperm dripped down onto the bedspread. He remained motionless, as if trying to halt time so he could capture it forever. I kept a mental snapshot of the sight for myself. And then I walked out, a long streak of cum dripping down my thigh. He texted me a half hour later on my phone. You really understand, said the message. Thank you. I didn’t message back. There was no need. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here First off, on this humid Sunday morning, let me thank one of my readers for brightening my week with a gift that made me spread my legs, slightly: The music of Bacharach and David, plus Krisen Chenoweth. How could it go wrong? Thank you, generous reader! I do love answering questions for you guys. Earlier this week I thought I'd nearly gotten to the bottom of my formspring.me question box, but then it filled right back up again. Remember, very often good questions lead to some longer blog posts, so don't be afraid to ask something. As long as it's not judgmental, or repetitive, or too invasive about my home life, I'll answer just about anything. Up this week, some wild sex, dirty virgins, double penetration, and my secret life in drag. Have you found any use for your skills as a writer when hooking up? (In other words: are any your writing skills "inter-disciplinary" skills?) Not really. Most men don't really care for a large vocabulary when you're dirty-talking them; they want the short list of Anglo-Saxon vulgarities, snarled in their ear. My writing skills really only come into play when I parse through the remembrances of raw data after, and try to make sense of the 'story' that happened there. Do you shave any part of your chest? Shaving my chest would require the presence of hair there. If your question had been, "Do you ever cut that weird solitary hair that appears right above your neckline?", my answer would be a hearty yes. Wildest sex? Yes please. Oh, was that a question? I've had a lot of wild sex, but I'd venture to say that probably a lot of the after-dark sessions I used to have on my back on a picnic table taking all comers, when I was a youth, were probably the times I had sex with the most enthusiasm and abandon. Been to the Detroit Eagle? Oh sure. I used to be a regular on Friday nights, years ago. The place is a bit of a dead zone though. If you're heading there some night, let me know. I am wearing a leather studded strap that goes around my cock and balls and snaps closed. What is this called. Is it a cock ring, or does that term apply to genital piercings? That's a leather cock ring you're wearing. I tend to prefer the metal or stretchy cock rings. Every time I put on a leather one, I either pinch my scrotum or pull out several hairs with the snaps. Have you kept in touch with any of the guys you've hooked up with in the past (either for friendship or intention to hook up again)? Most of the guys I currently see are men I've been with before, sometimes for months. I think I have a great track record of being friends or a long-term fuckbuddy. There are also guys with whom I've connected physically that I maintain a very close level of communication, either on the phone or via email or chat, so that we maintain our friendship. Absolutely. Have you ever had sex with a celebrity? One, before he was a major television personality. I'm not at liberty to say who. Oh, and I had sex with one of the dancers on So You Think You Can Dance, long before he was on the show. Again, don't ask who, but he was adorable. I don't think he counts as a celebrity, though. Have you ever gotten too close or attached to one of your fucks? By 'too close,' do you mean have I fallen in love with one of my fucks? Yes, I've fallen in love with a couple. Sometimes the feeling has turned out to be a mere crush. A couple of times, it's led to a long-lasting and intense emotional relationship between lovers. May I make a suggestion? Next time you have the itch to bottom, wear a jockstrap so it becomes less about your dick and more about your ass! I would love to hear about you getting filled up! That's a good suggestion, but that jockstrap would have to be pretty darned hard to take off. A couple of my blog readers have sent me some nice leather jockstraps lately. Maybe I should give it a whirl! Help me decode your blogspot address "mrsteed64" I like The Avengers. And then subtract my age from the current year, and I think you'll have your answer. How many virgins' cherries have you popped (that you know of)? Are there any that stand out? There's honestly no way I could count the number of guys who've chosen me to be the first man to fuck them. For one thing, a lot of the virgins I've had didn't even tell me until after--in some cases, a couple of years after. For another, I don't really keep count. I can be very good with first-timers because I enjoy all the preliminary foreplay that comes with getting a man relaxed and ready. I love to kiss, to touch, and to eat hole for a long time. I can fuck very gently, and I know what positions make a first-time entry the least painful. A guy always remembers his first time. I generally think it's the responsibility of the top to make it a pleasant memory. That said, I don't usually choose first-timers over more experienced guys. A lot of guys seem to think that tagging a virgin is the ultimate psychic experience, but often it isn't. There can be a whole lot of work for a very very little return. In a 3 way with two tops stuffing a hole, who gets the most pleasure: the bottom or the two tops descretely rubbing their dicks together? Definitely the bottom. At least, in my experience. I've never shot during a double penetration. Have you ever had sex with active-duty military? Yes. Often. Particularly in the DC area. Have you ever bottomed to a black man? Years ago, yes. I've bottomed to many black men. How long have you had this crush on your neighbor? What has hindered you two from hooking up? I don't think my back-yard neighbor is actively bi. Bi-curious, maybe. Or he could just be a straight man who gets an ego boost from the gay guy who obviously lusts for him from afar. Whatever it is, it's certainly led to a lot of smoldering glances over the back fence during the last five years. If you had a drag name, what would it be? Pansy Pots. Because I was driving by a garden nursery that had a big sign that read, PANSY POTS 2 FOR $4 and it sounded like the perfect drag name. Not that I would be very convincing in drag. Really. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Two of Breeder’s Readers (that’s what one of my friends calls you guys—I’m thinking of making T-shirts) came at me this week with remarkably similar questions. My friend Jayson asked, How much time a week to you think you spend on the on-line site and e-mail back and forth sex search management? And an anonymous person wrote and wanted to know, How much time do you spent sex hunting? With the amount you fuck, it’s got to be a lot. My short answer is that I spend both a lot of time looking for ass, and very little at all. Let me explain. If I’m hunting for sex online, I take advantage of the sites that let me log on, announce my availability, and then move on to some other activity. I’ll log onto Manhunt, for example, and change my looking-for status from ‘Ask Me’ to ‘Right Now’ or ‘Later Today.’ If I want to cover my bases, I’ll log on to Adam4Adam or BBRT and do the same. Then, because I’m conscientious, I’ll move out of my browser and into my everyday-work computer desktop space, and settle down to do a day’s labor. Every twenty minutes or so I’ll check back on the sites to see if I’ve gotten any messages. If so, great. If not, I’ll go back to work. Eventually, on good days, I will get someone soliciting sex from me. If I’m interested, we’ll talk about it and hopefully get together with a minimum of emails. If I’m not interested, I’m always polite and friendly about it. The amount of time I might stay logged onto a site is anywhere from ten minutes to two or three hours. How much of that time will I typically spend poring over profiles, looking at pics, and checking out the prospective guys in my area? Basically none. One of the reasons I don’t do any active solicitation of my own is that I’m a top guy with a big dick. Trust me, I’m aware how horribly arrogant that sounds. On a certain practical level, however, there are an awful lot of full-time bottom guys, not to mention the versatile men who are only being versatile because tops are in short supply, to every top. Going online to one of those sites as a top guy with a big dick—not to mention a nice smile, a pleasant personality, clear and recent photos, and a profile that’s completely filled out—is very much like throwing a bucket of chum into a piranha tank. All the hungry fishies want to sink their teeth into that meat. And again, although I’m aware how conceited it sounds, if you ask any good full-time tops in large metropolitan areas, I think you’re going to get the same answer—we don’t really hunt because the game pretty much comes to us. If you’re one of those bottom guys on a web site who’s been pining for a top guy to message you, but he never has, take a lesson from me. The guy is probably doing what I do, which is to sit back and let the offers roll in. He may potentially find you extremely attractive, and want to explore the goods you have to offer, but the laws of supply and demand are such that when he’s casting about for a place to plant his seeds, there’re just a whole lot of land owners out there already begging him to garden in their back yards. And what if you’re a naturally reticent bottom, prone to shyness and not really used to approaching guys? If you’re cruising online, I’m afraid you might need to get accustomed to making the first move, with the top men you like. Tomorrow I’ll be talking a little bit more about that, if you’re interested. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Afterward. Hip against hip, two curves in parallel. Belly to back. My leg crooked over his, capturing his thighs. My arms around him, his chest hairs tickling my wrists. I can feel the nub of his nipple against the heel of my hand. When I rub it slightly, the ridges on my skin make the Decorator shiver. Even that sensation is too much, at this moment. My lips are at his neck, my nose in his short, fair hair. When I breathe, pillows of air linger, trapped between us. They stay warm for a moment before they dissipate. My breath still smells of his mouth, and of all the equatorial places my tongue has traveled across his body. The bristles lining my upper lip have trapped his scents. All I have to do is wrinkle my nose to smell all of him. He wants to be held tightly, afterward. “Don’t let go,” he whispers. The room has been dark all evening, lit only from outside by white fairy lights strung in his back garden. From the bed I can see three of the tiny bulbs on the top branches poking above the window sill. We lie there in the dark, in the quiet, saying nothing. Glued together by sweat and grease and by the connection of moments before. I’m still inside him, spent but still hard. He wants me there. As we lie there, connected and pressed tight, I feel his shoulders loosen. They slump into the mattress in small jerks. I hear the faint moist sound of his lips parting. He breathes heavily, then stiffens. A rumble sounds in his chest, half-amused, half-apologetic. I hold him more tightly, and feel him respond by pushing back against me. It’s okay to let go, I mean the embrace to say. Again his muscles relax, one by one. His head slumps into the pillow. His mouth opens, and his breathing sounds become deep and rasping. They tickle at the back of his nose as they pass, until at last he’s snoring. The sound makes me smile. The room is cool, but there’s heat blossoming between our bodies where our skin touches. It's what the dead must envy most about the living, that heat. It seeps into my chest and stomach. My cock is kept stiff by it. His hands press at mine in his sleep, clutching and releasing to echo the movements of whatever dream is passing through his mind. The weight of his body presses against my bicep. I feel my arm growing heavy. Prickles, then buzzes, dance along its nerves. I flex a few fingers to see how much feeling is left. Will he wake if I pull my numb limb from under him? He does not. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The following announcement may stun some of you: I like to show off my goodies on camera. I know! Shocking! Most of you are probably thinking that you’ve never seen lascivious photos on A Breeder’s Journal like this one, in which I flash my erect member while showing off a gift that some very kind anonymous donor chose to send me from my Amazon wish list. Thank you most sincerely, anonymous donor. The book looks awesome! You would probably be amazed (and maybe a little appalled) to see how geeked out I was when I saw into what exquisite detail Stephen Fry was going into the construction of a sestina. I am eternally in your debt, and forever grateful. Thank you. But yes, I do like to show off. In a public situation—bathhouse, group party, cruisy men’s room—I’ll be the first one to haul out his dick and get it hard. Naturally, cam sites are a good fit for me. Particularly when I don’t have time to meet up with anyone, but I want to drop my pants, get hard and sticky, and show off. Cam sites have been around for ages, of course. I remember getting a bit of a thrill back in the day with CU-SeeMe, a primitive software program in which one would hunt around for hours in order to find the IP addresses of mirror hosts, and then have the dubious privilege of sitting in a virtual chat room with five other people on choppy, grainy, black and white cams, hoping that one of them would pique one’s interest. Actually, the way I remember it is more like masturbating solo while sitting in a room with five other blank cameras, hoping that someone else would broadcast. CU-SeeMe began going through so many iterations and paid versions that I lost interest, in both it and the other software packages with similar functionality. For a while I started showing off on squirt.org and men4sexnow.com, but they both have severe restrictions on either the amount of time you can spend on their sites, or the number of other broadcasters you can watch. Then last year I discovered the biggest sexual time-waster in the world, cam4.com. Cam4.com is easy to navigate and use. It’s web-based and doesn’t require any special software; as long as you have a browser that displays Flash-based video streaming, or a cam that Flash will recognize, it’s easy to get interactive. Hundreds of people are broadcasting at any given moment, and it’s possible to browse through thumbnails of their shows in order to see who’s appealing, who’s scary, and who’s too good to be true. Male, female, transgendered, couples, trios—it’s all there on display, to be riffed through like old-school cards in a library catalog. Cam4.com might be the Sears Wish Book of exhibitionism—it’s possible to find everything there, any kink, any perversion, if you do a little bit of dedicated searching. Lately, though there have been a couple of other sites I’ve enjoyed showing myself on. Manhunt has a very good chat service with both local and special-interest rooms. There’s even a room for gay gamers, which I appreciate. I’ve enjoyed hanging out in the bareback and Dad/Son rooms there, for the past couple of weeks. The site could use some reorganization, I admit. Though it’s possible to dock several cameras from different room in a side panel for viewing simultaneously, pulling that panel out covers up your own camera feed. And listen, I am just narcissistic enough that I enjoy watching myself almost more than most of the other people. Don’t block me, Manhunt! Menchats.com has a video option as well, and while it’s not all that cleverly implemented or as heavily populated as Manhunt or cam4.com, I’ve met some interesting guys there. I’ll be exploring it more in the future. I do have a few pet peeves about behavior in the chat rooms, though. This applies particularly to cam4.com, where people appear to model their behavior using the high standards given us by screeching howler monkeys on a rampage. 1) Why is everyone so concerned whether I can self-suck? If you ask and I quite politely tell you that I can, but that I prefer not to, and that I will not, don’t keep trying to cajole me into it. Or worse, badger me. I’m not going to do it just to prove to you I’m able. I don’t get pleasure from self-fellating, nor do I really understand how it’s such a turn-on to so many guys and gals on cam4.com. Sucking my dick is your job, not mine. 2) I may show you my feet once. That’s about it. I am not going to suck them on camera for you, no. 3) If I’m in a room with a hundred viewers or more (I think the most I ever had watching me on cam4 was 350 people at once), chances are good that I’m enjoying the attention. Why in the world, Mr. Pest, would I leave all those people in the lurch in order to go one on one with you? Particularly when I have no idea what you look like? 4) When I’m on camera, I take things at my own pace. Ordering me to CUM NOW!!!! is not going to put me over the edge. Barking out things like SHOW FEET or SHOW ASS NOW is not a turn-on for me. If you were paying me—well, then maybe I’d be your private dancer, your dancer for money, I’d do what you want me to do. Otherwise, welcome to me silencing you through the moderation tools. 5) Listen, I’m really flattered when someone likes me enough to send me some private compliments and start up a private chat. I get off on that more than I do watching anonymous strangers whack off. It’s that personal connection that gets me going. Watching me stroke myself once on cam, however, shouldn’t the basis of a life-long relationship. If you seriously want to move to my city after ten minutes of watching me toy with my pre-cum, so that you can buy a little home for the two of us and take care of all my sexual needs for the rest of my life, I’m likely to think you’re a wee bit premature. If you send me a three-page email, as one guy did Tuesday, outlining the dishes you want to cook me, including a comprehensive list of your specialties, asking me what neighborhoods would be best for us to establish our lifelong love nest, writing an explicit fantasy of how you would wake me in the middle of every night with a blow job, and filling out the narrative with descriptions of my future in-laws and the kinds of massage in which you’re expert, I’m likely to think you’re a bit crazy. The massage might tempt me a little, but you’re still crazy. I do like a good massage. For the most part, however, I’ve met a bunch of very nice guys and gals through the cam sites. The majority are polite, appreciative, and considerate with their requests and thanks. The howler monkeys are a nuisance, but I’ve learned to deal with them. All right. Who's camming with me? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks. Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976. Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @ It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there. I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect, of course, for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet. I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all. My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room. The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed. I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met. Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips. I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick. He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks. My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.” His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?” I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible. “Suck it.” The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes. The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump. “You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.” I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib. “Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.” Which I think was out of date even in 1976. The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough. Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Soft, his ass is. You wouldn’t expect it to look at him. The first time I met the man five years ago, was after hours at the college where I worked full time. I had to leave my desk to let him through the security doors. He stood on the other side of the glass, skin the color of dark molasses, the ropes of his muscle taut as he waited with crossed arms. He wore a ragged gray sweatshirt with the neck and the arms ripped off. The holes exposed tendrils of his armpit hair, wet with sweat, and the rounded sides of his pecs. One nipple poked out provocatively. I hit the bar and let him through the door. He swaggered in, nodded, and pretended not to look me up and down. He thrust his hands deep into the grimy pockets of the orange athletic pants he wore. Their swish-swish-swish was the only sound we made as we walked back to my office. He followed me with a swayback posture, his narrow waist jutted forward. Once my office door was closed, he said nothing. He rarely does, even now. Instead, he stared at me, eyes hooded and half hostile, until I said in the softest possible voice, “Take it off.” Again he nodded. His thumbs hooked beneath the elastic of his sweatpants, and with one swift motion sent them skidding to his ankles. He was naked beneath them. His thighs were perfect columns, flaring down to his knees, and his calves were covered in springy hair. The edges of his pelvis were visible beneath his brown skin; the cut muscles of his stomach pointed down to the dick that was already three-quarters hard, and pointing outward. It was cut, and dark as the rest of him, and as large as mine. He didn’t say a word as he shucked the ratty sweatshirt. I took a moment, that initial visit, to enjoy the sight of him. So lean, so muscled. So hard-bodied. “Turn around,” I ordered. His head dropped and he obeyed, for the first time showing me his round, perfect backside. His ass was like twin water droplets swollen to fullness, pulled out and down by gravity, but stubbornly clinging to the slender reed on which they’d fallen. “Jesus,” I muttered. When I walked over and put my hand between his legs, letting my index finger trace the length of his crack, he sighed, and bent over. That’s when I felt how soft his ass truly was. Despite the spare hardness of every plane of his body, that butt was soft, and round, and filled my hands. He craved a man’s touch down there. As I explored, he sighed and bent further, arching his back to lift his ass high into the air. “Tell me what you want,” I said in the quiet. “I want your white dick in me.” I could barely hear his words. I gave it to him. That’s how it would begin, in those days when I was an academic. He’d come to my office, either after hours or during lunch, strutting through the halls with that pelvis leading and his shoulders swaying to some invisible rhythm. He’d nod at me as I closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Then he’d strip naked—completely naked—climb up onto the desk, spread his knees as far as he could, lower his head, and wait for me to invade him. After I left the college, we started reconnecting at my home. He would write me an email and show up a few minutes later, sometimes in his dirty gym gear, sometimes in his blue work coveralls. It didn’t matter what he wore. It came off the minute he stepped through the door. His shoes might lie just inside, followed by his socks, his pants at the bottom of the staircase, and his shirt or sweatshirt just outside the bedroom door. If he wore underwear—and usually he didn’t—it would be a pair of his girlfriend’s panties. There was always a new girlfriend, it seemed. If he showed up wearing something soft and lacy, I’d ask. He’d tell me in as few words as possible that the new one had three kids, or that she was divorced and childless, or once, when the drawers were unusually elaborate and of good quality, that she worked as a dancer at one of the many strip joints on the outer borders of Detroit, where the clubs have names like ‘The Captain’s Club’ or ‘The Landing Strip’ or ‘Trumpps,’ or some suggestive moniker. Once, after he made some rudimentary inquiries of whether I had a wife or a girlfriend, he asked if he could wear a pair of her panties to start. I made sure to give him a pair on his next visit. He’s kept them since. The panties are nothing to me. For him, though, they’re a sign of submission. They’re an outward symbol of what he wants to give to me, and how he wants to be made to feel. When he wrote me over the weekend, he simply said, can u make a baby in me tmrrw? Of course, I wrote back. I will knock your cunt up, boy. On my bed yesterday he buried his head beneath one pillow and used the other to prop his ass in the air for me. Like an ink stain splashed on the linen, he was, dark and impossible not to look at. His hands grabbed hold of the headboard and creaked it forward as I knelt on the mattress to inspect his hole. “So damned soft,” I whispered to it, from only a few inches away. The breath from my lips made him twitch. When I licked out with my tongue, his body flinched. Every muscle seized when I buried my face in that cleft and ate at it savagely. My beard raked against the tender, exposed flesh there and left him shuddering and hissing. Hard as his body is, and tough as he wants the world to think him, he knows that when he’s exposed, and vulnerable, and in my hands, he’s soft. He’s made for use, and he signs himself over to me for it, every time. I enjoyed lapping at his sweet dark hole for a long time and making him jerk and moan. But every time I always end up asking, just as I did the first, “Tell me what you want.” “I want your white dick in me,” he said yesterday, from beneath the pillow. He got my white dick once again. I went in slow, using nothing more than my own spit as lube. He always claims that I’m the only man fucking him. It may or may not be true. I really don’t care. He’s tight enough to be telling the truth, though. When I pushed through that rigid, tiny hole yesterday, his entire body seemed to lengthen and grow two inches taller. It’s as if taking my dick makes him larger, somehow—bigger and even more of a man than he already is. He was so soft inside, though. Sweet and tender. When I fucked in and out, the round cushions of his ass responded with a quiver. My skin slapped against his, slowly and deliberately. The pillow fell away; he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how deep I was inside him. I watched the muscles of his arms rearrange themselves as he gripped more tightly to the headboard. My friend is not built for endurance. He wants a fuck, not a lovemaking session. He doesn’t kiss. He merely comes to display himself for me, to strip, and to take my dick. So I made the most of it yesterday, plunging deep in and then pulling back slowly so I could see the insides of his chute cling to my meat as I withdrew. Seeing how much I stretch him open always turns me on. Yesterday the sight made me fuck him harder. Soon I was clutching the rails of the headboard as well, the edges of our fists touching, white on black, as I drove into him. Save for our gasps, weak grunts, and swallowed cries, our fuck was silent. Until I came, that is. The orgasm ripped out of me almost painfully, making me rasp out and leaving my throat raw. He buckled and twisted, and shuddered. Every time I shoot, he shoots as well. For a moment we lay there, still as a photograph. Then his ass clenched down, and squeezed me out. I knew there would be a puddle on the bed from his own dick when he got up. It was there, a fat comma-shaped moist spot on the blanket. While I still panted and rolled into a sitting position, he had already slipped into his baggy sweatpants, cut at the knees into shorts. “Yeah. Later,” he said in a gruff acknowledgment before he ducked out in the hallway. From the railing he grabbed his sleeveless T-shirt, and at the base of the stairs he stepped into his grimy sneakers, one after the other. He didn’t even bother to pull on his shirt until after he’d stepped out through my screen door and as he took the porch steps down to the street. Anyone passing by at that time would’ve seen his taut torso stretched and on display for the neighborhood, still glistening with our mixed sweat. Hard, lean, and chisel-sharp. And if they’d been especially sharp-eyed, they might have seen me naked, standing well back from the door, watching him go. I might be the only man who knows how soft he truly is. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It is a sad Sunday morning for me, readers. The end of an era has come. Yesterday, when I was driving down the adjoining street after a thunderstorm so I could check out the remains of a tree sheared in half by high winds, I saw something that astounded me. Yes, it was my back yard neighbor Michael's house, sitting there all neat and tidy with curb appeal up the wazoo, with a Real Estate One sign parked in front of it. The fucker is moving. Quite honestly, it felt like a slap in the face. I don't care that the man has three children under the age of ten and lives in a two-bedroom house. Clearly he should have thought of the ramifications of having that extra baby after he'd moved in and made me his salivating fan. All that energy I invested in stalking him is going to be for naught, once he's no longer around. Will my new neighbor have luxurious long curly locks? Doubtful. Will the new neighbor strut around in the nude in his kitchen, or sprawl shirtless in his backyard nursing a beer between his legs while studying me frankly from a distance? Hah! That lightning doesn't strike twice. Here's hoping the house doesn't move. Damn it for being so cute! On the plus side, if any of my readers are in the market for a two-story house with a cute screen back porch and me as a back door neighbor (in every sense of the phrase), you're in luck. Here's a few questions I've been asked on formspring.me to keep you occupied on this Sunday. As always, feel free to ask me more. I'm pretty frank about most things. How does it feel to be worshipped and adored by so many guys? Are you implying I am? Most of the time I don't feel adored or worshipped, though sometimes I feel mildly flirted with. I could really do with a little worship, frankly. On a broader level, it does feel very nice to have guys be so kind to me, both on my blog and on Twitter. I've never lost the capacity to be surprised at, or delighted with, compliments. Every single one makes me feel as if I should be wrapping it up, pressing it in the family Bible, and saving it to bring out and reminisce over on a rainy day. I mean that most sincerely. So I'm grateful. how long does it take you to write one of your post? i love your ability to paint a picture as you write, it always makes me feel like i am there. The average length of time it takes to compose a journal entry is probably between a half hour and an hour. Then I spend a few minutes re-reading and revising, and then I post it for the following morning. Sometimes I'll revise a little more before the post appears. Then I go back and correct stuff when the sharp-eyed readers tell me exactly what errors I've made. And they do tell me. What does a bottom have to learn to be fucked the way you want? I really had to think about this one. I think it boils down to the following: he needs to learn to relax, to enjoy what's happening, and to trust me to make it good for us both. I know what I'm doing. I always figure most guys who put a pic in a CL post are fakes. What do you think? I have put my photos in my Craigslist posts, and those aren't fakes. I've also seen my photos reappear in other mens' ads (or I'll have one of my sharp-eyed friends spot it and tell me). At that point, they're fakes, and I usually write the posters and request their removal. I don't use Craigslist very often in my area because at least where I live, the guys who are looking there aren't all that enjoyable. However, I've run across about the same proportion of real photos to real-but-ten-years-or-more-old photos to absolute fakes. My experience with Craigslist has been that the number of guys from it who flake is substantially higher than other sites. Damn, that is an accomplishment. Can you elaborate on that 4 hour session you had? I've had a lot of long sessions. Typically they took place on lazy afternoons or long evenings when my partner and I were both relaxed and enjoying each other. I'd fuck, shoot, stay inside, and begin fucking when we were both ready. Which is always pretty quickly for me. The one former buddy I had with whom I enjoyed a lot of marathon sessions had a similar sexual development to mine. We would swap stories while I was fucking him, and talk about the similar kinds of places where we used to cruise, and work each other into a frenzy while talking about our pasts. All those guys from your loss of virginity period: ever get an STD? Nope. The only sexually transmitted nuisance I received during my teens was a case of crabs, and that wasn't until I was 19. Yes, Craigslist is Flakesville. What's your ranking of other sites, least to most flakes? Every site has a lot of flakes, unfortunately. But here you go. 1) BarebackRT.com: This bareback site isn't for everyone, and it does have a lot of guys who are there to look at photos rather than meet. However, I've met a lot of good guys from there, and only a few total flakes. It's especially good on the road. 2) Manhunt: There are a lot of men who irritate me on Manhunt, but the sheer numbers of guys who have accounts there make it easier to find someone to have sex with. 3) Adam4Adam: It's not the best site in my area, but when I've been traveling, I've gotten a ton of responses from guys who followed through. 4) Craigslist: I usually don't both responding to, or placing, ads in my area. I've used it for travel, but the number of flakes is too high to guarantee results. 5) Squirt and Men4sexnow: Skanky guys, and a high flake-to-real ratio. There are other sites I haven't tried, like asspig.com or bnskin.com. The administrator of bear411 said I wasn't bear enough for their site, so I've not revisited that one, either. ok warning, this is a real nerdy question. i saw u added a wow gamecard to ur wishlist. what class/spec do u play? what server? Oh my god, best question ever. (Though yes, it is nerdy.) My main is a feral druid, and my favorite alt is a holy priest. How about you? Places like bars, how do you decide who's a likely bottom? To be honest, I assume that pretty much everyone's a bottom. I know that sounds like a smart-ass answer, but save for a handful of times, I've rarely run across anyone who didn't want to bottom--in a bar, in a bathhouse, online, name it. There are a lot of bottoms out there. There are a lot of men who call themselves versatile who would truly prefer to bottom but switch just because someone has to. And there are a lot of tops who want to take a break and give it up. So yes, while it may be true that I'm an arrogant S.O.B. with a sense of entitlement to men's butts, it's also a fact that no matter where I go, I'm wading in a sea of bottoms. You've previously mentioned that you suspect that you're the biological father of two children outside of your own relationship. Have either of the two couples you've helped impregnate tried to demand child support? No. With one of the couples, I signed a contract that made clear that while I was the sperm donor, I did not have either any claims upon or responsibilities for the resulting child. The other couple simply had me fuck them until she was pregnant, and then they stopped contacting me. It was only later, after I inadvertently discovered that he had a low sperm count and they'd been trying for a baby for years without success, did I figure out I'd been used for sex and sperm. There are worse ways to be used. So... I've never been fucked before. Each time I'm jerking it, I get this burning desire to have a cock up my ass. How would you handle someone like me? First, I'd suggest purchasing a small toy and using it on yourself while you masturbate. Small, notice I said. A lot of first-timers buy something way too large, discover it's more painful than pleasurable on their initial tries to take it, and give up. Something finger-sized or slightly larger might help. Fingers work, too. Use plenty of lube and simply play with your hole as you masturbate, and work up to inserting your toy or fingers and seeing what you enjoy. Replicate the things you like, and analyze the stuff you don't. Finally, find someone you trust to give you your first fuck. Let them in in advance--I prefer knowing, at least, so I can be extra-supportive. A lot of tops prefer experienced holes, so tell him you're not in order that he won't be unduly frustrated. And please make sure to rinse yourself out before you give it up. That way neither you nor your top will be embarrassed. The steps from virgin to experienced bottom aren't many, and aren't difficult to take. You simply have to act upon it, rather than fantasize. Honorable slut daddy sexy grizzly bitch you, Sir: Have you ever had sex with a CIA or an FBI person? Your grizzly daddy bitch is flattered that you think he could seduce an agent of espionage or a skilled FBI professional. but the answer is no. Not to my knowledge, anyway. Of course, if I had, I'd probably be required to give that answer anyway, wouldn't I? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've written about my father a couple of times within the pages of this journal. I'd like to give my mother a little space. I'll warn you from the start, however, that there's no sex in this entry. If that disappoints you, you've my archives to paw through. So here's something you don't see written very often: my mother wanted me to be a female impersonator when I grew up. It’s not an admission you hear from the lips of most men. Even the thorniest of Mama Roses might have blanched a little at such a revelation. But there you go. When I was six, my mother took a trip to England with her mother-in-law. It was the only time she was ever able to venture out of the United States, other than the time she won an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas for winning a nationwide contest on why, in twenty-five words or less, she liked Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. (She didn’t really like macaroni and cheese that much. I did.) While she was abroad, my mother made a point of visiting all the places she wanted to go, snapping photos of everything, and coming back with a hundred colorful stories to tell. Among them was the announcement that she’d found the perfect profession for my first-grade self. She’d been to see Danny La Rue at a cabaret show in a London hotel, and come away with an epiphany. “Female impersonators aren’t women,” she explained gravely. “They just dress up in women’s clothes, look beautiful, sing and tell jokes, and then they’re men again afterward. It's very lucrative. Doesn’t that sound like fun? It’d be perfect for you, don’t you think?” I did not. I never did. I wasn’t a sissy boy by any means. I didn’t play with my mother’s old purses, or wear her heels, or prefer sewing to other hobbies; I didn’t have a Barbie. But perhaps I wasn’t exactly the picture of robust boyhood that you might find gleaming on the cover of a Cub Scout manual. I disliked team sports, though I later excelled at swimming and tennis. I didn’t like running around outdoors like a hooligan, but instead spent my outdoor time in private spaces I’d clear beneath bushes, hiding quietly with a book. I was quiet instead of loud, thoughtful instead of reckless. I was the kind of boy who didn’t mouth off in school, or ever get in trouble, or make mischief, or disobey a teacher. I was thoughtful instead of outspoken. I can’t say it got me very far, but I’m sure my elders appreciated the peace. No, I wasn’t an effeminate child, and I was actually shocked at the notion that my mother—my own mother!—thought the best career choice for me was professional female impersonation. She didn’t push it on me, to her credit. She didn’t begin buying little organdy frocks in my size and leaving them suggestively on the bed, or anything. Every now and then she’d float the test balloon in my direction, though, and I’d roundly shoot it down. However, I think it took all her willpower, years later when Victor/Victoria, one of her all-time favorite films, was released, not to turn to me and say, “I told you it could be lucrative.” By that time she’d already chosen another profession for me. “You should be a chef,” she announced when I was in the third grade. By that time she’d already conscripted me into making easy meals for myself when she and my father were both teaching—by middle school I was the short-order cook of the family, which was fine with my mother, since she hated spending any time in the kitchen. “In Europe, all the chefs are male. It’s very highly regarded,” she announced. I didn’t believe her. The late nineteen-sixties and seventies weren’t like today, when men crowded the culinary schools so they could get a shot at getting their own show on the Food Network, or a spot on Top Chef. The only male who cooked in that era with any visibility was the Galloping Gourmet, and I'm very sorry, but Graham Kerr was not exactly the most masculine of men. In my horrified eyes, chef was only one shade of lavender butcher than the option of female impersonator. Scarier was the fact that I was actually really good in the kitchen. It’s unfortunate that my mother embarrassed me a little with her choices, but I recognize now it was her early acknowledgement that she realized I was different. Perhaps I wasn’t a sissy, or a tomgirl, but her instincts told her from an early age that I was not like other boys. I think by managing to invest such enthusiasm in the prospect of my becoming a female impersonator or a culinary artist, long before these heady of Rupaul's Drag Race and tattooed bad boy chefs, she was telling me that whatever I was, I was perfectly okay. And so would be whatever I chose to become when I grew up. I might not have grasped the nuance, but I got the message clearly enough. My path through life hasn’t been typical. I don’t always take the easy choices, or the most lucrative paths, or even the most logical routes to an end destination. I’ve always progressed in fits and starts. I try different lives and see if they suit me; the artistic career that I love is something I wandered into because I was too afraid to hope for it. I'm convinced that my wayward journey keeps me young, and keeps me interested. I was not your typical boy. I’m still not your typical man, much of the time. I have doubts and fears, like anyone else. Sometimes they're paralyzing. But because of my mother, I have a deep inner conviction that not being typical is perfectly fine. When I came out to my mother while I was in grad school, she wasn’t surprised. She’d grown up wanting me to be a drag queen, and then a chef, and then in high school had decided that it would awesome if I horrified my father’s family by marrying a black woman. My revealed sexuality, to her, was a shiny silver medal, not a consolation prize. It was as equally capable of horrifying my father’s family, and it gave my mother a too-short chance to show the world what a cool, liberal mother she could be. I miss my mom. It’s kind of comforting, in a way, to know that if for some reason I’d decided to become a professional drag queen, I would’ve had her total support. And probably unrestricted access to her false eyelashes. More...

Did anyone ever see you?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my readers this week was asking me what I felt about the leather scene. To sum it up briefly, I've always felt it was perfectly easy to have great sex without anything in the way of gear. I think guys in leather are hot, but once in a while it seems as if those who rely upon the gear do so as a crutch. Case in point. While I was traipsing around IML’s Leather Mart during Memorial Day weekend of 2009, fending off offers to try the tester jug of Boy Butter and gently turning down an plea from a barrel-chested older bear to try on a yellow blindfold for him so he could ‘see how it looked on a boy like me, and besides, it matched my shirt,’ I noticed a guy staring at me. The first time I saw him was somewhere in the middle of the Fort Troff booth where I was gingerly inspecting a bin of cock rings floating in an amber fluid. When my eyes caught his, I explained my hesitation. “Hi. It looks like someone peed in here,” I said. The man had a close-shaved head, big eyes, and a rugged, masculine face covered with an artful one-day growth of stubble. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was also about as tall as a Smurf, but despite that, had the excellent good looks of a porn star from a higher-budget studio. “I think someone spilled ginger ale,” he replied, with a heavy accent. I smiled, shrugged, and moved on, declining to investigate. I noticed him a little later, weaving in and out of the racks of leather I was examining. “Hey again,” I said, when he approached me. His eyes were fixed on me and full of intent. “Having fun?” “You know,” he said with that charming accent again. “You are the first person who has said hello to me this entire conference without me having to speak first.” “Really? I find that hard to believe,” I said. “Why?” he asked. I gestured to his textbook pecs, his perfectly proportioned arms, the narrow waist, as if it were a gimme. “Look at you.” “But it’s true,” he said. “You were the first.” Then, impulsively, he added, “Give me your email address.” I didn’t ask why. When a handsome man asks for your email, you give him your email. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the slip of paper in his pocket. He flashed a winning smile and then vanished into the crowd. When I got back to the hotel room much later I found he’d emailed me quite a long and surprisingly literate message in which he confessed that he was attracted to me and outlined in great detail exactly why I should return to the Hilton that evening and, essentially, bang his brains out. Accompanying the missive were quite a few revealing photos that he hoped might appeal to me. Well, what can I say. I was feeling charitable. I sent a few photos of my own back, and agreed to meet. When he emailed me back with his phone number, he added, Please wear all your leather! I don’t have any leather, I wrote back. Is that okay? Does it change your mind? That is fine, he said. Come as you are. As I were was simply a pair of jeans, the white Chucks on my feet, and the yellow and grey T-shirt that had matched the leather blindfold I’d declined earlier. And when I walked into the Hilton’s lobby to wait for my friend, after I’d called him from outside, I looked like a fucking freak. First of all, the lobby was packed. Every leatherman staying in the joint was packed into the rococo rooms in front of the elevator. Not a single man wasn’t bare-chested, harnessed, and boot-blacked into perfection. And there I was, trying to look casual and confident, but feeling like the only gay in the village wandering into a Westboro Baptist Church tent revival and hoping that no one would notice. It was fruitless. Guys wove around me and avoided me as if I carried a cup and sign reading, I have leprosy, please help. After what seemed like an eternity, my friend Bruno finally showed up. And Jesus Christ, but he was decked out. He wore the leather-studded cap, the eyepatch, the studded collar, the complex harness, the vest, the studded jockstrap, the chaps, the boots. Upon spying me, he couldn’t simply discreetly motion for me to follow. Oh no. He had to roar, at the top of his considerable lungs, “ROB!” and then lunge at me. I’m probably imagining things, but when he did, it seemed to me as if the entire lobby went silent and stared. “Hi,” I said, rather mildly. “Let me take you for a drink,” he said, his arm around my butt. “Okay,” I agreed. He stuck his hand down the back of his chaps. “Crap,” he muttered. “I forgot my wallet.” “It was the one too many pieces of leather to keep track of, huh?” I said. “I can buy you a drink.” “No, no,” he said. “Come with me to the room and we’ll get it and then come back down.” Through the lobby he steered me as man after man stared at him with envy, and at me as if I were the ugly drag queen that the cutest Jonas Brother had suddenly started dating. I had a sneaking suspicion that once we were in his room, we wouldn’t be going back down. I was right. The moment we were up there, he was pushing me down to the bed so that I could be at face level with him. He kissed beautifully. Because of his height, the leather-to-weight ratio of his body seemed awfully high and he was very heavy on me, but I didn’t object. “I need you to make love to me,” he said. “Where are you from, anyway?” I asked, curious at his accent again. He told me he was Brazilian, and then rattled off a long sentence in Portuguese. “What was that?” “I said that you are a beautiful man and that tonight you are going to strip me naked and use me as you will, that you are going to turn me into your little bitch and that when you enter me with your mighty member, I will whimper and become totally yours.” I debated it briefly. “Well, okay.” I yanked off my pants and let him suck me for a while in his full leather regalia. Every now and again he would lean back and show off for me, flexing his arms or holding his hands over his head and stretching to display his hairy chest. Gradually we got his clothes off—not easy with all the fastens and snaps and buckles, and the darkness—and got his ass into the air. I buried my face between his cheeks and sure enough, he began to whimper. And buck. And beg. “Are you ready?” I asked, a few minutes later. “Yes,” he said, squirming. “Fuck me. Please, please fuck me.” I got myself ready and began working myself in. He clutched the pillows and yelled, “Yes! Yes! Do it! Make me yours!” Just when I reached the base, he wriggled off and declared, “Okay. That’s enough.” “What?” I almost yelped. My head spun. “I need a rest,” he said, panting. So I gave him a rest. For twenty-five minutes we just talked. Or rather, he talked about his job and I listened, while we cuddled and I rubbed his back. It was nice, but I was soft when he suddenly grabbed my dick and announced, “Now you fuck me again. Fuck me right.” “Let’s do it,” I agreed, hardening instantly. Again it was the same routine. I entered him slowly while he shook and shuddered and begged for it. The moment I was all the way in, he leapt off again, and followed it with another half-hour of talking. When he was ready to go again, I felt I had to be firm. “Listen,” I said. “This time, we’re fucking longer than fifteen seconds.” “Yes,” he agreed. “But you are so big!” “Well, you knew that when you invited me over,” I griped. “You will have pleasure this time,” he promised. “So much pleasure.” I flipped him onto his knees, reapplied the lube, and slid inside. He seemed easier to get into, the third time. “Yes!” he yelled. “You feel so good! I am all yours! I am your little bitch! I am taking your big cock inside me! I am coming! I am coming!” “What?” I asked, startled. The little Brazilian thrashed and jerked, spewing ropes of semen across his bedspread. My dick popped out of his hole as he fell full-faced into the pillows. After a moment in which all the blood seemed to drain from my head into my still-throbbing dick, he popped up again. “That was fun!” he announced. “You can clean up in the bathroom.” I grabbed my T-shirt and stomped off in the direction he indicated, silently thinking evil things about leathermen and their perverted notions of sex. “Maybe we can do this again tomorrow!” he chirped, while I got dressed. “Maybe,” I grumbled, thinking, Never. Bruno text messaged me all that weekend, but I politely declined the opportunity to see him again, even though he attempted to sway me by saying he had a really special leather outfit he wanted me to see him in. I told him that I was out with friends, the following night, and couldn’t get back to his hotel. Not all the dress-up in the world can disguise the fact that when sex is bad, it’s really bad. Not even the cutest accent in the world can compensate. If there are men out there into leather who'd like to make me change my mind, though, I'm all ears. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I recognized the voice the instant I answered the phone. It was Whore, my favorite Charlie Sheen lookalike. “What’cha up to?” he growled at me. His low baritone was teasing and familiar. “Just kickin’ back after work.” I lapsed into an argot of guy talk I rarely use, because it gives the impression that I’m sittin’ around the garage, one hand suggestively danglin' between my overall-clad legs and the other clutchin' a brew. “How about you, bud?” “Hangin’,” he told me. His voice dropped to an intimate level. “I’m feeling kinda whorey.” “No no no,” I corrected. “You’re not feeling whorey. You’re a whore.” “Yes.” His voice went weak, as if I’d knocked the pretense out of it. He choked out the next three words. “I’m a whore.” “And the whore’s looking for cock, isn’t he?” I didn’t hear a reply. I didn’t need one. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Whore greeted me at his door dressed in a short kimono-like robe. “You took too long,” he told me. He jerked his head to invite me in, and led me through the dark living room and dining room to his bedroom at the back of the house. I read the time on my cell phone. “I got here in eight minutes.” “I needed you sooner,” he said. His robe fell to the floor, and he followed it, resting on his knees to unbutton my jeans. “God, I’ve been so hungry for you.” Without underwear, my already-hard cock popped out of the fly, and he stuffed it into his mouth without hesitation. “That’s because whores are all appetite,” I murmured to him in the darkness, letting my pelvis grind in and out of his mouth. His cheeks huffed and expanded as he made coughing and gagging noises—not because I was occluding his expert throat, but because he wanted me to think I was. “All appetite and no restraint.” I hauled him up then, using his chin to drag him to a standing position before I grabbed the back of his head and forced his lips against mine. “Let’s fuck,” I whispered, yanking myself away from the sloppy kiss. “You know that’s what I’m here for.” He fell back on the bed then. My jeans were already around my boots; I pulled my head through the neck hole of my t-shirt but left it on, so that it pulled across the back my neck like a yoke. As he lifted his legs for me, I climbed up onto the bed, jeans and sneakers and all, and after a few moments, slid inside his already-lubed ass. We fucked, volleying profane encouragements at each other in animal-like growls, for close to five minutes, when suddenly he looked at the clock radio on his bedside table. “You might not like this,” he told me, “but I have someone else coming over.” “Oh?” I asked, stopping my thrusting. “And he doesn’t like three-ways.” “Oh.” “But,” he said in a sly voice, as if he’d planned it all along. Which he had. “It doesn’t take him long to get his business over with, and I thought . . . if you were into it . . . I could do him in the living room and then come back here and we could finish.” “You want me to sit back here in your bedroom and listen to you get fucked by some strange guy in the living room?” I asked him. We were playing the game in which I was pretending to be dubious, though we both knew that I would sign on to the plan. Right then, the doorbell rang. “You fucking pig cunt. Whatever. But you’d better make it loud for me.” “I promise.” He pulled himself to a sitting position after I’d slopped out of him, and grabbed for his robe from the floor. “I’ll make it loud for you, I swear. You’ll hear. All for you.” I lay back on the bed after he disappeared, legs spread, my hand covering the bottom half of my cock. The heels of my shoes dug into his blanket. Two rooms over, I heard the front door open, followed by a brief conversation I couldn’t distinguish. Then I heard them move to the chair at the back of the living room, only ten feet from where I lay. Next came the sound of a zipper, the whisper of denim sliding down, and a sharp hiss of pleasure. “Yeah!” Whore’s voice was twice the volume of any of our usual encounters. “Fuck yeah, hot cock invading my tight whore ass!” My own dick swelled at the sound. “Fuckin’ hot top’s gonna make me his bitch! Yeah man, make me feel that big cock of y—oh! Oh yeah! That’s it man! Do it! Fuckin do . . . me . . . right!” Whore lives in a duplex; I couldn’t help but wonder what his neighbors were making of all the noise from the first floor. Frankly, I didn’t much care. I spat on my hand and began stroking myself, quietly, so that my presence wouldn’t be betrayed. “You like that ass? Yeah? You like that ass?” Whore yodeled from the living room. “Come on, man! Time to do it! Yeah! Yeah! I can tell you’re close!” “Yeah,” I heard the other guy whimper. “Yeah, let me . . . I’m gonna . . . OH YEAH!” “YEAH!” Whore yelled at the same time. “Fuckin’ hot load all up in your whore!” The sound of the stranger’s climax almost pushed me over the edge myself, but I squeezed my cock and stopped myself at the edge. Within moments, Whore appeared in the bedroom. “He’s gone,” he told me. Only then did I hear the distant sound of the front door closing. The man had been there for perhaps all of four minutes. “I’m filled with his stuff. He got some on me too.” His chest glistened with droplets of semen in the light from the neighbor’s porch filtering through the gauzy curtains. “You are such a goddamned whore,” I told him. “You know you loved listening,” he said. I admitted I did. “It was all for you. You ready to be finished off, stallion?” he growled, throwing himself backwards onto the mattress so that he bounced. “You have to ask?” I took a moment to prepare myself, then slid into him once again. The stranger’s fluids made both our chests sticky. Whore smelled of his own cologne, and of spunk, and of another man’s sweat. “Bang it,” he said. “Bang my ass! Bang it like—shit! Shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiit!” His own cock, which had been hard and dripping the entire time, suddenly started spurting over his nipples and chest and face as he hollered in orgasm. This was no faked display, this time; his face was contorted in what looked like absolute pain, but his body shook in pleasure. Again, somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered about the neighbors upstairs. Not for long, though. The sight of him drenched in sperm sent me over the edge, and I let out a roar as my nerves began jangling with electricity. Dressing was easy, as I hadn’t actually removed any clothing. I fastened the top button on my jeans, pulled down my t-shirt. While I was running my fingers through my sex-mussed hair, I remarked, “So is there someone in the kitchen waiting for me to leave?” “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’ve got one in every room of the house, waiting for the next to finish off.” “It’s as complicated as those Russian nesting dolls.” He grinned at that one. “You’re fun.” More...

Thanks sub-cumhole! Only another two years (and change) to get to a million, at this rate.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Over the weekend I slipped up and did something I'd sworn to avoid fora while. I answered a Craigslist ad. I know, I know. You've all heard me malign Craigslist time after time. In my metro area, it's the nadir of online cruising. In the last few months, I've never had a truly successful hookup from the site. I've met weirdos, yes. I've met men who never show. Saturday I answered an ad from a guy who lived in my zip code. Looking to suck guys at my private gloryhole, it said. Come in, unzip, get off, get out. I liked the direct approach, and I'm fond of a good gloryhole, private or public, so I wrote back with my location, stats, and a shot of my wrangling my dick. He wrote back with an enthusiastic WOW! I want to taste that!!! Then it was downhill from there. I asked him if he was available, and where the gloryhole was; he said that he was looking for right then, and that the gloryhole was at the foot of his basement stairs. I asked for an address. He wanted to know when I was free. I told him I was free right then. He said he might have to postpone, because he didn't like spending time in the basement in the dark behind the gloryhole. (Which baffled me. Why offer the services of your home glory hole if you don't like being behind it?) I repeated I was looking for right then. Then he disappeared for twenty minutes, and that was that. When he came back, I'd already given him up, but he wanted to know my cock size. I asked him if he was honestly looking for dick or just playing games. He asked if I knew someone I could bring with me. That's when I lost it, more or less—I wrote the guy back and told him that it wasn't my responsibility to line up a party for him, and that if he'd seriously been looking to suck right then, he would've invited me over already, and that he could've had me over forty minutes before. Good luck finding someone, I wrote, but it won't be me. I'm not a game player! was his last, sad little reply. I trashed it. So no, I'm not really positive about Craiglist at the moment . . . though I am perpetually fascinated by one of its sections. The Missed Connections, that is. I read them every day. I think I like the Missed Connections because every little snippet is almost a story unto itself. It’s a bit like switching on a soap opera and catching so few lines of dialogue that it’s left to one’s own imagination to construct the scene around it. It’s a fantastic resource for writers. Voyeurs, too. I mean, who is not intrigued by what’s left unsaid in something like this? Lowe’s: Instant on/off lamp switch plug device (m4m) I should have paid more attention. What’s going on here? Did a customer walk into Lowe’s and become so enamored with the clerk explaining the instant on/off lamp switch plug device that, when he got it home, he couldn’t remember what it was for? Did he spend the rest of the evening in a romantic daze, stroking his dick and thinking of the Lowe’s clerk in his tidy apron and name tag? Or did it go down in an entirely different fashion, with the customer walking into Lowes intending to buy a timer for his sprinkler system, and was so overcome by the clerk’s pulchritude that he walked off instead with a much-despised plug device? I want to know! Broke down (m4m) hot stud with broke down car at rest area i gave u pop bottle for water would like to meet again Who isn’t intrigued by this barely literate collection of run-on sentences? I like to picture our protagonist as wearing a plastic trucker’s cap and a stained tank top, clumsily proffering a Jolt Cola bottle (used) full of water for the stranded hot stud's radiator, his other hand stuffed into his dirty jeans, smiling his broken-toothed smile when the musclebound hunk thanked him. Then I picture Mr. Trucker Hat creepily staring at the handsome guy in the dark from behind the windshield of his busted-up Ford truck, a sticky spot in his shorts, as the poor stalked guy waits for AAA to send a tow. There's more in my imagination, but I don't want to freak you out. I’m always fascinated by glimpses of a city in which I live, but don’t recognize in the Missed Connections: Woodward Avenue Studs (m4mm) You and your hot friend were driving north on Woodward when you both lifted your shirts and flashed me. Damn! You two were amazing! Are you brothers? I couldn’t stop, was heading home to the family, but if you two are interested in a married man, tell me what color shirt I was wearing and what my bumper sticker said. I drive north on Woodward all the time, and no one’s ever flashed me. There are all kinds of questions I want to ask this guy. Was he late to dinner? Did the wife notice his distant, pensive air? Did he need some time to himself in the basement workroom, after? I’m almost tempted to start writing emails with guesses. Blue stripes and My Son Is on the Honor Roll of the Roeper Academy? I suspect everyone who reads the Missed Connections section likes to think that someday their eyes will be traveling down the list of locations and situations and, in a sudden spark of recognition, realize that someone is looking for them. Why, it was ME at that supermarket, Wednesday afternoon! I was INDEED the guy in the blue SUV at the Sonic! Who wouldn’t be honored to be noticed, remembered, and desired? I have no such illusions, primarily because being seen would require occasionally leaving the house. If someone did write a Missed Connections ad to me, this is what I’m sadly afraid it would look like: Weird-looking tall guy in Papa Joe’s grocery (m4m) You were very tall, you have a fuzzy face, and your clothes were covered with cat hair. I followed you around the store hoping to catch your eye, but you were too busy trying out every food sample to notice. First you were all about the cheese on toothpicks, and then I saw you take seconds of the blueberry bread. Then you choked on the homemade peanut butter and yelled out, “Jesus Christ, it’s rancid!” really loudly. I was going to bring you water, but you’d already moved on to the deli meat and the open container of ginger snaps. Wow, you really like your free samples, don’t you? Maybe next time. More...