TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Sometime overnight I passed a milestone: 100,000 unique readers have passed through the pages of this blog. World domination, here I come! Admittedly, the concept of ‘unique visitors’ is perhaps misleading—though it does at least weed out all the page hits generated from the people who stumble on the site and go back through it looking for the dirty photos. And the measurement is a little imprecise, as I only installed my counter on April 5 of this year. However you look at it, though, it’s still a buttload of people. Thanks everyone! I look at a few things every morning when I check over my statistics page. One of them is the page of links people followed to get here, so I can get a heads-up on where I might have been mentioned, or of blog sites linking to me that I might want to visit. Sometimes I also look at the maps of from where people are visiting, so I can marvel at the fact I have fans in Tehran, Dubai, the Canary Islands, and Kuala Lampur. It’s my own agoraphobic version of The Amazing Race. But the main source of entertainment, on those days I look at my statistics pages, come from the recent keyword activity tab. When someone does a search on Google or Bing and they happen to land on my page, it’ll record what the search was and let me know. Now, the vast majority of these searches are some variation on mrsteed bareback blog or breeders blog blogspot or something similar, from those who’ve read my journal in the past and have lost the address and want to find it again. I have one word of advice for you people: bookmark me, dammit. My second-highest search term is mrgloryholejunkie. Guys, I miss him too. I loved his blog and his outlook on life, and thought he was a valuable commentator (and was pleased the couple of times he commented here). But no, I don’t know his new blog site, or why he drops out of view for extended periods of time. Some of your search terms, however, have made me raise my eyebrows. 1) spongebob birthday party To all the housewives searching Google for ideas of how to throw a festive natal celebration for your young tykes who stumbled onto my graphic description of two dads blowing loads of sperm in a pair of Spongebob Squarepants briefs, I heartily apologize. 2) pictures of spongebob sucking dick To you sickos, I have no apologies. 3) “his swollen hole” I hope you found what you wanted, here. I’ve left behind a lot of swollen holes. 4) wash off a penis You wonder if the person typing in this search term was looking for instructions to wash his own (he didn’t know?), or was looking to cleanse someone else’s. 5) crusty feet I am not exactly sure what entry I might have made that would generate a hit on this search term, but it gave me pause. 6) completely depraved tops who bang six loads in a row Guilty as charged, I suppose. 7) I like your slavic nose gay blog backyard The phrase is either oddly specific to one of my entries about my back yard neighbor, or else there are more people out there who have Ukrainians in the houses behind them. 8) fuck fuck fuck lingerie wearing chicks with dicks In my blog? Really? 9) i let him fuck the ass of my 501 levis & he shot his semen against the denim I wouldn’t have shot on the denim, personally. 10) justin beeber fanclub I haven’t even written about that pocket-sized lesbian! Double-you tee eff, man! Next up, a little more housekeeping. Two more readers sent gifts from my Amazon.com wish list, for which I'm undyingly grateful. The only difference between last week and Christmas is that last week I actually got gifts. And finally, links to those Xtube Fleshjack videos with which I threatened everyone last week. For the life of me, I don't know why Xtube inverts half the videos I upload and posts them upside-down. I’ve enjoyed writing for you guys. Many thanks for reading, everyone. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's time for that popular end-of-week ritual in which I collect more of your questions from formspring.me and give them the rigorous attention they deserve. The questions take a serious turn toward the end this week, but fear not. I end on the note of sheer ego you expect of me. But first, a shout-out to the person kind enough to send me a CD from my Amazon wish list. Yes, there's a CD in that photo. Look a little lower. Lower than that. There you go. And yes, I like show tunes. What of it? What's the longest dick you've ever sucked? Eleven inches. It belonged to a latin guy who picked me up in a Waldenbooks, in my early twenties. He saw me cruising him, and then he took my hand and shoved it down the open fly of his jeans, right there in the travel books, and told me I was going home with him and that he was going to fuck both my holes. And boy, did he. I know it was eleven inches because at one point he pulled out a tape measure to prove it to me. What do you usually wear to bed when you know you're going to have sex? I usually wear nothing to bed, whether I'm having sex or not. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty about fucking guys I have no intention of fucking again, not because I didn't find them attractive but I enjoy new experiences. I have a huge conscience and it kills me to hurt anyone. Can you provide any advice? Not every encounter is going to be a lifetime commitment. Not every hookup will end in dating, or a repeat visit. Why not enjoy the sex for what it is, while it's happening, and not worry about what will come later? There really is no shame in two people enjoying each other for a short moment, honoring the encounter for what it is, and moving on. how much do you jack off? I'm not usually a constant masturbator, though I have my days when I can't keep my hands off myself. I'd prefer to have sex with someone else than to masturbate. So I'd guess 2-3 times a week. If I'm having a slow sex week, it might be more like 4. If it's early summer when my hormones run high, all bets are off. How do you like to fuck? I mean is hard and fast or slow and gentle. Perhaps it changes depending on the bottom, but do have like a default way of fucking? It really all depends on my mood. I think I tend to be more of a love-maker than a nasty fucker, but I enjoy both extremes and everything in between. And beyond. At what point does chubbiness make for logistical problems in gaining access to a guy's ass? A valid question. I cannot say that there is an absolute weight at which screwing becomes impossible, because everyone has different weight distributions. I have met a couple of guys, however, whom I had difficulty navigating to the entry point even with my length. Some positions are easier with big boys. I find on the knees, doggie-style, to be best. What do u have against monogamy? I have nothing against monogamy. I have nothing against Santa Claus either. I just don't happen to believe in him. I absolutely believe it's possible to develop a very intense and lifelong emotional bond with someone. I think that's sweet, and honorable, and enviable when it happens. It should be cherished when it does. I don't at all believe that this bond requires sexual exclusivity, however. Nor do I think it's cheapened when two partners mutually agree that they're confident and jealousy-free enough to allow the other to enjoy sexual relations outside the relationship. Polyamory isn't for everyone. But neither is monogamy. Neither side should be so foolish as to assert superiority over the other. But they do, and usually it's the monogamists who want to squelch all talk of alternatives. DO YOU THINK THAT "VERSATILE" REALLY MEANS "CLOSET BOTTOM?" YES OR NO? Pretty much. I always interpret 'versatile' as 'this dude is going to bottom for me.' Of course, I usually interpret 'top' to mean 'this dude is going to bottom for me,' too. Did you douche out your hole when you went cruising at a young age? You know, I did not. Not generally. I don't mean to sound crude, but given a shot at my hole back then, most guys didn't really care. That said, I wasn't dirty. Later on, when I had a mentor of sorts, he showed me how to use a rubber squeeze enema bottle at his place. But for park and restroom cruising, I very quickly learned how to get clean enough by showering and using some water and a couple of fingers. It worked well enough. How long do you last? I'd like to get fucked for 15 minutes. I also don't touch myself and usually jack off after the top cums. Is that odd? The longest I've lasted without shooting is about ninety minutes of continual fucking. Most guys are kind of tired of my dick by then. I have a tendency to shoot 2-3 times at least, and I reload quickly; the longest session I've had with a guy with no breaks was about four hours. I think we could swing 15 minutes, pretty easily. If you're one of those bottoms who is done, d-o-n-e, done after you shoot, I wouldn't let you touch yourself and jack off until after I'd shot, either. I find nothing more disappointing than a bottom who shuts down after he comes. What situation makes you willing or eager to bottom? Tell us about the last dick that made you open your hole for it. It has been a long time since I was successfully topped. About seven years, in fact. The last guy who topped me was a handsome older Australian who, once his clothes came off, turned out to completely covered in tattoos from his neck to his ankles. He was attentive and playful and sweet, but also took charge and knew what he wanted. Even when I tried to protest and talk him out of topping me, he managed to put me at ease and took what he wanted. Three times, in fact. Do you ask the guys you top what their HIV status is? Yes. Does their answer about their HIV status change anything for you? My decision to get naked with guys is based on a number of factors. Attraction and connection are foremost. I don't choose or discriminate against a partner based on broad generalizations, such as age, weight, race, or HIV status. Thanks for answering my HIV questions. So their status does not change whether you have sex with them but how about specific acts? You must have looked at each type of act and its risk to you and therefore your family. It seems to me that often the invoking of the word 'family' tends to be used as a moral trump card; it's not used so much as an actual argument as it is a full-stop silencer against any sort of dialogue. Conservatives have used it for decades and centuries against gays and bisexuals. I am always surprised when we use against ourselves, consciously or not, the tactics of those who would see us eliminated. My last word for now on the issue of HIV status is this: to assume I am uneducated or unheeding of the risks involved in unprotected sex is erroneous. So is assuming, or insisting, that I live a risk-free life to suit the standards of someone else. I'm always aware of my HIV status, and it's something that I share with the partners I agree to meet, when we meet. That's when it becomes someone's business. How could anybody ever get tired of your dick? :-) I'm loftily assuming this is a rhetorical question. My answer is: I know, right? More...

Thanks, sub!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m going to be a touch reflective today. And maybe a wee bit crabby . . . but not at you guys. Last Sunday I allowed myself to be talked into going to the annual Motor City Pride celebration nearby. I know a couple of people who look forward to the event all year, and I have to admit I feel a little sorry for them. Michigan’s version of Pride is a little bit underwhelming, to be honest. In years past, the celebration used to be held in an out-of-the-way parking deck, which made the collection of informational booths seem a little bit depressed and seedy. Subsequently it was moved onto the streets of a trendy gay neighborhood, which brightened up the mood a lot and brought the event out in the open. Despite the improvement in the surroundings, I never found Pride as fabulous as its aspirations. The booths are a mixture of the earnest—the volunteer organizations that do great good but which largely are ignored by the crowds, the pet shelters, the churches trying to welcome the lesbian and gay community with open arms—mixed with the slightly embarrassing home craft booths, like the two gay guys trying to sell homemade candles in the colors of the rainbow flag, or the woman selling godawful ‘festive penis piñatas’ that look like nothing more than stubby pink paper-mache fingers or pencil erasers. Or in the case of the black piñata, a Tootsie Roll. There are the special interests groups, of course, and the social organizations handing out their literature. And then there are the just plain oddball exhibitions, like the Best Buy booth advertising its Geek Squad services by featuring wholesome young white men dressed up in equally white dress dress shirts, black pants, shiny black shoes, and black ties. (“What are the Mormons doing here?” asked every person in genuine puzzlement, whenever they passed the booth.) Most people go for the dancing, or the beer tent, for the drag shows, or for the lesbians singing their folksy music on acoustic guitars at the most distant of the sound stages. But Sunday, when it was a chilly and damp Michigan afternoon and the skies kept opening up to pour down on the crowd, I couldn't say that people were having a lot of fun. I’d had the foresight to wear a hat and a hoodie, at least. But when I trooped inside one of the business establishments along the festival’s street to join some of my friends, I was damp and a little disheveled. Worse, one of the first faces I saw crowded inside that tiny space was someone I detested. I sighed, wedged myself between two buddies who were sharing a snack, and tried to remain unobtrusive. The guy in question is someone I’d not seen in about six years. Once every half-dozen years is more than enough. Usually it takes quite a misdeed to turn me off someone so badly. Not so with this guy. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that repulses me about him. It might be his smell, which is something akin to urine and mothballs. It might be the way he always kisses me on the cheek when I see him, with lips that are soft and dry and curiously repellant, like a disliked grandmother’s. Mostly, though, I think it’s his presumption that because we’ve seen each other in person maybe all of four times in a dozen years, that he and I are the best of friends and that he has the right to greet me with, “So who’ve you been throwing your legs in the air for lately, sugar?” And a little bit of my dislike for him, I have to admit, is that the very first time I encountered this guy, he suggested the most outrageous sexual act on which I've never been tempted to follow through. It was at a gay.com party, about eleven years ago. The object of my dislike, who then was a really ugly guy with serial killer eyes and unruly hair and the smell of living in his mother’s basement thick upon his skin, backed me into a corner and asked if I wanted to help him live out a sexual fantasy. “What fantasy?” I asked, unwisely ignoring my instinct to run shrieking into the night like a frightened schoolgirl. “What I’m looking for is someone who will poop in a pair of white briefs, then call me up and let me know you’re coming so I can lie down under the mail slot in my front door. Then all you have to do is drop the drawers through the slot.” I was horrified. “You want me to drop my shitty briefs through the mail slot?” I echoed. “Onto my face,” he explained. Then, to top it off, he actually licked his lips and purred, “Mmmmm.” You may be surprised, but I declined that offer. I let ol' poopy pants talk to the friend with whom I’d driven for a while, as I pretended to be invisible. It didn’t work. He worked his way around our circle of friends one by one, having a private word or ten. Eventually I felt him tugging on my sleeve. “Well hey,” I said with no real enthusiasm and a lot of feigned surprise. “How are you?” “Damn, girlfriend,” he replied, almost immediately setting my teeth on edge. “You look so skinny. How’d you lose all that weight? What’s your secret?” “Not eating,” I replied, quite truthfully. Years ago I used to weigh more than I do now. Sixty pounds more, in fact. Better eating habits got me back down to a waist size smaller than I had in college, and have kept me there for the last four years. “Well whatever it is, you’re lookin’ good!” The loathsome one proceeded to tell me that he was moving out of town in two weeks for a job in a southern state. I managed not to jump up and down in glee, but instead congratulated him and let him glide on. Thankfully, he didn’t invite me to a going-away party. Nor did I offer to throw one. After I disinfected with some Purell, I thought no more about that encounter until we’d given up on the rainy Pride event and were all at dinner, an hour later. “At least he’s leaving town,” I said, after invoking the unholy one’s name. “Oh my god,” said the friend who’d talked to him first. “He is such a bitch. Do you know what he said about you?” I shook my head. “He said, ‘What’s wrong with Rob? He’s lost so much weight. Is he sick?’ And I told him that no, you’d lost weight because you’d gone on a diet, a long time ago. ‘Well he looks terrible,’ he said.” “Oh my god,” echoed another friend at the table. “He said the exact same thing to me after he talked to you. He asked if you were sick, and said you looked awful, and that you just know what a lot of weight loss means when you're that way.” “He said the same thing to me,” piped up someone else. “And I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding. He looks great. You must not have seen him in a long while.’ ” Around the table, everyone had the same story. This loathsome creature, even though he knew we were hanging around as a pack that afternoon, had gone around and told everyone how terrible and unhealthily skinny I appeared, with simpering insinuations of what it meant to lose so much weight in so short a period of time. “I lost that weight over the course of three years!” I was angry for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, the corrosive quality of the gossip was bad enough. The way he’d moved from person to person, spreading his poison and hoping it’d somehow stick was even worse. And perhaps most unthinking of all was that at least two of the people to whom he was tittle-tattling were HIV-positive. I've been aghast all week. Why in the world would anyone try to mock or trivialize another person’s serostatus in such a way? I’m not sure I understand why anyone would use that particular fact as ammunition against another person—particularly in the gay community. Are we so hardened by the stones thrown at us by outsiders, that we feel free to pick them up and use them to finish off each other? It makes no sense. I felt so dirty, after I learned about it. And angry. Who knows to whom this vampire gossip will flit next, trying to poison their minds? It reminds me of high school. Back then I’d worry obsessively about who was spreading what ugly rumors—and that was during days when the noxious winds of gossip were what turned the school’s mills. The difference now, though, is that now I really don’t give a rip what people think about me. Not for longer than about two minutes, anyway. But oh, those two minutes . . . if they could’ve been captured, my feelings would have to be bottled in pure diamond, so corrosive they were. I just checked one of the guy's online sex profiles. I jack off thinking about guys making me take a poz load, it says. Oy. The sheer amount of psychic dissonance between his fantasies and his actions makes my head hurt. Play nicely with each other, guys. That's all I ask. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I know not to expect it, but I've had some generous gifts from kind readers the last three days. The latest arrived last night: Yes, it's a Fleshjack. The Fleshjack's a masturbation tool filled with a soft silicon sleeve that's supposed to feel like real flesh. I was surprised that to a certain extent, it did. Like a real ass, it had a tight opening and a deep wide channel inside. Unlike a real ass, it needed a lot of lube. A lot of lube. I don't think I've used so much lube outside of my last fisting party. Afterward, I felt as if I'd taken a dip in the BP oil spill. The overall verdict: highly enjoyable. Unlike real flesh, the Fleshjack isn't warm, and it's hardly the equivalent of intimate lovemaking. The sensations are great, though. I had my best time when I jammed the tube between some sofa cushions and pounded away at it like a real hole. That felt highly realistic to me. Of course, I'm going to have to experiment with it some more. In the name of journalism. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I walked into the marble atrium, with its grand piano plinking away with some kind of invisible player, cold jets of air whooshed down on me. Whether to cool me, or to blast any impurities from my decidedly downscale clothing before I stepped into the upscale mall, I didn’t know. I walked past the glass elevators, past the grand shops with their beautifully-decorated windows, and down the shiny stone stairs into the basement. Where the men’s room was. The last time I wrote about visiting this upscale mall, when I masturbated for a kid in the upstairs men’s room toilets, I got an email from a reader who recognized exactly where I was posting about. He told me he cruised there as well, and gave me some stats—38, bi, six feet tall, and a cocksucker who didn’t require reciprocation. Did I want to meet there sometime when he was in town on business? Hell yes I did. We passed a few more emails this week. He was driving into town on Wednesday, he met. Should we meet in the basement restroom for some more privacy, while he was there, he wanted to know? I was all for it. I told him I’d be wearing jeans and black sneakers. He told me he’d be wearing silver tennis shoes. It was a date. I was a good five minutes early to the downstairs bathroom, yesterday. When I sat down in the next-to-last toilet, though, I spied a pair of silver tennis shoes in the stall next to mine. We waited until a guy at the urinals had finished his business, washed his hands, and left. Then I tapped my left foot. Immediately he tapped back with his right. Ordinarily there’s a process to cruising in a men’s room, a dance of tapping back and forth, followed by some cautious overtures beneath the stall. I didn’t think we needed the extra precautions, however. I knelt down on the floor with one knees so that if he bent over, he could see me stroking my hardening cock. Beneath the stall I saw the shadow of his outline as he leaned forward, and then a cautious dip of his head. After he’d bobbed out of sight, he moved his head back down again. I caught a glimpse of one eye and half of a handsome face. He was looking. I put my hand beneath the partition, palm up. As I expected, he stood up and face toward me, then knelt down. Two brown legs poked beneath the partition. I hardened further at the sight of his soft cock as it came into view. My hand held it, squeezed it; I moved my fingers under his balls and swiped the outside of his hole. He pulled his knees back. It was my turn. I spread my legs and thrust my knees beneath the partition, so that my rock-hard dick was protruding underneath. Almost immediately I felt something warm and wet and sloppy on it. The stranger—my blog reader—was sucking on my rod so expertly and hungrily that it felt as if he was hoping to make it even bigger and longer. I thrust forward even more, trying to maneuver my body so that my anonymous fan could take as much of me in his mouth as possible. I let out a gasp as he sucked even harder and with more vigor. His hand joined his mouth in traveling up and down the shaft. I had to grasp onto the ledge of the toilet dispenser for balance, as my other hand clutched onto the underside of the partition. My elbow rested on the toilet seat. As much as I wanted to let go completely and slide my entire body under the metal divider, I knew I had to keep my wits about me. While my unknown servicer slurped up and down the length of my inches, he stroked my balls and kept me on the very edge. The outer door creaked and stirred the air around us. Very quietly and swiftly I pivoted out from under the partition and up onto the toilet seat, as someone walked into the room and took the stall next to mine. In the reflective tile I could see my cocksucker bending over to assess the situation. The new guy dropped his pants and immediately dismissed any hopes we might have had that he was a fellow cruiser by letting out the most tremendous and unrestrained fart I’d heard in some time. While I jacked off, smelling the scent of my sucker’s spit on my hand, the new guy proceeded to take the loudest dump imaginable. He was one of those guys who cheered himself on as he did it, too, following each blast with a grunt of aw yeah! or that’s it! Once he was done, he lingered. For an eternity he sat there on his toilet seat, playing with his cell phone with a series of beeps and boops, muttering things like, Toledo! You gotta be kidding me! Or, What is this, what is this? Another man came in and sat in the last of the stalls while the prodigious dumper finished wiping up and finally left. But the minute that last guy was out of the restroom, I was down on my knees again. I didn’t even wait for an invitation; I shoved my dick beneath and was immediately met with a warm, wet, mouth. If anything, my blog fan was even hungrier after having been deprived for a few minutes. He turned his head sideways and began swallowing me to the base. I could see the profile of his face as he sucked and slurped on my dick. I let my left hand rest on the top of his head and ran my fingers through his short, wiry fair hair. My legs were trembling as he kept me right on the edge of orgasm for a very, very long time. From outside the door, the static-laced sound of a security radio sparked the silence. We both pivoted up and away from each other, waiting for the men’s room door to open. It was a false alarm. Down I went again. My cocksucker frantically went to town on my dick for a few seconds—and then the door opened. Part of the thrill of public sex, of course, is the risk. But I was finding the interruptions more annoying than exhilarating, at this point. Three more times I went down on my knees after that, followed by three more bouts of sounds in the hallway and close calls in what was supposed to be one of the quietest restrooms in the county. But it was lunchtime, and more traffic than usual was clogging up the hallway. I had to call it quits. During one of the interruptions I stood up, pulled up my pants, zipped and fastened, and left the men’s room and the mall. So to my cocksucker blog fan, if you’re reading today—dude, you were awesome. Seriously. Best head I’ve had in weeks. One day I would love to have you between my legs in a quiet spot, just sucking and slobbering away. All those security radios and the constant sound of footsteps persuaded me to take the wise course and get out, is all. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here To the unknown benefactor who gave me a copy of a book I've very much wanted to read, from my Amazon wishlist, this is the only way I can thank you: Actually, I suppose I could've simply said, 'thank you!', but this seemed much more appreciative. I'm already a hundred pages in. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Sorry I’m late.” The Gypsy darkened my front doorway when he stepped over the threshold, Sunday morning. Not because of his mood, but because he’s a big hulking slab of man. He hovers at about six and a half feet, has big, broad shoulders, and tattooed, muscular arms. Everything about him is big, big, big. His head gives the impression of being the size of a watermelon. His feet are like size sixteen sailboats. His hands are like entire Virginia hams. He’s handsome and masculine and supersized like a McDonald’s double Big Mac and the largest side of fries. “There was flooding on the freeway, and I tried to. . . .” The Gypsy is the only man for whom I actually have to stand on tiptoe to kiss—all six-foot-three of me. When my lips touched his, his words drifted away. I never really did find out what he tried to do on the freeway. I call him the Gypsy because he’s the the direct descendant of generations of Romanian Gypsy blood. It shows in his hair, which grows into thick, dark curly tresses when he lets it get long, but more so in his eyes. His dark, liquid, black eyes that seem to take up the best portion of his face. They’re big, wide, and deep as wells. He’s as gentle as a lamb, the Gypsy is. When I led him upstairs to my bed and lay down, he settled on top of me as softly as a feather, and almost as weightless. I wanted to be crushed, to feel all two hundred and fifty pounds of that enormous man’s body pushing me into the mattress. Instead, when he rested on me, he felt like a breathing, furry coverlet. “How long has it been, fucker?” he asked, when we came up for air while making out. “God.” I thought back. The Gypsy and I used to see each other regularly, but it had to have been since at least March since I’d seen him last. I couldn’t remember writing about him in my blog, anyway. “Way too fucking long.” He accepted that answer. When my mouth reached for his earlobe, he sighed and turned over onto his back. I rolled with him and ended up on top. He was wearing a sleeveless denim shirt that showed off his meaty shoulders, unfastened almost to his navel. I popped off the last two buttons and exposed his chest. Without hesitation I dove for his left nipple. My teeth clinked against the metal ring piercing it and lifting it up and out; he gasped and moaned and began to grind his hips against mine. I could feel his cock harden against my hips. My teeth tweaked and teased at his nipple for a little longer than he seemed willing to endure before I moved to the other. His dick was rock-hard now. My fingers scrambled for his belt, yanking it loose and fumbling at the button of his shorts. Once they were open, I found that he wore no underwear. His cock was stiff and wet; he’d frosted his belly with precum. Instead of gulping down his dick, I pushed his legs up and back and licked his hole. His entire body shuddered. I ate his hole for a long time, first on his back, and then while he twitched and ground his hips against the mattress on his belly. There’s a certain sense of power you feel as a top, when you’ve got a guy who could easily turn you into pulp under your complete control. Anything I did to him got a reaction. When I let my fingers trail down his back, he’d gasp. If I hauled off and slapped his cheeks, he’d grunt and ask for more. If I removed my mouth and tongue from his hole and blew a column of cool air on the spit-slick surface, he would let out a sudden moan and claw at the sheets. When I moved around to the bed’s side and stuff his mouth full of my dick, he wasn’t a big bruiser at all, but just like any other cock pig—submissive, obedient, and hungry. Once I was slick and hard, I spread his legs with my knees and pushed my cock against his hole. “Let me sit on it,” he begged. “You’re too big to go in like that.” “Sshhh,” I assured him. I uncapped my lube bottle, spread a little on his hole, and then spread it on my dick. “Go slow.” I ignored him. I was already going slow. For a few seconds I let just the very tip of my dick probe his hole, back and forth, back and forth. Then the head slipped in. Like a rabbit, I made very speedy, small thrusts until he seemed ready for more. And then his hole parted and I slipped all the way in. He groaned. It was a deep, chest-thrumming sound that shook the entire bed. When I began gliding back and forth, he said, “Would you do something for me?” “What?” I asked. “Bite me.” His voice was full of need. “Bite the back of my neck. Make me feel it. Leave marks.” It wasn’t the request I’d been expecting. But I am, if anything, eager to please. His back arched when my lips met his neck. I let my teeth seize entire mouthfuls of flesh before I raked them over the skin. “You want a love bite?” I growled, even as I did it. “I’ll give you love bites.” I licked, bit, and sucked his neck and shoulders until I’d left little half-moon marks all over them. He, in turn, nearly wrenched the headboard from the bed, from clutching at it so hard. My first load came while I fucked him like that, driving in while pushing his enormous body into the bed, my mouth on his shoulders and my hand shoving his face in the pillow. He grunted like a pig, waited until my body’s spasms had subsided, and then rolled me off him and cleaned my dick with his mouth. Then he sat on me. The Gypsy has amazingly good control over his ass. I want to add, ‘for a guy his size,’ though logically I can’t pinpoint why I’d expect a guy of mammoth proportions to be less skillful with his butt muscles than anyone else. For over a half hour he was in control. His massive paws wrapped around my wrists to pin them to the bed, he raised and lowered himself on my dick as he squatted. “You like it when I rape your dick, don’t you?” he said. I nearly came right then. One of my few unfulfilled fantasies has to do with being restrained and blindfolded and having a bottom ‘rape’ my dick how he pleases. Being pinned down roughly and ridden was a decent substitute. “Yes,” I hissed. “Please.” “Just lie back and take it then, fucker.” For such a gentle man, the Gypsy knows how to torture a dick. He’d take me to the edge again and again, only to pull back before I came. He’d wait until my breathing calmed and my eyes would uncloud, then do it again. Finally, long minutes later, when my brow was furrowed with the stress of needing to unload, he began picking up the pace. “You can do it now,” he promised. “Do it, baby. Do it.” This time, I came outside his ass, when on one of his up strokes I fell out of him with an audible, wet plop. My dick gushed its load on his cheeks, then almost immediately found its path back inside. I fucked him on his back after that, while he played with his soft tool. Only after I’d shot for a third time in two hours did he get fully hard and come, and that was when I squatted over his face and bobbed my ass up and down on his mouth. His dick swelled and precum oozed from the head again. Within thirty seconds his nipples were hardening and his breathing began to hasten; thirty seconds later he shot straight up into the air a good six inches. A cascade of semen fell back down on his dick and balls as his body relaxed and quivered. “Did you enjoy?” I asked him, when I’d mopped him off and we were lying down next to each other. “Oh fuck,” he said, chuckling to himself. “You make me feel tiny, every time we fuck. Like I’m just a small guy. It’s great.” I mulled over that one again—the fantasy of a giant to feel tiny and totally in someone else’s control. It didn’t take long for me to decide that having that power to transform was a gift of sorts indeed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Blogger was being uncooperative with me, earlier today. Whenever I would try to post about my fuck fest yesterday, it would just laugh at me and blandly respond, "Blogger is unavailable at this time." Just like all the local bottoms, on a night I know I have to myself, Blogger apparently is. You just wait until you're horny and need to be filled, Blogger. I know you'll come crawling to me then. We'll just see who has the upper hand. At any rate, to tide you over until tomorrow morning, here's a shot I took yesterday. If you click on it, it gets bigger. Yes, I'm using self-made porn to distract you from my lack of a post. Is it working? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here As is becoming my tradition, and so I can give my poor fingers a day of rest, today will be the one day of the week when I'll catch up on some of the questions you guys have been asking on formspring.me. I love most of your questions. It's always interesting to see in what areas people have a curiosity, and what little bits of information I leave out because I've taken for granted. Would you marry me? Could we have a monogamous relationship? Would you satisy my sexual needs, wants and desires? Would you consider a non-monogamous relationship? And could you satisfy my sexual needs? Those are equally important questions. Whoever the faggot was that asked you to marry him, forget his ass. Marry me. You can fuck as many guys and girls as you want with me. Just come home to my bed and sleep with me in my arms. Fuck monogamy. Now we're talking. Think back on a time when you were having great sex with some sinfully beautiful boy. Did you ever have a moment where thought to yourself "Fuck! How the hell did I get here???" What do you tell yourself at that moment? Yeah, sometimes I've wondered how I got to that moment. But to reflect on it is to distance oneself from the sex, and I don't like to do that. I appreciate the boy's beauty, and plunge right back into the action. Staying in the moment, when it comes to sex, is the best way to be connected to your partner. Cleanse the mind of all other distractions, and just enjoy. That's one of my mottos. What do you look at. if anything, when you’re masturbating alone? Sometimes I enjoy watching porn, but usually I masturbate without any accompanying materials. I like to focus on what's at hand, so to speak. Also I get off looking at my dick. What is the biggest age difference you've had with a guy (either when you were young, and with an older guy, or now with a younger guy)? The largest was probably about five decades, when I was younger. Are you able to self-suck? I can, and in my teens I used to do it for spectators (usually paying spectators). However, I don't like to, don't get much pleasure from it, and much prefer someone else to do the sucking and save me from lower back pain. How do black guys show up in your casual sex partner pool? It's curious that a year ago this month, my three favorite regulars were all black men, but that none of the guys I've seen in the last three months have been black. I love black men. All a guy has to do is get in touch with me, and be close enough, to meet. How do you feel about chubs? Weight is not an issue that decides with whom I sleep. I've had fun with some very big boys. Do you recommend an 18 year old boy to be getting fucked by random, older men? It would depend on the eighteen-year-old and his sexual maturity. Many are more than willing and hungry for random fucks. Some, however, are prudes, or inexperienced, or tempermentally unsuited. Hell, some forty-year-olds aren't ready to be fucked. If a kid that age desires the fucking, he should be seeking the fucking. Pick three people to have with you if you were locked in building over a weekend (Friday afternoon until Monday morning) and why. I'd want someone pretty to look at, someone to cook for me, and someone who'd make me laugh. So I'd take David Annable for the pretty, Chris Santos for the cooking, and Neil Patrick Harris for the laughter. Then I'd fuck 'em all weekend. What's the longest period of time you've held on to a regular? The longest regular I met as an adult and continued to see repeatedly, I saw for close to eleven years. I can think of a couple of guys I've known for a decade or so. Would you prefer to suck or be sucked? I enjoy both. For long periods of time I tend to feel less guilty about sucking. I have difficulties shooting from a blow job alone, and if a guy sucks me for an extended period of time, I always feel very badly about not being able to guarantee a payload. i tend to get off (i think) too quickly in a hot guy's ass chute. how do you keep going without nutting too early in a boy's nice warm wet ass hole? any tricks you'd like to pass along to this faithful reader and his friends here? I have a young friend who wants to top more, but who has that exact same problem. The solution is practice. The more you fuck and become used to the sensations of a hole around your dick, the longer you'll last. He's shy about asking guys to bear with him while he tries to go longer and longer, though, so he's been practicing with a Fleshlight, and holding it immobile while he fucks it as he would an ass. He tells me he's gone from lasting about thirty seconds to about five minutes. I still haven't found anyone to share a Fleshlight with me, so I couldn't tell you if it feels like an ass or not. How many hours per day do you spend on your blog? Writing, reading, answering comments? I have a general rule that I try not to spend any more time writing about an encounter than it takes actually to have it. This doesn't mean that if I'm with a guy for three hours that I use three hours to write about it--and it also doesn't mean that a ten-minute restroom suck-off is only going to get a few sentences. But in general, it takes me about a half-hour to an hour to write an entry. I try to write my entries a day in advance. Sometimes if I'm on a roll, I'll write a couple at a time and set them to publish later in the week, so that I have more time those days for actual work. I don't take a lot of time with comments. I'm usually working on my laptop for a good portion of the day, so I just answer the comments as they dribble in. Private email from readers takes longer than comments, but I have a couple of blocks of time during my workdays that I use to take care of all my email correspondence. What's the longest dick you've ever sucked? Eleven inches. It belonged to a latin guy who picked me up in a Waldenbooks, in my early twenties. He saw me cruising him, and then he took my hand and shoved it down the open fly of his jeans, right there in the travel books, and told me I was going home with him and that he was going to fuck both my holes. And boy, did he. I know it was eleven inches because at one point he pulled out a tape measure to prove it to me. I'm convinced 3/4 of the CL posts are fake/pic collector/who knows. What's your advice for figuring out which are for real? The guys who exchange more than a couple of emails, in my experience, are merely looking to get off at their computers. The guys who want you to provide a detailed itinerary of what you intend to do with them, want to masturbate at their screens. The men who want more of your photos, but provide none of their own, want to collect your pics and wank off with them. The fellows who mention 'sometime' in their ad, like they want to get together 'sometime' or want to talk about meeting 'sometime,' will never, ever meet you. The men of Craigslist who ignore your basic directions are going to be too stupid to find your address on Google Maps. The man from Craigslist who sends you a photo and a description, then says in his email, "What's your address? I can be there in 20 minutes," is most like the man who is real. But don't believe it until he appears at your door. I'd love to have you breed me. You get me so hard! Well, thank you very much. Come sit down here right next to me. Naked. More...

Thanks, Maikol20. I'm glad you read it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I have a superpower. A sexual superpower, if you will. It’s one of those abilities of which gay men only dream. What could it be, you wonder? Is it the talent to turn any guy I see into my hapless sexual thrall? Well, no. I do that, but it’s just a fortunate side-effect. Is it a prostate-stimulating eye beam that, when I use my x-ray vision to probe deep into men’s bowels, instantly gives them the orgasm of a lifetime? Maybe, but no. Is it a super-cold blast of air that, when I exhale, transforms mens’ clothing to brittle dust that crumbles into nothing? Jeez, no. But you’re warmer. My superpower is as follows: I have an uncanny ability to make men remove their shirts in public places, like bars. Oh, don’t scoff. You know you’ve wished you could do it. It’s really a combination of my low-key personality, subtle flattery, and an unabashed Vulcan death grip on the guy’s vanity. Ten minutes later, boom. The guy’s strutting around shirtless. Yes, you may thank me. I’ve gotten all kinds of guys shirtless in the past. Pretty twinky boys? A few of them are shy, but a couple of kind words and they’ll take off their Hollister drag to show off their hairless chests. Leathermen? No challenge at all. They’re itching to get those T-shirts off and strut their stuff. Ordinary joes? They’re often the biggest challenge. Still, given a little time, sufficient ego-boosting, and enough alcoholic lubrication, soon enough they’re yanking off those neckties and sweaters and shirts and having themselves a good old time. But if you really want to know how far my superpowers extend, I offer the case of Heroes. Remember Heroes, the NBC show about ordinary people with (ironically) superpowers? The show that was good for a season and then got so rotten, so quickly, that I stopped watching after its second year? In its first few months, NBC was apparently so nervous about the program that it asked me to participate in a survey-based focus group. My first very lengthy questionnaire offered a lot of space to provide free-form answers, and in every one I offered the same sage advice: Your male leads need to take off their shirts more often. We want to see more gratuitous manflesh. I could tell the producers were responding when Adrian Pasdar stood around shirtless for a couple of scenes, a few weeks later. Come on, I wrote on the next questionnaire. Stop being a tease. Make all the boys take it off! NBC caved. First Milo Ventimiglia appeared bare-chested, then Pasdar started shucking his top whenever the camera was on him. (It was almost as if the camera’s mere presence dissolved his shirts.) Then the artist guy stood around without clothing for long, beautifully-lit moments. All the guys were lounging around in the buff as much as possible for no apparent or justifiable reason whatsoever. For a brief spell, under my expert direction, the show became a living Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue, but I liked it like that. Then Heroes stopped sending me questionnaires. And see what happened? Anyway, last night I went out to the local gay watering hole with friends, for a little while. One of them is horribly, perpetually single and not happy about it. We were sitting at a table together when in walked a couple of guys. One was short and had the general build of a grizzled old bulldog; the other was younger, darker-haired, and an extremely attractive, muscled Latin. “Oh my god,” said my friend, as his jaw hit the ground over the younger guy. “He’s so gorgeous. I want him. I want him to fuck me. He has to fuck me. I want him.” I raised my eyebrows slightly. “That won’t be happening.” My friend seemed outraged. “You are a bitch. Are you saying that I’m not good enough for him?” “No,” I replied, not getting ruffled by the insult. “Go talk to him if you want. His name is Jorge. That’s his boyfriend with him, but if you don’t mind that, go for it.” “You know his name?” asked my friend. “How do you know his name?” Again, I raised my eyebrows. “No, how do you know his name? Do you know him? How do you know his name? Where do you know him from? Do you really know him? Or are you just telling me you know him? How do you know his name?” He was so much like a yapping chihuahua that I wanted to put my hands over my ears. “Do you really want me to say it?” “Say what? How do you know him?” “Fine,” I announced to the table of five. “I’ve banged him. Are you happy?” To be honest, no, he didn’t seem very happy to hear that news at all. “Oh,” he said, deflating. Then, after a moment, “So that means he’s not a top?” “Oh, he is very definitely not a top.” Everyone at my table laughed, save for my friend. Jorge had been one of the whoriest bottoms in my stable, a few years ago when he’d been younger, thinner, lived a half-mile away, and was being impaled on my dick twice a week. “Well, fuck,” said my friend. He continued to be fascinated by Jorge, though, and kept staring at him. “Is he sexy naked?” he wanted to know. “I bet he’s really sexy naked. I bet he has a great chest. I bet he has a great body. You can tell he has a great body by looking at him. Yeah, I bet he has a really great chest and body. Does he have a great chest? I bet he has, like, this really sexy chest.” On and on he went, driving me to distraction. “Will you shut up if I do you a favor?” I said at last. He blinked, not understanding. “Just watch.” I cracked my superpower’s metaphorical knuckles, walked over to Jorge and his boyfriend, and laid my hands on their shoulders. Four minutes of small talk and laughter later, Jorge stood up on the lowest rungs of his bar stool, hooked his arms over his head, and yanked off his polo shirt. Then he showed off his chest to the entire bar, arms upraised in a victory stance. Several guys in the bar applauded. Jorge grinned shyly, then sat back down again to finish off his drink, still sans shirt. I strutted back to my table, where my friend was blinking. He looked as if he’d had a religious epiphany, though in his case it would’ve been the image of Jesus imprinted in the piss stains of a jock strap. “Satisfied?” I asked. “That’s how it’s done. You’re welcome.” He simply goggled. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Last week, someone asked me via formspring.me whether I’d had sex with a police officer or not. When I replied I had, naturally I got several people asking to hear about it. Because in these post-Village People days, what self-respecting gay guy hasn’t wanted to have sex with a policeman? In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I stayed in the little town where I was attending college. Williamsburg is a Virginia tourist town known for both Colonial Williamsburg and the Busch Gardens theme park, and its summer months could be absolute madness. I’d been putting myself through school by working in an ice cream store that was so swamped during the summer months that they were more than happy to have me stick around and work nights. When I say there wasn’t much to Williamsburg, I mean it that there’s basically the college and Colonial Williamsburg abutting each other like conjoined twins, tied by a long, straight umbilical cord of a road to the interstate some miles away. Along that road were businesses and hotels, including my ice cream store. And way out past the outskirts of town was the little apartment that I and my junior-year roommate were subletting together. I didn’t have a car in those days. (I didn’t have a car until I was in graduate school.) I did have my ten-speed bike, though, and a sturdy pair of legs. I’d bike several miles down to campus in the mornings, where I’d hang out in the campus center and whore in the restrooms, most mornings. In the afternoons I’d head to the ice cream store, where I’d work until ten before biking home and doing it all again the next day. One night after road I was biking down Richmond Road, the long commercial stretch of fast food chains and old-persons’ cafeterias, when I was hit by a car. It wasn’t as dire as it sounded. When I happened to bike in front of the Arby’s driveway, a tourist from Maryland nosed out too far in the road, rammed my ankle, and sent me sprawling. Luckily there was very little traffic at that time of night, and I had presence of mind enough to fall toward the sidewalk and not out in the middle of the road. The tourist, apparently feeling she was doing the right thing, slammed on her accelerator and took off. I sat on the curb and checked first my leg, which throbbed a little but which wasn’t in bad condition or anything. I’d just begun to look over my bike when I heard the whoop of a siren. When I looked up, a police car had pulled up in front of me. “Don’t go anywhere!” called the cop inside. Then he, too, went roaring off with his siren blaring. I don’t think I thought I was in trouble, though the possibility crossed my mind. After all, it wasn’t me that the cop was chasing. Under the streetlights I’d determined that everything was fine with my bicycle when he returned a few minutes later. He blocked the entire right lane and got out to talk to me. “Couldn’t get her,” he said, putting both his hands on his hips. He was a stocky man, tending more to chubby than to muscular. He was also a good foot shorter than I, and wore his hair in that style Virginia men of a certain middle age used to, back in the day—severe part on one side, a swoop of hair over the forehead, and trimmed to within an inch of its life. A gold band decorated his ring finger. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I said. With a little prompting, I explained that I worked at the ice cream store down the street and that I was just biking back to my apartment. “These people are crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta be careful. I wouldn’t want my kid biking on this road. Listen. I’m going to follow you home. Just to make sure you’re okay. Got it?” There wasn’t really much I could do. I shrugged, struggled back into my backpack, and biked home with a police escort. The entire way back he kept his light flashing and stayed a good ten feet behind me. I pulled off into my parking lot and thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t until I reached my apartment door that he tooted his horn, waved at me out the window, and drove off. I went inside and thought no more about it. Until, that is, until the next night. Biking home from work again, I passed the same Arby’s and nearly had a heart attack when a car came barreling out of the drive just seconds after I’d passed. It wasn’t a tourist, though. It was a police car, and driving it was the very same cop who’d followed me home the night before. He nodded at me without any real friendliness on his face as he drove by, and then pulled off. He’d drive up to some waypoint and wait for me, then when I’d pass, he’d drive by again and wait somewhere. All the way home he leapfrogged me, until we were in my parking lot. Then he waved, spoke to someone on his radio, and drove off. I had a night off after that, but part of me wondered if my policeman was waiting for me at Arby’s again. The next time I drove home, he answered the question for me by meeting me in the parking lot of the ice cream store. His squad car had been idling, the entire time he'd waited for me. When I stepped out of the back door, he flicked his lights twice to greet me. I walked up to the driver's side and said hi through the window. "I'll be okay," I said to him. "Really. You don't have to follow me home every night." "It's my duty," he said. When he stared at me, it was with an intensity I recognized. He was attempting to be casual, but I wasn't fooled. He wasn't an attractive man, in a traditional sense. There was something sexual about him, though. With his gruff voice, his barrel chest, his paws, and his air of easy authority, I was kind of mesmerized. He was masculine, and protective, and all I could really think was that I felt like the prostitute of Blondie's "X Offender," pledging her body to the officer who arrested her: "When I get out, there's no doubt I'll be sex offensive to you." "I've never had an accident before the other night. Really," I assured him. It was night, so I was fairly confident he couldn't see how deeply I was reddening, but I looked up and away, anyway. "If I had a boy like you," he said in low tones, "I'd be worried about him. Out at night. On the roads. Alone." Said in a different way, the words could have come off as creepy and serial killer-like. The way the cop said them, they gave me an instant erection. I laughed it off and unlocked my bike, and began the trip home. I waited for the officer when I reached my sublet. As I expected, he pulled his car into the parking lot and watched while I locked up my bicycle. "Thanks again," I said, walking over to his car. "As usual." "No problem." Though I expected him to pull off and get back to work, he stayed in his car, staring at me levelly. His fingers tapped against the outside of his door. "So," he said at last. "You live with a girlfriend?" I colored deeply again. My erection, which had withered on the bike home, sprang back to life. "No," I told him. Before he could ask anything else, I supplied, "A roommate." He nodded, as if he'd expected that. "So the other night, I checked out this place around the back of these apartments," he said, staring still. "It's real quiet. You want to see it?" My heart beat like timpani. I knew exactly what he was asking, and knew I'd heard correctly. I might even have known it was coming. Still, I couldn't help but respond with stunned shock. "Yeah," I said, with the ghost of a voice. "Sure." After I'd hopped into his front seat and allowed him to drive me around the apartment complex, the back of which was indeed dark and quiet, we sat in his car staring forward. His fingers now drummed on his thighs. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. "I'm married." I'd known that, by the ring. "All right," I said. "Shit, I got two little girls at home." I didn't know how to reply to the confession. "Okay. Here's the thing. I never had no boy before." When he made that announcement, his voice was as choked with worry as mine had been. I looked over in surprise, to find him trying to assess me. His eyes darted away. I had the realization then that as nervous and excited as I was, his anxiety was even higher. I'd thought we'd come back to this dark spot so that he could ravish me. Now I realized that I was going to have to be the seducer. Once I grasped that notion, my own nerves disappeared. "It's okay," I told him, softly. I reached out and put my hand on his. He flinched slightly, but let me rub my palm up and down the thatch of hair growing on his forearm. "Unzip," I suggested. After a moment, he obeyed. His dick was thick, short, and meaty, a knob of flesh with an unwashed scent. He wasn't dirty, but his tool had obviously been lying unused all day. When I took it all in my mouth and began to suck, he gasped, then groaned. I felt his hand rest gently on the back of my head, almost as if he were afraid to touch me back. With my free hand, I pulled his fingers hard against my skull, to show him it was all right. His digits twined with my hair, and began to control the rise and fall as I sucked. I slobbered greedily over his dick, aware of the steering wheel digging into my shoulders, and the bulges and sharp corners of the objects hanging from his belt bruising my clavicle. Beneath the fabric, his radio occasionally sparked and flared with noise, but the only sounds he made were of soft sighs and the occasional grunt. I hummed with pleasure as I sucked that dick, breathing in a whiff of masculine sweat every time my nose his his pubic hair. When he came, which was shortly after I began to suck, he did so with a shout and a cry of, "I'm gonna let it loose . . . you gonna take it? You gonna take it?" I answered by plunging my head down to the root and letting him hold my head there while he unleashed spurt after spurt of semen. He tasted sour, and slightly like lemons, and bleach, but I swallowed him all. For a moment I remained down on his dick. When it began to soften, I sat back up again. I didn't know what his reaction would be, after his first blow job from a guy. Would he kick me out? Would he call me names? I'd been with straight men before who'd verbally abused me, after the act, so that they could feel better about themselves and what they'd done. The cop didn't do any of those things, though. Instead, he sat there in the dark parking lot with his dick still flopping down beneath his belly, and rubbed his hand over his belly. "Shit," he said at last. Then he turned his head and looked at me. "So. Do you do that fucking up the butt hole thing, too?" The next time we met, which was a couple of nights later in the same spot, we did the fucking up the butt hole thing. I had to teach him to get me wet and to slick up his dick, and that he didn't have to treat me as if I were made of glass. After the first few times, he began to get into the man sex—he could pound away at my ass like the best of them. He wasn't much for the dirty talk, but every time he came in my hole, he'd tell me something like, "I'm making babies in you, boy." This is what I think about when I think about my police officer: those hot Virginia summer nights, the smell of sweat, and the weight of his body as he pressed hard into me and grunted: "Making my babies in you." More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (Continued from yesterday.) There was a moment, after I saw my stalker on the bus, that I could have stepped backwards and waved the bus away. I would have lost my sixty-five cents in fare, but I could have thwarted any satisfaction he might have taken in trapping me. After I heard the clunk-clunk-clunk of my change in the box and saw my pursuer sitting in that first seat perpendicular to the driver, hand on the pole, staring at me as if he was the hungry wolf and I was Little Red Riding Hood, it struck me how naïve I’d been. I thought I’d been careful to keep track of who was following me. I had assumed my stalker had never followed me home. Yet he obviously knew where I boarded the city bus on weekday mornings, and at what time. He’d made the effort to travel from wherever he lived to a spot further north, so he could be sitting on the very bus I always took in the mornings, when I’d boarded. How was I to know, careful as I thought I’d been, that he hadn’t followed me further? That he didn’t know in which house I lived, or where I biked in my spare time, or the people I visited when I wasn’t in school? In the previous couple of weeks when he had trailed me around the city at a distance, my awareness of his easy, muscular athleticism and of the way he stared at me from under those heavy lids had made my insides crazy-sexy-confused. Now for the first time I felt genuinely frightened. All those thoughts flashed through my brain in one indefinable instant—and then the bus doors closed. I was aware of how his head turned when I walked further back the bus. I sat down, and stared out the window, my brain performing all kinds of life-saving calculations—like which one of the people sitting around me might help me if he attacked me right then and there, or what my chances were of sneaking out the back door at the last minute at some other stop, just so I could evade him. The bus only took me to Richmond's Broad Street; I had to transfer in order to head west to the university. He stepped out of the bus’ front exit as I left through the rear. The westbound bus roared up to the stop almost immediately. Here’s where I made my big mistake. I boarded the second bus ahead of him. I ought to have hung back and let him get on, so then I could have chosen a seat anywhere but in his vicinity. Instead, in my panic to get away, I floundered forward and picked a seat toward the front—the first forward-facing seat available. And my stalker sat right across the aisle in the sideways-facing seat, his body turned to mine, one of his enormous sneakered feet propped on the vinyl of the seat next to mine. He was close enough that my bare knee was almost touching the faded denim of his own. Up close, I could appreciate how long were his legs and see the damp clusters of armpit hairs poking out from under his sleeveless t-shirt. For the first time I could smell his aroma of soap from under his arms, and of sweat rising from between his corn rows. He was displaying himself to me so that it was difficult not to look. It was hard not to stare at the downy moustache he was growing, and even impossible not to observe the bulge hanging down one leg of his jeans. It lay there, meaty and enormous, mostly hard, and bigger than any other bulge I'd ever seen before. Our proximity was making him erect; its outline enlarged as the bus trundled down Broad, stopping every few blocks to admit and discharge more passengers, causing the tucks and folds of the denim to stretch as it lengthened and grew. It wasn’t fight-or-flight that I felt as I shot darting looks between his legs, but a jittery, stomach-churning version of flight-or-roll-over-and-let-this-stalker-have-his-way-with-me. Mostly, flight was winning. But not entirely. My stop was approaching. Without warning my stalker reached up and tugged at the cord a stop before mine. The bell at the front of the bus sounded with a chime. The driver began to steer toward the curb as the bus’s brakes squealed. When my stalker stood up, he gripped the rail above his head with both hands. Ropes of dark brown muscle flexed down his arms as he kept his balance. His eyes never left my face. “You know what?” he said to me as if we’d been carrying on a conversation the entire time. In all the weeks he’d been trailing me, I’d never heard him speak a word. Although now he was trying to sound tough, I was surprised that his voice emerged as a gentle tenor. “You got attitude.” It was like he’d slapped me across the face. I just looked up at him blankly. “I got something for you,” he continued as the front doors open. He pulled a square of paper from the back pocket of his jeans as he took a step down. It was an envelope. “This is for your attitude. For your attitude.” With his right hand he flung the paper at me like a Frisbee; it twirled at me and struck me in the chest, one of the sharp corners piercing my skin hard enough to bring an instinctive tear to my eye. The envelope fell into my lap. Feeling numb, I slid it into my Jerusalem Bible and blinked until I could see again. The students in the Bible as Literature class were mostly sophomores and juniors looking for a quick religion credit during the summer; no one really paid attention to the three high school kids who sat scattered around the room. It wasn’t until I got to the classroom and sat down in the middle of all the chattering college kids that I dared to remove the envelope from inside my Bible. One of the corners was bent from where it had hit me, but the envelope itself was new and crisp and sealed. I turned it over to its front, where in blue pen and cramped handwriting, it read: Rob B. My first reaction was fear. He knew my name? How? He’d never seen anyone talk to me or address me. How did he know? All during the first half of the lecture I paid no attention. I loved that seminar with a passion and participated in it more than I later would in any of my college classes, but that morning I just sat there, hands down, head down, unable to think or move or do anything but wonder what was inside that envelope. The ninety minutes until break felt like days, but finally when the professor gave us a five minute break, I sprang down the hallway to the men’s room, shut myself into one of the stalls, and allowed myself to open the envelope that had been given to me for my attitude. Enclosed by the privacy of steel partitions, I pulled out a blue card that on the front simply said: An Invitation. I opened it up and saw that my stalker had bought from a Hallmark store a standard, plain party invitation. The blanks he’d filled in with his own words. WHO: You and me?? WHAT: ?? WHEN: ?? Underneath was a note in the same cramped handwriting. Dear Rob: I knew from the first time I saw you that you were so beautiful I had to have you. I know that you don’t know me or nothing but I want to tell you that I would never hurt you, I only want to make you feel good and I can make you feel so good you’d only want more. I would pay as many dollars as you wanted even just to talk to you, we don’t have to have sex but you are all I think about and I would pay for any time I can spend with you, just name the amount and you can have it. It’s not just about the sex even though I could fuck your white ass better than anyone have fucked you before, but even if you just want to talk that’s cool too. I will never bother you again but please think about it and if you want to talk and meet please call me at 342-0000. Marvin I read and re-read the note over and over again, unable to believe it. Marvin’s tone had been so hostile on the bus, but his letter was . . . well, it was unlike anything I’d ever read. I was barely able to stuff my erection back into my shorts so I could get back to class. Through that day I reread the note over and over again, smudging its white edges with my grimy fingerprints. Half of me feared that after class I’d find Marvin following me, demanding an immediate answer. He didn’t appear, though. After the day I encountered him on that bus, I never saw him. Not once. What strange days those were. Over and over again I read the note whenever I was alone, usually while I masturbated furiously and explosively. Sometimes I felt as if I’d dodged a bullet, other times dwelling on the fantasy of surrendering my body to Marvin. I felt flattered by his compliments, and turned on by his desperate need. Sometimes I would rub my dick while gazing at the invitation where it lay on a pillow next to my head, imagining what he’d been doing as he wrote it, wondering where he was right then. I wondered if he thought of me. It’s a tough battle for a teen boy—the promise and allure of hot, nasty sex and ego-feeding praise versus the rewards of sheer prudence. I might have had parents who wanted to instill the latter in me, but the former nearly always won out. After two weeks, I decided to call. I waited until my parents were teaching one evening. In the kitchen I traced out Marvin’s number on our ancient rotary phone; the amount of time it took for the dial to chug back to its resting place made the entire ordeal seem almost torturous. Finally I heard the sound of a ring on the other end of the line. Two rings. Three rings. Five was enough. I could hang up after five, right? Someone answered on the fourth ring. Over the clamor of children laughing and screaming, the sounds of running water, and the noise of a television set in the background, an older woman raised her voice. In my imagination, I decided instantly she was his mother. “Hello?” Her voice sounded dampened, like my own mom’s when she talked on the phone with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Is Marvin there?” It took all the courage in the world just to say those three words. I had to hold the receiver away from my ear as I hear the woman drop her phone so that it bounced several times before coming to a rest. “Marvin!” she called. “Get your ass down here! There’s some white girl on the telephone for you.” I hung up. Marvin was true to his word. The last glimpse I ever had of him was on that city bus, arms over his head and armpits laced with perspiration, cock hanging down the right side of his pants, his soft voice telling me I had an attitude. He never again appeared in the music room of the library. I never glimpsed him over my shoulder as I walked from site to site around the city. Summer school came to an end in late July, I graduated the following year ahead of schedule, and I moved on to other stalkers, mostly of the ex-boyfriend variety. I still have Marvin’s note after all these years, though. Despite the erotic sentiments contained within, I’ve always been impressed by how formal the invitation is, with all its blanks neatly filled, and by how Marvin wanted to leave everything up to me, including whether or not we ever met. He might have accused me of having attitude, but of the many stalkers I’ve had over the years, he certainly was the most thoughtful. I do sometimes wonder, though, if he ever puzzled over who the white girl on the telephone might have been, or for how long he hoped I would call before he decided that I never would. Every time I run across that small blue invitation among my belongings, I wonder if he ever went out of his way to sneak another look at me, or to follow me around the VCU campus just for old times’ sake. I even wonder sometimes what he’s like, now that he’d be solidly into his fifties. It’s one of those stories for which I’ll never have an ending, though. One of too many. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The downtown branch of the Richmond Public Library seemed huge to me when I was in high school. In 1980, the building had just undergone a substantial renovation and expansion; the original old library had been completely encompassed by a modern concrete façade. One entered the front door into the building’s new section, where fiction lay behind the glass walls of the first floor and stacks of non-fiction loomed above on the upper story. All it took, however, was a few steps to the right, down a hallway and through a tall marble arch to enter the old, original library. Walking through that arch was like stepping back in time. The industrial carpet ended abruptly and was replaced by cracked and mended slabs of polished, pebbly stone. The glass-and-steel ideal gave way to ionic columns and busts of philosophers, their white marble grey with age. Down the echoing staircase was a small, scary men’s room that boasted holes between the partitions and suggestive graffiti on the walls; I'd spent many a weekend day sucking dick in its cavern-like interior. Further to the west was the children’s wing, where the chairs were all squat and low to the ground. But I liked the old library for the music room that sat at the top of those stairs. The room was tall and gracious. In its previous life it had been the library’s main reading room. Between its floor-to-ceiling pillars now were wedged steel bookcases filled with music scores and listening booths equipped with phonograph players and reel-to-reel tapes. On sunny days, light would gently filter down through the music room’s skylights onto the tables below. When it rained or snowed, the room’s florescent bulbs, suspended only feet above the tables from the high ceilings, would cast a flickering pool of light in the room’s center, while shadows gathered in the eaves and niches. I liked the room because it was quiet. I could study there without interruption. I liked being able to hunker down with my books between classes, hearing nothing more than the faint and tinny music from the booths and the occasional rattle of book carts on the stone floors outside. The summer between my tenth and what would have been eleventh grade, it was usually just the music librarian, the old man working his way through Bach’s entire oeuvre, and me. And my stalker. My parents had decided when I was a sophomore that I should skip eleventh grade. I was already a year ahead in most of my classes, anyway. They felt it would have been a waste of time just to go through the motions and finish four miserable years of high school when I could make do with three and move on to college a year early. In order to accomplish their goal, however, I had to complete an English credit in summer school. Rather than sit with the junior-year repeaters in my own high school, though, I went for the summer to Open High, an experimental system in which kids took mini-classes all over the city. For one year’s credit in high school English I would attend a college sophomore-level course on The Bible as Literature in the mornings at VCU, a seminar in the afternoons on Emily Dickinson at an old Methodist church downtown, a seminar on Biblical Greek in the later afternoons, and then a small discussion group on Shakespeare in the evenings at a church closer to my home. Between VCU and the Methodist Church, I would gulp down a bag lunch and then take myself to the air-conditioned coolness of the library reading room. I’m not certain for how long my stalker had been following me, by mid-summer. All I know is that one hot July afternoon I looked up and there he was, a table away, facing me, his heavy-lidded eyes not moving from my own. I looked back down at my book, and then back up again. He was definitely staring at me, not even making a pretense of reading the magazine on the table in front of him. At that moment I realized with a shock I’d seen him before, in my periphery. He’d been there other afternoons when I’d read my Dickinson in the music room, though perhaps never as boldly seated as he was that day. I began to feel hot and uncomfortable. Every time I looked up, his stare was boring through me—a lustful, sexual look that seemed to undress me and spread me wide for his imagination. The man was a handsome black guy in his late twenties or very early thirties with his hair braided in corn rows. Although his shoulders were broad and his muscles filled out his shirt, there really wasn’t anything aggressive or threatening about him. It was just his unmasked look of sexual need that unnerved me. I put down my book and, keeping my glances limited to my knapsack and anywhere other than where he sat, I left the music room and the building. For a moment I worried—or did I hope?—he would follow me, but the pounding of my heart eased when I reached a bookstore down the street, turned around, and found him nowhere in sight. I’d been sexually active for years by that point. I’d been cruised casually by men walking by in the library. I’d had guys ogle me from their cars and circle the block just to catch another glimpse of me. I was rangy, impossibly blond, and young, and my height made me look all the more skinny. I knew the signals of desire, but they still made me feel strange and conflicted, unable to decide whether I should encourage them, or run. My stalker was there the next day, and the next. Every day he would arrange himself at the table across me, his blue-jeaned knees supporting his elbows, a magazine open to a page he never read, as he stared and stared at me. I never once saw him blink. I tried not to look at him—I kept my glances casual, as if I was only catching his eye accidentally as my own eyes swept up to the dirty old clock over the door, or as if I was only trying to catch the source of some noise out in the hallway. Before my class, I would pack my books and leave without even looking at him. Mostly I hoped that if I ignored my stalker, he’d grow bored of his game and leave me alone. It was perhaps after a week that he started to follow me other places around the downtown area. I was navigating on foot and by city bus. When I would leave VCU on foot for the library, somewhere along the route he would start following me, maintaining a careful distance between us. When I left the library for the Methodist church, he would rise after me and trail behind. When our little discussion group was finished for the day, I’d see him across Grace Street, leaning against a building, one of his athletic shoes firmly on the sidewalk and the other planted flat against building’s red stone, arms crossed, muscular chest puffed out, his stare losing none of its intensity from four dozen feet away. It’s difficult to recreate the mixture of emotions I would feel, whenever I saw him. There was sexual excitement, and some fear, and curiosity, and a whole lot of anxiety, despite the fact I never really felt he posed a physical threat to me. I would have worried greatly if he had attempted to follow me to my house, but his silent vigil seemed to end outside the Methodist church. I never saw him anywhere close to home. Until the day, that is, when I climbed through a cloud of diesel fumes up the stairs of a public bus at the end of my street and, as I plunked my change into the drive’s glass box, saw him sitting there in the front seat, obviously waiting for me to board. (To be concluded tomorrow.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It seems that my encounters, clustered together, seem sometimes to have little themes that I didn’t anticipate. A few weeks back, every fuck I had in a two-week period came to me pre-lubed, whether I liked it or not. Lately, it’s all been about the underwear. Not too long ago I posted some shots of me wearing and shooting sperm on a pair of underwear that wasn’t mine. Mikey stole my underwear last week, and gave me a pair of his own. When I went out with friends to a bar over the weekend, the bartender flirted with me so outrageously that I gave into his demands, went to the men’s room, took off my boxer briefs, and let him walk around with them stuffed in his back pocket as a trophy until I left for the night. And then there’s my buddy Darryl. Darryl’s a married man and a father. He’s the kind of guy you see in a quiet, leafy neighborhood like mine, dressed in a state university sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, mowing the lawn on the weekends. He’s the sort of masculine, lean fellow who was in a fraternity during his youth, and still meets some of the old college buddies for a beer on the odd Saturday night. An adoring dad of an eleven-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter, barely scraping past thirty-five. A narrow-faced regular guy carrying a slightly receding hairline, the very slightest of furry beer bellies, and a mortgage. Darryl’s a lot like me. Once the clothes are off, we enjoy the same things. Our dicks respond to the same ideas, images, and memories. And a while back, Darryl and I swapped underwear. It was a simple handoff when we got together for a quick session of jacking off and dirty talk. I handed over to him a plain pair of blue briefs; in return he gave me some narrow-waisted underwear with a cartoon print, wadded up in a ball in his jacket pocket. Neither pair was clean when we swapped them. That is, they weren’t covered with skid marks by any means, but they’d come out of the hamper, not the clean laundry drawer. Over the course of the days since, we’d proceeded to dirty them up for each other. Just about ever time I masturbated by myself and came, I grabbed the underwear and sopped up the sperm. I kept them under my bed upstairs so that I could grab them easily, and also that I could mop up more semen when I had guys over. When Scruffy shot, the last time he was here, most of it went in my mouth, but the rest I cleaned up with those briefs. When Jim came on the floor last week, the briefs were what I used to wipe up the spooge. By this morning, the image of Spongebob was barely visible beneath the accumulation. When Darryl arrived, we went into the other bedroom and immediately began making out. The guy’s an expert kisser and enjoys nothing better than mashing his face against mine. He tugged off his T-shirt and shorts with such violence that I was certain a seam would burst or a button pop, and then pulled back the covers on the bed and ran his hands over the sheets before he patted the mattress for me to join him. “Oh fuck, I forgot,” he said, when I sat down. Almost immediately he leaned forward to grab his cargo shorts. From the pocket he pulled out a ball of cotton. The only thing I recognized immediately was the Hanes waistband. The blue briefs, however, were now not only mostly a mottled white, but had taken on an entirely different shape from the small-sized wad I’d originally handed over. They were stiff, and spherical, and crackled and burst with particles of dried cum when I tried to peel it open. Darryl is a major masturbator. He’s bragged to me in the past that he can’t keep his hands off his six-inch dick and that he manages to beat off a good three or four times a day even when the wife and kids are in the house. He must have managed to pump a gallon of his cum on those briefs I’d given him. Seriously. “Fuck,” I said, listening to them practically crackle in my hand. “Holy fuck.” “I couldn’t help it, dude,” he said. He was kneeling on the bed and thrusting his dick against my shoulder. “Every time I thought about who they belonged to, I’d bone up again and have to crank another one out.” His lips pressed against my neck as he nuzzled his face there. He lay his head upon my shoulder, waiting for my approval of his offering. “Fuck,” I repeated. My dick was rigid, swollen, and as thick and long as it was possible to get—and yet it seemed to be growing even bigger at the sight of all that dried sperm. “Look under the pillow,” I told him. At my instructions he checked under first one, then the other pillow. His hand emerged with the Spongebob briefs I’d stashed before he’d arrived. He turned them over and over, admiring the crazy quilt of dried fluid decorating it. “Jesus Christ,” he swore. “You did this. With that dick.” “I’d do more if you let me.” His lips searched for mine, hungry for more attention. As we kissed, his tongue probed far back enough into my mouth to excavate my tonsils, it seemed; he tipped back my head so that he could dive even more deeply. His other hand grabbed my right wrist and forced it down, lower, lower, until the underwear it held grazed the side of my cock. I felt his dick against mine, stabbing and thrusting into thin air so that we occasionally collided. He rubbed the spunked-up pair of Spongebob shorts against his parts, enjoying the scratchy sensation on his shaved nuts. For several long minutes we continued making out and thrusting through the dirty shorts, eventually bringing our hands and dicks together so that the confusion of dick and underwear and fingers was complete. Both of us were leaking pre-cum heavily and adding to the stickiness on the already-dirty briefs. “Damn. Fuck,” he said, shuddering. I could tell he was close to shooting. Too close—because when Darryl shoots, that’s it. It’s over for the day. I yanked his hand away and watched without remorse as his shaking body twitched, came close to climax, and then subsided. He nodded to acknowledge the rightness of what I’d done. “Sorry.” “Suck me,” was my only reply. I lay back onto the double bed and propped myself up on the slightly gamey-smelling pillows. He dove between my legs and swallowed my dick whole, almost to the root. I held both of the pairs of shorts, then, and placed them on either side of my dick. Whenever he’d bob his head up and down, he’d have to crush his face against those stiff and crusty balls of cotton, to smell them, to know where they’d come from and what they’d been used for. At last he came up for air. “I love your dick,” he panted. “I love knowing where your dick has been, man.” “I know you do,” I said. “So suck it.” “Tell me.” He didn’t care if he had to beg. “Tell me about where it’s been.” So while he sucked, I told him about the last time I’d fucked something good and tight. I’m not the best at talking coherently while I’m being serviced, but I managed to gasp out the tale in short bursts, while he punctuated it with his own grunts and animal-like noises. I’d reached the climax of my story when he rose to his knees suddenly and grabbed his dick. “Can’t take anymore,” he breathed. “Gotta shoot.” I’d anticipated and expected his response, and wrapped my fingers around my own tool. I was close myself. So close that I was the first to shoot, gushing out a monster load on my stomach that trickled around the hairs there and puddled in my navel. His load followed, spraying so far and wide that I turned my head out of self-protection. He splattered on me from my earlobe to my belly. A few drops of his semen mixed with my own. For a moment we stared at each other until at last the feral wildness faded from our eyes. He nodded slowly, then reached out and took the briefs I was still clutching from my hands. Then slowly, deliberately, he used both pairs to mop us up. First he swiped at the head of his own cock, from which a pendulum of cum swung low. Then he applied them to my stomach, using both hands to swipe off the fluid there. Over my chest and up my neck he dragged the scratchy cotton, trying to absorb what was left, and then finally, he turned the blue shorts inside out and got the remaining driblets from the sheets. After a couple of minutes’ recovery, we got up and put back on our clothes. I let him pull the sheets back into neatness and arrange them. “We gonna swap back?” he asked, pointing to the sticky underwear lying crumpled on the bed. “Up to you,” I told him. He thought about it a minute. “Let’s keep ‘em,” he said at last. “Add some more loads. Then swap next time. Sound cool?” “Cool.” “I better get going. Got the family coming home from Sunday school in a little bit.” “Yeah, me too,” I said, as I led him downstairs, where we said our goodbyes and I let him go back to his traditional storybook life. I couldn’t imagine what those blue shorts would look like with even more dried loads on them. I certainly wanted to find out. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Happy lazy day off, to those of you who have it! And my sympathies, to those of you who don't. I'll be back to some more normal posts tomorrow. For today, I'll try to catch up with more formspring.me questions you guys have been asking over the past couple of weeks. As always, keep asking your questions. If I haven't addressed them before, I'll answer! I enjoy your blog. What are your BBRT and adam4adam profile names please? Thanks! My BBRT and A4A handles are both the same: top48067. When was the last time you got someone as young as the guy in the woods? About two months, maybe? Perhaps slightly more. Are you attracted to feminine bottoms? I absolutely can be, yes. What is your definition of "feminine bottoms"? I define it as a guy with child-bearing ergo feminine hips. Does your definition agree with mine? I suppose that's one definition, but I think it could apply to number of other characteristics as well--effeminate mannerisms, long hair, a girlish appearance. Some men are offended by these things. I think masculinity has a spectrum of expression. What made you into a top? When I was in my early twenties, I met a man who lay on his back and pulled me into him. It was the first time I'd really topped a hole on my own, and I liked it so much I've been doing it ever since. Would you ever set up, or have someone set up, a gang bang for a visitor (like me) so that a fantasy can be fulfilled? I'd love to see how many loads I can take and hold. I don't set up gangbangs for guys I haven't met. The simple reason is that until I've played with a guy I really have no way to judge how much fucking he can take--and I've run across a lot of guys who talk an infinitely bigger game than they can actually play. If I invite two or three or four guys over to fuck a bottom, I want to be reasonably sure he's going to be able to take four or five or six or more fucks, and that he's going to be reasonably pleasant to get along with, and that he's going to look like his photos. I can't judge any of that until I meet a guy in the flesh. Have you ever had sex with someone that was so intense it made you re-think your personal life? Yes. Indeed I have. How do you adjust to being so devilishly charming in q&a here besides gorgeous? Oh, I don't know about devilishly charming. I'm pretty down to earth, and I know myself well. I admit to my faults and tend to downplay my strengths. I suspect I just seem pretty approachable by some. Thank you though. Do you ever go naked in your own backyard? Do you ever make lcve in your own backyard? I have been naked on my back deck, with the hot tub. I've had sex there, too. Does that count? Do you only answer sex related questions? Nope. I've answered a lot of different kinds of questions. Heck, I answered one on secular humanism. I'm prone to deleting a few questions that have been mass-posted and not of any relevance to me, and those that touch on my relationship, or which I feel are inappropriate in any forum. Otherwise I'll answer what's asked. How did you come to love sex so much in your youth? Did you ever feel attracted to the men you met or did you just like the feeling of oral and anal sex? Very often I was attracted to the men that I was doing in my youth--older men with handsome faces would always get my full attention, and I also had a thing for the scruffy rednecks. Some of the guys I'd do, especially under restroom stalls or through gloryholes, I never really saw. And there were guys that I didn't find attractive, but allowed to do me anyway. It made me feel dirtier to let them in me. Who are the most important influences on your prose style? Interesting question. I get my long-windedness from the Victorian authors I studied in grad school. My dry humor is straight out of Patrick Dennis. And as for my sex writing . . . I might cite John Rechy as an early inflence, since I read his "The Sexual Outlaw" at the tender age of 13 or 14. How am I going to meet a guy with some really tricked out playroom? I suggest advertising, either on Craigslist or a specialty site like asspig.com or bnskin.com. Then be very nice to the guy so you can maintain the friendship and get invited over again. It's all about the networking. Have you ever let Scruffy top you? Nope. Nor has he asked. Would you let Scruffy top you if he requested permission to do so? It's not a permission thing. He'd have to make me genuinely want it from him. We seem to enjoy our relationship as it is, so far. How did you & Scruffy meet? He messaged me on Manhunt. I thought he was cute as hell, told him so, and thirty minutes later he was naked and in my bed. Does doing a guy in a sling make it easier to really pump a guy than on a bed? Not necessarily, particularly if the sling isn't adjusted well. However, a sling can give a top easy access to a hole, and if you like fucking while standing up, it's a great experience. You made mention in face down that Mikey has tried to fuck you with apparently little success. Given how close and trusting you must be with one another .... any thoughts? Yes, I have a difficult time taking Mikey. He has a sideways curve to his dick that I find difficult to negotiate these days. Added to a general resistance to getting fucked, it's not pleasant for me, and I'm sure it's not what he wants, either. Have you ever had sex with Mikey's partner? No. Will you be sharing how you and Mikey came about knowing one another? Who approached whom? I've never written about it. I am uncertain whether I could or should. It was pretty much a mutual thing. I was acting out and started a silly sex dare. He simply carried it through to its natural conclusion. Is Mikey's dick as big as yours? I say no, but you decide. I'm on the bottom of this shot, from earlier this year: More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's a holiday weekend, and no one's around. Additionally, my internet connection has been up and down all morning like a stripper working a pole, and I haven't had an opportunity to work up a post. So you'll just have to make do with these photos of me playing with myself from a few minutes ago, won't you? Yes, I'm fully aware my bookshelves are a mess. Thanks for reminding me. Have a happy holiday! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (Continued from yesterday.) My mind was racing. I was pretty sure I knew what I’d seen in the showers just moments before, but I couldn’t believe it of Mark. Innocent, sweet-looking Mark. Of course, I knew I appeared innocent, myself. I'd traded on my guileless veneer many times to entice men to pull down their pants. Perhaps I’d been wrong. Maybe I’d been projecting my own sex secrets onto him. I shut my mouth, dressed, and left the YMCA with Mark trailing behind. I distinctly remember that it was warm that day. Warm enough that I’d pulled back the city bus's window, once we'd paid our fare. Mark and I sat apart, not speaking. When the vehicle turned onto the long avenue leading to our homes, my hair was still half-wet. I'd spent most of the trip letting the breeze dry it and staring out the window. My mind was still in shock from what had happened a few minutes earlier, but I came out of my absorption to realize the bus was approaching my stop. I pulled the cord. That's when I turned and noticed the man opposite me, sitting in one of the sideways-facing seats like my own. He was handsome and in his thirties. Curly, curly brown hair. He wore a mustache with its tips pointed down, seventies-style. His blue eyes stared at the back of the bus with an intensity that caught me off-guard. He sat rigid, every motion arrested. His eyes were hungry. It was a look of sheer lust. I followed his gaze to see who had captured every particle of his attention. It was Mark. When I saw him, he was just lifting his eyelid from a slow wink. His tongue flicked out to taste the corner of his lip. His hand was stroking the inside of his thigh—not obscenely. Almost unconsciously. Mark was flirting with a man on a public bus, a mere half-hour after I’d caught him emerging from the shadows with a naked older man at the Y. Mark was like me, I realized. Just as the bus pulled to a stop, Mark’s eyes brushed sidelong in my direction, as if he expected me still to be drying my hair in the window. He saw me staring at him, and then back at the man who wanted him. He must have known what conclusion I’d drawn. I bolted through the opened back doors without a word. Mark propelled himself after me. When I looked back, the man had crossed the bus to stare at us through the window. He never took his eyes off Mark. Then the bus wheezed out a cloud of exhaust and eased away. “It’s not what you think,” Mark said instantly. I crossed to the children's hospital at the end of my street and began walking in the direction of my house. “I don't think anything." “I’m not a fag. I’m not!” “I didn't say you were.” I remember clearly the emotions that ran through my muddled head. Anger at Mark for keeping his desires from me. Relief that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn't the only one like myself. And most of all, rage that he used that ugly word to describe us both. And oddly, I felt longing. Not for Mark. Not on a sexual level. I felt longing for a friend to share with. A real friend with whom I could do something as simple as talk, and share my secret. It’s okay, I wanted to tell him. I’m that way too. "That guy was looking at me. I could tell he was one of them. I was just teasing with him to see if he was a pansy." Mark almost whined with desperation as he spun the story. "And he was. That's all there is to it. You've got to believe me. You better believe me." But I didn't believe what I was hearing, and I definitely didn't want to listen to more. I started walking down my street at a fast pace, red-faced and speechless. “Stop!” His face was flushed, too. He kept yanking at my arm, savagely. “I’m not a faggot! You can ask anyone! You can ask Rhonda. I made out with her by the Coke machine in Lingle Hall!” I shook my head and wrenched out of his grasp. More than anyone, I knew that kissing a girl didn’t make a gay boy straight. He misunderstood my silence, though. Mark assumed I didn't answer because I thought he was a liar—and he was right. I did. I hadn’t witnessed flirting for the hell of it. That was advanced cruising. I knew the signs. I took the rest of the short journey home at a run. He chased me into my back yard and shoved me up against the bricks of my house. “You better not tell anyone,” he growled, spitting the words in my face. I'd never before seen anyone so angry, or so desperate. “I’ll fucking kill you if you tell people lies about me!” “I’m not going to tell anyone!” My longing disappeared. I’d wished I could have confided in him the things I’d done and the way I felt. I’d wanted to say something to let him know he wasn’t by himself. A sadder, wiser part of me knew, however, that if I admitted how much alike we were, he’d tell everyone I was the gay one. I would have said so, right to his face, and in his frantic state of mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to use my words against me. In the time it took for a look, a glance, a motion, we’d become enemies. “I don’t care, all right? I’m not going to tell anyone anything.” "You'd better not." He let go of me. "You'd better not." We parted without another word, our expressions hurt and hostile. Nothing would ever be the same. We’d based our friendship on books and music and play. Neither of us was equipped to talk about sexual feelings in a rational and adult way. We couldn't negotiate the tricky, mine-laden field of discussing gay desire. Even had we managed to stop feeling shame and anger at each other, we still would have searched fruitlessly for the words to say what we needed. We’d simply never been given the vocabulary. The concepts were supposed to be beyond us for years and years. Yet we surely could have used the vocabulary, that afternoon. I saw very little of Mark after that day. We stopped meeting on weekends and after school. At the YMCA he’d make certain to rush out after class and take an earlier bus, so we wouldn’t have to ride together. I’d always linger until I was certain he was gone. He immediately found himself a girlfriend who let him paw and kiss her whenever I was around. Every time his lips would meet her cheek he would look at me in sullen, challenging defiance. I’m definitely not one of those fags! See? I would turn my head and pretend not to see. His parents moved in tenth grade and he attended a different school. It wasn’t until I was in college that I saw him again. I was working at King’s Dominion theme park between my freshman and sophomore year, unfurling tissue paper flowers at a funereal pace while I waited for people to buy them. He passed, stopped, then called out my name. We talked for a while. He told me where he was attending school and caught up on each other’s families. There was no mention of girlfriends. He was very pleasant in his conversation—I hadn’t expected it from him after we'd sent each other into exile and left scorched earth behind. I certainly didn't expect anyone to admit knowing me, in my polyester work costume with the enormous floppy collar, selling oversized tissue paper flowers to ten-year-old girls in an amusement park. “We should get together,” he said to me. “We should talk sometime. Catch up?” I agreed. It would have been good to talk. Tim Sweeney, his younger brother, called me the following autumn. He and his family were going through a list of all Mark’s old friends, he told me. He thought they ought to know. “Know what?” I asked. Mark had been killed in a car accident on his way back to school in Tennessee a few weeks before, Tim told me. A truck had smashed into his little car head-on; the driver was drunk. There had been no way he could have survived. Sometimes when I try to make sense of my life and the lives around me, I reach a point when all I can do is extend my arms by my side in a gesture of futility. So many wasted opportunities. Wasted lives. Posturing that needn’t have been made. Arguments that never should have happened. Fears that all seem so pointless in the end. Such a lot of waste. These losses throw into sharp relief the things we have, don’t they? The relationships we should be celebrating. The little joys that come to us, day by day. They’re a reminder of all the words we’re leaving unsaid, but shouldn’t, or the things we say too easy, but ought not. Life’s short. We don’t always get a second chance to make amends. We don’t always get to practice hard-won crafts like forgiveness, or understanding. We just don’t. And yet . . . we ought. We almost always know it too, don't we? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Mark Sweeney lived just beyond the campus of a theological institution near the house where I grew up. His father was a minister who’d come to Richmond to teach at the seminary down the street. When Mark joined my class in the eighth grade, he was teased for the hair that his mother insisted upon cutting with a bowl to keep the ends even. I remember that hair more vividly than another feature—it was a light brown cap that hung around his ears and brow with perfect symmetry. He had small eyes that would disappear into lines when he smiled. He was small and slight. A good looking boy. It was difficult for him to join us in the middle of the year. Our class was dominated by a group of pretty boys and girls whose popularity I craved and whose attention I always sought to avoid. They razzed him at first for the bowl cut and for having a minister for a father. He was teased for being a good student and for enjoying earth science. We shared most of our classes together and sat next to each other in band—he played trumpet and I played the French horn. The eighth-grade thugs, kings and queens of the school, would try to kick our instrument cases out of our hands as we slunk down the hallways. Both of us recognized the tortured look in each other’s eyes. We became friends. The trumpet was Mark’s passion. At home and in his room, he would with reverence withdraw from its plastic sleeve his favorite Chuck Mangione album. He'd place it on the turntable and gently slip the needle into the groove, sighing with satisfaction when "Feels So Good" began to play. We’d performed “Feels So Good” in band that year so many times that I disliked it intensely. Mark loved the song, though. He wanted a trumpet just like Mangione's, he'd tell me as we listened to it over and over again, so that he could try to learn bits on his own instrument. We read The Sword of Shannara together (I hated it, he adored it). When neither of us understood what was happening in Algebra II, our parents hired a tutor for us. Together we went roller skating. We belonged to the same clogging group. On weekends we were always doing something together. The thugs went to a different school when we all started ninth grade. We didn’t have to dodge them in the halls anymore. Although we were on the low end of the high school food chain, we found the year much more relaxed. Mark and I opted to take a swimming and lifesaving class at the YMCA in lieu of regular gym. We’d hop on the bus after school three days a week and travel downtown. I’d been having sex with men for three years, by that point, and the locker room of the YMCA was both a source of illicit thrills and mortification. Everywhere I’d look there would be full-grown men, naked, not seeming to care that their furry chests and private parts were on display. Naked, they’d talk to each other about the stocks and the Braves. They showered in the public area without turning their backs. I was skinny, ashamed of my body, and mortified to take off my clothes in front of anyone. It’s funny. Sexually-active as I was at that point, I wasn’t at all worried at the prospect of becoming visibly excited at the sight of other naked guys. I simply didn’t want to be looked at. Not in the nude. Not in the gym. The context was all wrong. I feared I was too skinny and pale and smooth and that my ribs showed too much. It didn’t help that the boys’ swimming classes were all held in the nude. There was no escape. Mark and I lived only one bus stop apart from each other. It was the spring of 1979 when I lost him as a friend. And it all started in the showers of the Y, after swimming. After our lifesaving lesson, I’d left the locker room to visit one of the sinks on the other side of the showers. One of my articles of clothing—a sock, I think—had gotten soaking wet and I’d fruitlessly attempted to wring it out and get it dry with the hand blower. After giving up, I crossed through the showers again, and found Mark coming out from an alcove. The recess was on the showers’ far side and was something halfway between a closet and a forgotten nook; the janitor usually used it to stow his mop. The wheeled bucket and mop were already pushed out of the nook, though, when Mark stepped out of it. He seemed surprised to see me. “What’re you doing?” I asked him. I thought he was already done with his shower and was getting dressed. He held his towel in a casual way that obscured his naked parts, and didn’t let it budge. “Just seeing what’s back there,” he shrugged. Then he hustled me away—but not so quickly I didn’t get a glimpse of a man emerging from the nook as we left the room. He was tall and lean, and much older than either of us. And he was hard, or had at least had been hard moments before. Mark’s fingers were on my elbow. It felt as if bolts of electricity were flying across my skin, as I realized that Mark had been doing something with that older man in the privacy of that little enclosure. “What were you doing in there?” I asked again. His reply had an edge I hadn’t heard before. “Jesus, nothing. Would you shut up?” he snapped. “Get dressed. We’re going to miss the bus.” (To be concluded tomorrow.) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don’t like to badmouth guys I hook up with. It’s not fair, for one thing. I’ve created a forum for my own self-expression, and it’s entirely one-sided. There’s space for comments, of course, but those don’t exactly provide a chance for equal rebuttal. For another thing, trash-talking someone isn’t nice. It may be enjoyable for some. Recently I discontinued reading and following an online journal that took a turn for the worse when the author began picking on people just to ‘put them in their place,’ which apparently was anywhere below where he felt he stood. It’s not enjoyable for me either to write or read. There’s already so much negativity to be had in the world, particularly on the internet. I don’t care to contribute to its sodden weight. This sorry little prelude is not leading up to a great big But. Or a leery However, I’ll have you know. It’s simply the mental reaction I had when I sat down to write up my encounter yesterday. In the afternoon, Wednesday, I had a guy over I’ve met before. He’s appeared in the pages of this very blog. And the sex was . . . well, good. No, really. It was good. I came. How could it not be good? The guy showed up when he said he would. We kissed for thirty seconds. He sucked me for almost precisely one minute. He dropped his pants and climbed up on the bed and buried his face in the mattress like a good boy, and I entered him from behind and fucked him. He groaned a lot. I told him how good his ass felt and what a good fuck he was, and meant every word. Then he shot all over the bed, and asked me to come quickly. I obliged, we cleaned up, and we went on his merry way to work. The total time elapsed was maybe fifteen minutes. A little perfunctory, but nothing to complain about. Both of us left the encounter with cleared heads and drained ball sacs. Nothing to complain about there, right? It’s just that when I sat down this morning to think of how to frame the encounter, none of the ways I wanted to describe it came out right. If I tried to make it sound as if it had been the best sex of my year so far, I’d be a liar. It wasn’t. I couldn’t frame it as a passionate moment between us, because passion simply wasn’t a part of it. I couldn’t make it more erotic than it was, or more meaningful than it had been. I couldn’t even go into a lot of juicy detail about the hydraulics of it, because it had been so simple: kiss, suck, insert tab A into slot B. It just seemed that every way I thought of writing it up sounded in my head like I was damning it with the faintest of praise, and the thought of that sent me into paroxysms of guilt. Even now I feel vaguely foolish. Oh god, we only had good sex. I’m sooooo sorry it wasn’t better! I suppose if anything, the encounter reminded me how much truly great sex I have. I’m lucky to meet some amazing people and enjoy some truly remarkable encounters. I’m fortunate to be receptive to connecting, on a certain emotional level, with a lot of people who appeal to me. I’m glad I have the capacity to appreciate the tenderness that men often show me, and to return it (I hope) in kind. Yesterday was good sex. I’d do it again. But it wasn’t amazing, and you know what? That’s perfectly fine. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Dear Michael, My Back Yard Neighbor, It’s me. You know, the tall, lanky, bearded bisexual guy from the house behind yours. Yes, the one to whom you flashed your naked body, late that one night not so long ago. The one who’ll appear like magic in his glass back doors, mornings, with his bowl of cereal when you pace up and down your back yard walk and pretend to stretch for the morning runs that you never take. But that’s okay. I like the way you bend over and point your ass in my direction as you stretch your hamstrings. It’s really a beautiful ass, by the way. Just like the rest of you is beautiful. I’ve always been a fan of your long, shoulder-length curly hair, though I’ve heard your wife suggest at least twice that you should cut it. I really am turned on by that huge Slavic nose of yours, believe it or not. I love your stocky, jock-ish body, even when you’ve been eating a few too many pierogies over the winter. For a guy in your mid-thirties carrying three kids, a mortgage, and a full-time teaching job (at least, that’s my best guess from your schedule), you’re doing really well. I still think of the first day we met, a few years back, when you’d just moved in and were cutting down that crabapple tree between us that blocked my view of your house. (Thank you for that favor, by the way. Best thing you ever did for our relationship.) The majority of the tree was gone by the time I saw what you were doing. When I stepped out onto my back porch, hands on my hips, I saw for the first time that part of one of the tree’s upper branches had grown between the power lines in a way that was suspending it in mid-air. So there you were, on a ladder, trying to snip away at a branch belonging to a tree that no longer existed, like some conundrum from an absurdist painting. “Hey,” I said, and told you my name. “Hey. I’m Michael,” you told me. I watched you cut away most of the branch. “Do you need some help there?” I asked. “Or do you want to bring your ladder over here?” You refused, amiably enough. Maybe you rightly suspected that my subtext was something along the lines of, Do you want to bring your sexy daddy body into my bed? Because since that moment there’s been a sexual tension that I know isn’t my own imagination. When you sit in the back yard, you do it when I’m relaxing or working on my deck, and you always point your body directly at me. When you’re stretching, you always look over your shoulder to see if I’m there with my cereal bowl. There’s always an awareness of each other, between us. Then there was yesterday. I was out on my deck in the afternoon warmth, reading my book, while you puttered around on your porch. I watched you for a while, yes. But then I’m afraid that Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger got the better of me, because I became so absorbed in it that I kind of stopped paying attention to you at all. That is, until you yelled out, at top volume, “Feast your eyes! FEAST YOUR EYES!” Whereupon I looked up to find you standing on the top porch step clad in only a tight pair of shorts, bare-chested for the world to see. And by ‘world,’ I mean, ‘me.’ May I just say at this juncture, Michael, on the extremely off-chance that you’re reading my blog, that you have a beautiful chest? You’ve been working out, and it shows. Your proportions are great. Your chest fuzz is inspiring. The trail that leads down to what I remember as your substantial, dark pubic hair makes me want to drop to my knees. My eyes feasted, Michael. Oh, they feasted. The alleged intended recipient of your manly cry was supposed to be your mouse of a wife. However, Michael, I know that it was meant for me. Why? Because for one thing, you were facing my direction. Your wife was behind you. The only person who could feast was me. For another, you shouted out the directive so loudly that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. And that wife of yours? Only two feet away. I know she’s not deaf. I’m reasonably sure, and I think a jury of my peers would back me up here, that you stripped down especially for me, to celebrate the first day it was warm enough for the both of us to be in our back yards. Furthermore, I know by the looks you kept shooting me, as I watched you tinker around on your porch shirtless and always facing my direction, that you enjoy it when I stare at you. So let’s cut to the chase. We haven’t talked since the incident with the crabapple branch. But I’m game. Do you want my dick? It’s yours. My ass? It’s yours. Are you one of those straight guys whose vanity preens itself a little when I gawk at you from not-so-afar? It’ll be torture, but I’ll keep doing it, if your ego needs the strokes. Michael, you’re a fine, fine man, and feasting upon you is exactly what I’d like to do. Hoping you read this letter, Your back yard neighbor. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Last week someone asked me, via formspring.me, whether I’d ever hooked up with a father of any of my son’s friends. My answer, short and sweet, was yes, I have. And of course I immediately began to get barraged with mails and comments begging me to talk about it . In the little suburban city where I live are a number of public parks. The reason I bought a house in this town, actually, is because of its park system; no matter in what direction I walk from my home, sooner or later I’m going to run into one either one of the little parks set up for neighborhood kids to play, or one of the large, beautiful stretches of land where the trees cluster in abundance and the grass is lush, thick, and overgrown. There’s one park at the city’s northern edge, though, that I’ll drive to, to pay visits in good weather. So will other like-minded men. It’s a park tucked away and surrounded by industrial buildings, and it’s been allowed to run wild. It’s more a stretch of untamed forest than an actual park. There aren’t any tennis courts, or picnic tables, or water fountains or swings. There are trees, and vines, puddles of mud. There are squirrels, and raccoons, and snakes that will slither fearlessly across the dirt paths, inches away from your toes. And there are mosquitos—boy, are there ever mosquitos, particularly after July. I’ve had the misfortune of going in there and coming out with bites in places I never imagined mosquitos could invade. The park has a reputation of being cruisy. It’s possible to go there any time of day and find a guy or two rambling around the poorly-defined dirt walking path, hands thrust deep in his pockets as he toys with himself. Lunchtimes and after dinner have been typically the best times for me to find action, on the occasions I’ve ventured up there. Two summers ago, at the forest’s deepest center, I found a group of four guys stripped down and sucking each other among the tree trunks, barely visible in the dusk. But this story takes place about seven or eight years ago, when my son was maybe eight. It was the early autumn, a time in my part of the midwest when the days can be wanly mild, though the nights are crisp and chilly. I’d gone to the park on one of my days off from the academic job I used to hold full-time, and was rambling around the woods when I happened upon another man. He was in his early thirties and was walking a black lab whose tail wagged and tongue lolled out at the sight of me. I love dogs, and allowed the lab to jump up on me with his dirty paws. The owner laughed, and pulled him back, and we started making small talk. The other man had jet-black hair, and thick dark eyebrows that were slightly unkempt. His face was covered with stubble. When he laughed or spoke, his eyes diminished to dark, friendly slits. For a couple of minutes we chatted about the dog and the weather. Then, though our words dried up, neither of us moved. The dog stood there and wagged its tail still, looking from one of us to the other, as the guy and I sized each other up. “Funny meeting like this out in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “Yeah,” I replied. “Usually I come here when I want some quiet.” “Lot of quiet here,” he replied. We looked each other over for a little while more. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled his left hand from the pocket of his jeans, hooked the thumb in a belt loop, and let his fingers drape down and touch the bulge beneath his zipper. I noticed that like me, he wore a ring. I understood the gesture. I pulled my own hand out of the pocket of my shorts, and let the tips tickle just beneath the flap of my fly. “Want to walk deeper in?” I asked, once we both were running our fingers over the outlines of our dicks. He nodded. In a little clearing deep in the woods, he looped the leash over a branch and began unbuttoning his shirt. The guy was gorgeous beneath his loose-fitting clothing—fit and furry and muscular in the way that former college jocks gone only slightly to seed can be. He wasn’t hung, though. The guy had maybe four inches, though it was still a good-looking dick. At the sight of my cock his jaw dropped, quite literally. I took advantage of it by shoving my meat into his mouth. For several long uninterrupted minutes in the woods we played around, swapping sucks while our clothes flapped half-opened. We had enough fun that afterward I asked him if he came to the park very often. He did, he told me, but it was unusual for him to go at that time; he usually worked days. I told him I usually did, too. After some quick negotiation, we agreed to meet again the following Monday night. I remember it worked out well for me, because I was taking the kid to some kind of class on Monday nights—gymnastics, I think it was. I’d drop him off at the local high school where the class was held, drive to the park, meet my dog-walking married friend, and then get back to the high school by the class’s end. Every time we met, we’d get further and further in our sexual progress. Though he’d never done anything anal before, by Halloween I’d gotten to the point that I was banging the guy hard and he was loving it. I remember him being a really good kisser, too, which surprised me; sometimes it seems as if the really handsome married guys never like to kiss. Then November arrived, and with it the cold weather. The trips to the park stopped. It was in January, I think, that my son received an invitation to a friend’s birthday party. The kid’s mother was out of town that weekend, so I had the duty of wrapping the present and making sure he got to the party on time. It wasn’t his best friend having the party, my son explained on the way over. It was maybe his second-best friend, or maybe his third-best friend, but they were all friends together in a group so it really didn’t matter. My ears were still ringing with chatter when I got him to the front door, where I intended to deposit him and pick him up at the appropriate time. “Hey,” said the birthday boy’s daddy when he opened the door. A black labrador clattered up beside him, tail wagging furiously. The dog was followed by the birthday boy himself, red-faced with the pleasure of so many friends and gifts. “Thanks for coming—” The man stopped, and stared me in the face. Because of course the birthday boy’s dad, the father of my son’s second-best friend, was my buddy from the park. The kids didn’t notice that the two adults were gawking at each other. They ran on in to the back. The other guy, though, leaned in the front door and looked me over. I hoped it was with fond nostalgia. “Well, at least now you know where I live,” he said, suddenly quiet and shy. “And now I have your phone number,” I said, twiddling the party invitation between my fingers. He was barefooted, and wearing nothing but an untucked white shirt and a pair of faded jeans. I was bundled up in layers. When I breathed, a trail of white vapor would be swept away by the January winds, but he didn’t make a move to close the front door. “You should use it,” he said at last. “Like, Thursday evenings before nine. This Thursday, even.” “That’s a good time for me,” I agreed. We shook hands, like any two dads at a birthday party might, and parted. I saw him briefly again when I picked the kid up, and got another wave and a friendly smile. Thursday nights were the night we fucked at his place, throughout the winter and spring. I’d arrive after seven, nail him on the bed he shared with his wife, and leave before his wife and son would arrive back after nine. We switched to another night for the summer, and sometimes met in the park when neither of us could host. I seem to remember fucking him all the way up until the following Christmas, actually—and then he was transferred to Ohio for his job, and the family moved away. I remember asking my son, after they’d left, if he missed his friend. “A little,” he admitted. “But he wasn’t my best friend.” I surely missed the kid’s daddy, though. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Did you just pee?” I can honestly say that I’ve never shown such excited interest in the urinary habits of perfect strangers before Saturday evening. That’s when I walked into the gay bar where we were singing karaoke and discovered that the night before, the owners had installed a Whizometer in the men’s room. The Whizometer is a device that, when installed onto the back of a urinal, uses a rotor set spinning by—well, you can visualize it yourself, I suppose—to measure in miles per hour the velocity of one’s flow. It then displays the result in glowing LED numbers atop the device. I noticed it first when I was washing my hands after dinner, attracted by the laminated sign over the flush handle explaining its use. Then I rushed out to tell everyone in my party exactly what I’d discovered. “You’re lying,” they all told me. Luckily, I’d anticipated this Negative Nancy response and had snapped some photos with my phone. My best friend immediately went in to investigate. A few minutes later he came out, his mouth pulled into an amazed expression. “It works,” he said. “What’d you get?” I asked. “Sixty,” he said. I was suitably impressed. Actually, I thought it would be more, considering that my best friend is the king of the Austin Powers pee. You might remember the scene from that movie, in which it sounds as if Austin is done with his business, but then keeps on going for a ridiculously long period of time, over and over again. “Hey, go pee,” I ordered one of the bar’s patrons that I knew, kind of. He looked at me strangely. “I want to see what your Whizometer score is. I could take a picture of it if you want. Oh hey! I can do video!” I said, brandishing my phone. When he recoiled and gave me the look one might give a sunglasses-wearing stranger standing at the edge of a school playground sporting a pair of naked, hairy legs protruding from the bottom of a grimy trenchcoat, I realized that although I’d meant to say I’d take a photo of his Whizometer score, he might have thought I implied something else entirely. So for the rest of the night as informal scorekeeper of the Whizometer Olympics, whenever I noticed someone walking back in the direction of the men’s room and then returning a suitable time later, I would call out to the guy and ask, “Did you just pee?” If they had, I didn’t have to explain myself. I’d get a surprised, sheepish grin, followed by an answer like, Yeah, forty! Is that good?, or Well, I didn't really have to go, so it was only ten. . . . My best friend had to go again later in the evening, so I figured if there was anyone who wouldn’t mind me watching the Whizometer in use, it was him. “See?” he said, crowing with pleasure as he deftly managed to set the rotor churning. “Fifty-six . . . fifty-eight. You try it.” “I haven't had much to drink,” I said. But I was game. I unzipped and gave it a go. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the accuracy necessary to pinpoint my flow into the exact spot necessary to make the thing light up. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was making the wheel travel backwards. My friend doubled over in silent laughter, and then on tippy-toes ran out of the restroom and back to the table, so he could giggle about my failure to everyone I knew. In fact, I was still adjusting my fly when I dashed out after him with the goal of trying to contain the damage he might do. “. . . Four!” I heard him crowing as I caught up, at our table. With all the dignity I could muster, I cut into his lying liar’s lies. “It was a six,” I said coldly. “Not a four. And anyway,” I continued, cutting short anything anyone could said. “When some of us have so many handfuls that we have to haul out and arrange before proceeding, it’s difficult to aim with the simple precision of a peashooter.” “Wait,” said another friend. “Which one of you is the peashooter?” “It takes several able-bodied and trained professionals to manage a firehose,” I finished, inspired by metaphor. Sadly, no one was buying it. They all smirked behind their hands. I decided to change the subject. “I wonder how they’d make something that measured number twos.” “Or what they’d call it,” said one friend. “A Poopometer.” “Scatometer,” said another. A moment later, he added, “I don’t think you’d want to hit the velocity records on that one.” The five of us standing around the table simultaneously clenched, winced, and made similar pained expressions. “Nuh-uh,” we all said as one. More...