TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In what's becoming a regular feature here, I'm devoting today's space to catching up on anthologizing some of the questions asked on formspring.me, in the last couple of weeks. As always, if you've got questions, feel free to use the handy entry box to ask whatever you'd like. If the question hasn't been addressed before, I'll try to get back to you in a timely fashion. Does it matter to you if a bottom moans or is pretty much silent? I prefer a responsive bottom--one who is honest at cuing me in on what he's experiencing. Whether that's through body language or dirty talk, I don't care. Getting an honest answer to this is probably impossible but hear it goes. How much of the stuff is real? I change names and very minor details. It's easy to get an honest answer on this issue, though: I don't make ip the sex, the people involved, or the encounters. I have another career in making shit up. My journal is for real. Do you ever use recreational drugs, specifically hallucinogens ? The only drug I've ever used recreationally was a single Viagra. It gave me a headache. I am completely a virgin to any other recreational drug, and rather prudish about them in my presence. Yes, I'm aware of the irony about me having the right to be prudish about anything. Do you enjoy poppers? I will confess quite shyly that I've never used poppers before. I'm virginal. Shut up. Do you have any regrets in life as far as sex and men? Interesting question. Of the six worst days in my life, four had to do with sex, so there's an argument to be made that had I avoided sex or squelched my sex life, I might have avoided those four very bad days. Those were four low days in 46 years, however. I've had many more good times than bad, and learned ablot about other people in the process. So no. I might regret having had those bad days, but I wouldn't do anything to take them back if I had to give back the rest as well. If you have a half a degree, is there anything of which you have a quarter? What about an eight? A sixteenth? I am one-sixteenth German, one-eighth of an inch shy of grazing my head on the ceiling of my car, and hung like a quarter horse. When you masturbate, do you ever cum in a glass & drink your cum to the last drop? No. Getting a glass requires too much pre-planning. I just eat it from my hand. Are you afraid of aging? or rather, what's your view on aging in the gay community? everyone seems to want to stay young forever nowadays... I'm not immune to a desire to stay youthful. Though I don't bake a fake tan on myself, dye my tips, and cover my body with A&F logos and hope I pass for twenty-six, I do take time finding clothes that flatter me. I groom. I moisturize. I don't fib about my age. The only way to stop growing older is to die, and frankly, I'm not ready to do that yet. Many men assume that their sex lives are pretty much kaput after forty, however, and I've found the reverse to be true. I've had more younger guys after me at my current age than I ever did in my twenties and thirties. Like youth itself, I'll try to enjoy it while I can. But god forbid I should ever turn into one of those leather-skinned Hollister-wearing clones who is eternally thirty-nine on his online profiles. (Says the hoodie- and Converse-wearing guy in the jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap.) After reading your blog, I'm honestly intimidated by you. I can honestly say this is the first time a top has made me feel this way, and I'm afraid I may not meet your standards. Is there anything you can say to comfort me? I would say that if you read my blog, you'd have noticed I have a sense of humor, a good perspective, and that I can be very tender with the right person. That in itself should put you at ease. What's the one thing that you've thought about for a long time, but never tried, sexually? The list is vanishingly small. I've tried a lot of things. I have a fantasy of being restrained by a bottom, though, and being helplessly forced to fuck his holes against my will. Or a group of bottoms. Kind of like a reverse gang-bang. Have you ever permitted a third guy (naked, non-participating, voyeur only) to witness your having sex with the second guy? Oh sure. I'm all for it. I enjoy putting on a show. Has anyone ever mentioned you have a down-to-earth quality about you that makes guys want to do things for you? My friend, that is what the experts call 'playing to your strengths.' I am no model. My body is not gym sculpted. I am not hung like an elephant. Nor am I 24 years old. I am, however, friendly, down-to-earth, knowledgeable, and have a great sense of humor. And I'm a top. Combined with my experience, letting people see those qualities keeps getting me laid. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The Decorator lives in an unassuming two-story house on a street close to mine. One might even call it part of my neighborhood. It’s a typical suburban avenue where the houses are neatly kept and the lawns clipped close. But oh, whenever I open that unlocked front door, I can’t help but blink in wonder at the extravagance within. I’ve known the Decorator for a year and have never been able to elicit from him what he does for a living. It was only when I commented in an email about how much like a spread in Architectural Digest was the inside of his house that he admitted he did something creative. Something creative that pays a hell of a lot more than my creative efforts, I’m guessing, because the least of his furniture is nicer and more expensive than the best of mine. Upon entering the house, I step upon hardwood floors, stained and waxed in a deep shade of mahogany. A vast dining table surrounded by eight richly-upholstered chairs sits just within. In its center is planted a tall ceramic art vase, from which project cut iris. Down the hallway I can spy the living room, with its expensive sofas of dark wood and rich upholstery. I lock the door behind me, and walk further inside. A massive slab of ancient stone hangs on the wall at the foot of the stairwell, its surface raised by the imprint of a fossilized fern. I know the way to the Decorator’s bedroom from long practice. Up the stairs I pad until I reach the door of his bedroom. His oversized, sumptuously decorated bedroom. One of the walls is decorated with framed, stark, black-and-white photography. Opposite hangs a large oil painting. Another original canvas executed in oils sits atop the expansive dresser next to a series of nesting carved Japanese wooden boxes, leaning against the wall. A tasteful charcoal sketch of a half-nude male body hangs next to the door leading to the master bathroom. In a massive bed dressed with sheets having a thread count double anything I own, face down among the dozen pillows, lies the Decorator. He’s naked, his legs spread, with his head resting on his arms and turned away. And he’s all alone. “Oh, yes,” I hiss in the quiet. My fingers reach for the fabric of my belt. The buckle clinks as I undo it, and then rattle again as my shorts drop to the floor. I kick off my sandals and stalk over to the bed, where I kneel on the mattress’s edge. “I have missed this.” The Decorator and I used to see each other regularly. Last summer through the fall we were meeting on almost a weekly basis. Then around the holidays, our schedules seemed not to synch. He was out of town for long periods of time. Or I was unavailable. Or he was up north at his cottage. Or I was on a deadline. After a few frustrating months, we both stopped trying. When he wrote me this week and asked if I was available at all, I told him he could have any evening at all and that I’d find some way to be with him. Thursday night, I'm in no hurry. I have plenty of time. I hook my arms under and around his pelvis to draw his hole to my mouth. The Decorator always tastes sweet. He’s recently shaved his butt, so that when I lick his beautiful, round ass cheeks, my tongue rakes against the sharp tingle of stubble. He squirms in my grasp, and I dig deeper with my tongue until I’m rewarded with the sharp, almost metallic taste of the innermost regions of his hole. For several long minutes I eat away at him, licking and sucking and biting and rubbing my beard over the little hole he’s so willingly exposing. In return, all I get are the tiniest of whimpers. The Decorator rarely speaks when we make love. He’s responsive, but it’s in the smallest of cues. When I eat him out, he whimpers, and breathes heavily. He’s clutching a pillow now, his little hands balled up into fists as he buries his face in it. His body shudders and twitches when I blow onto the wetness, cooling it down before I bury my face once again between his cheeks. The Decorator is a small man—almost a full foot shorter than I. He’s lightly muscular in all the right places and has a trim, narrow waist. Though he’s in his late thirties and his hair is almost all gray with a mix of blond, he still has the face and appearance of a boy. I’ve not seen his face at all, this night. Not until I stand up and walk around to the other side of the bed. I lower the elastic band of my black trunks with my thumb, just slightly, to expose a sliver of my furry stomach. He raises his head and scoots forward, hungry. His eyes have been closed until now. Even open, they’re still small horizontal slits through which his small blue eyes peer at the bulge before him. His hands reach out and tug down my shorts; he pulls me forward so that his mouth can accept my inches. For a long time I stand there and let his mouth and fingertips dance over my shaft and balls. After a few moments I kick off my shorts and ease myself down onto the mattress. We adjust ourselves so that I’m sitting upright, supported by the pyramid of pillows like some luxuriating pharaoh. He’s pharaoh’s servant, worshipping at the wellspring of all creation. “That’s it,” I whisper to him, running my hands through his short, thick hair. It’s still damp from the shower he took before I arrived. “Suck it. Slobber on that dick. Make me feel good.” The words spur him to do better, to suck deeper, to lick and swirl his tongue in ways he hadn’t before. “Let me know how much you love that dick.” Spit’s dripping down my shaft now and tickling my balls as it falls. He’s grunting and whimpering a little whenever he impales his throat with my cock head. Eventually he comes up for air, gasping, and looks at me to see if I’m pleased. There are crinkles of distress at the corners of his eyes, and his brow is furrowed as if he’s genuinely worried. “Good boy,” I whisper. I put one hand under his chin and draw him up, all one hundred and thirty-five pounds of him, until he’s draped across my chest. Our mouths meet for the first time. His lips are soft and slight, like a woman’s. When I kiss him, his muscles relax. He melts into me, becoming limp. When I drive my tongue deep, his bones seem to disintegrate. He slackens, and becomes heavy. But I’m not finished with his ass yet. For a few more long minutes I slurp and lick at it, getting it ready. Nothing gets me harder and more prepared to fuck than eating a beautiful hole. We’re forty-five minutes into our session, and by this point I’ve left dark wet spots of precum all over the sheets. My dick is raging hard, red, and almost angry. It’s time. I maneuver him onto the towel he’s set down, and spit on my dick. When my head presses against his hole, he murmurs wordless noises. My entry is slow and deliberate, and meets with no resistance, but his arms tense and claw at the sheets. He cries out and clutches. When I’m all the way in, he whines like an injured dog. “Are you good?” I ask him. I’m pretty sure he is, but I don’t want him in pain. I’ve pulled out slightly, with my question, but he nods furiously and grabs behind himself at my hips, pulling me deep inside once more. Slowly I work myself in and out, in and out. With every new sensation he mewls and shivers. I’m hugging him around his shoulders, and he’s clutching at my hands with his, entwining our fingers so that we can be as interwoven together as humanly possible. Even his toes are trying to grasp mine. Still I keep up the thrusting and the grinding, moving from a slow and steady pace to one that’s more deliberate and even anxious, or eager. His butt quivers with every thrust. I’m driving in faster now. My strokes are longer, and fiercer. We’ve been making love, but now he’s getting fucked—he’s getting banged, and he’s loving it. The tiny whines have become a steady bleat. He sounds as if he’s in pain, but he’s not; he’s merely frightened of it stopping. “I’m coming,” I whisper in his ear. The flood begins. For seconds I’m nothing but cock, pulsing and red and spewing out my two-day load. The bleat has become a moan, loud and unending, lasting the entire time I’m breeding him. The red tide recedes, and I’m regaining my senses. His neck cranes, and I find his lips on mine, pulling at mine hungrily. I roll onto my side, remaining inside him. His shoulders and back rest on the pillows as if he’s lying down, but the lower half of his body twists so that I can still keep fucking. My right arm is beneath him, crushed, holding onto his other shoulder; my left elbow crooks his left leg to keep it hoisted in the air, while my left fingers play with his nipples. Both his hands are over his head. He’s grabbed onto the ornate carved headboard and is clutching onto it for dear life, as if afraid he might fall into some unknown abyss below. Slowly and deliberately I withdraw my penis, then immediately thrust it back inside. His hole pops open with every invasion, well-used and gaping. “You’re wet,” I tell him. It’s an unnecessary observation. We both can hear the squelching sound, each time I slide in and out. We both can smell the heady scent of my sperm as it leaks out. Whenever I squeeze his nipples, he responds with groans and flailing. He’s crying out loud, now, yelling and howling to the dark ceiling. My fingers travel from nipple to nipple, pinching them brutally as I continue to stab him. He lets out a shout mightier than any other, and then jerks and shudders when I give him another savage tweak. I’ve gone too far, I think to myself; I’ve hurt him at last. Yet when my hand moves across his belly to soothe and reassure him, I find my palm meeting a wet and sticky puddle. I haven’t hurt him. He’s shot without me realizing it, and without touching himself. I’ve merely tweaked him in a moment of post-orgasm sensitivity. My thrusting gradually diminishes. I relax slightly, and use an edge of the towel to mop him up. Then I withdraw, and he whimpers again. I’m not done. My dick is still hard. It’s still demanding attention. At some point during the fuck I’d pulled the front of my T-shirt up and over my head so that it remained on my shoulders, yoke-like, but now I remove it. I flip the Decorator over and position him on a clean portion of the towel, separate his legs with my knees, and drive back in. For a moment his back arches as he tries to accommodate my inches once again. Then he sinks into the sensation and relaxes, as he grabs a pillow for his head. For the second fuck I don’t play the love-maker. I pull his ass apart and drive in repeatedly, getting as deep as possible. I grab his head by the hair and twist it so that I can force him to kiss me, and then drive his face back into the cushion and hold it there as I pound. I bring his legs together to make the hole even tighter, and I adjust my angle. Instead of thrusting up and in, now I’m thrusting straight down to the mattress. It makes him howl. Upward I move further still, so that my dick is angled more to the base of his pelvis. This makes him groan loudest of all, particularly when I shove all the way in and down, stop, and swell my dick as hard and thick as it can get. “Tell me what you want,” I growl into his ear. He lets out a long, stuttering moan. “You’ve got to say it,” I warn him. His response remains inchoate. “You’ve got to say the words, or by god, I swear I’ll pull out of your cunt right now and walk out of this house. I don’t give a shit how good you feel right now. I will pull out and walk out. You’ve got to say the words. On the count of three” His mouth works, but his throat won’t cooperate. I yank back on his hair. “Say the words. Three. Two. . . .” “Seed me.” It’s only a whisper, but the syllables that follow were louder, and full of need. “Please seed me.” They’ll be the only words he says all evening. I shoot again, hard and deep. For long moments I see nothing but waves of red and black circles, like those of a pulsing target. My breathing is raspy and labored when my consciousness returns again. I shudder, and wait for the aftershocks. When the last of them fade, I roll with him onto my side once more. I discover he’s come again as I’ve fucked him, into a puddle on the towel. I fold the fabric so that it wouldn’t cool against his skin. I’m still in him as we lie there in the twilight. Then the Decorator does what he does every time I’m over there, after I’ve worn him out: he falls asleep. It’s not instantaneous, or unexpected. I think it’s a part he almost likes even better than the lovemaking. He lies there in my arms as I hold him firmly, his hands locked onto my wrists as if he’s a little boy in his father’s embrace. My dick is still hard and inside him, though, glued there by the two loads I’d loosed. His legs droop and curl first, and then his fingers slacken and relax. I can tell he’s sleeping from the rise and fall of his chest, and by the unguarded way in which he curls himself into a fetal position. He’s not snoring, but the resonance of his breathing is as close to it as he gets. So I let him sleep. I’ve nowhere to be at the moment. I let him sleep, and breathe, and feel his fingers working at some invisible task in his dreams. They press against my skin as if he’s typing, or playing the piano. For a half hour I lie there with him, relaxing and daydreaming. When I pull out after all that time, I’m still half hard. I do it so gradually that though he stirs, he doesn’t seem to notice. And when I separate myself, I replace the warmth of my body with that of the blanket, which I pull up and over him from the bed’s bottom. He shifts, and pulls himself into a ball, but otherwise remains slumbering. It only takes me a minute to pull on my shorts, my T-shirt, and my sandals. My footsteps are soft and quiet as I tiptoe out of that bedroom, and down the stairs, through that well-appointed dining area, and out. The copper dragonfly knocker rattles slightly on the front door as I pull it tight behind me. Upstairs in that house of expensive tables and chairs, and of paintings and photographs and works of art, of custom tiles and tasteful lighting, I know a man lies curled in the smallest possible space in the middle of a large and empty bed, all alone. At least he fell asleep knowing someone had held him for a while. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I've had a couple of sites be generous to me over the last week and send some new readers my way—thank you again, The Sword and Roids And Rants! So while I'm working on an erotic entry about an encounter last night with an old favorite, I'd like to spread the love and recommend a few other blogs deserving of more readers. Edgy Husband: A Gay Man's Quest for Sex Within and Outside of His Long-Term Relationship Mark Mann has been with his partner for two decades, but is finding that the sex has all but vanished from their once very-physical relationship. In his entries, he writes quite movingly of wishing to recapture what once was, while grappling with the alternatives he may find himself taking. I like Mark's smooth and literate style, and his ability to invoke melancholy without fearing it, or apologizing for it. It's his ability to hold himself and his own motives under a spotlight, however, and unflinchingly examine himself that makes his blog a must-read whenever I see it updated. High Contrast Cock I know, half of you saw the word cock and already clicked the link. To those of you remaining, let me describe this blog in a sentence: its artist, Craig Lapras, snaps photos of his dick and foreskin. The thing is, the photos aren't the standard 'Here's my stiffie!' affair. They're well-composed, beautiful, and often witty. Acting as his own model, Craig puts his cock through more torturous shoots than all previous seasons of Top Model, and the results are often stunning. I've suggested he write a proposal for a coffee-table photography book based on the site. And I expect a dedication. Gruntraq: Rantings, Writings, and Tales of a Twisted Gay Construction Stud New on the horizon this week, Gruntraq's blog is a nicely-written mix of true life recollections and erotic storis, for those of you who need a good daily dose of smut. The guy spent a lot of time this week backloading some old stories of his to round out his blog—give them a read-through. They'll probably appeal to you. Hot Guys Reading Books It's pretty much the same site as Guys with iPhones, yes. Except instead of (mostly) hot guys wielding that ubiquitous chunk of techno-geekery, this site collects and displays photos of some (mostly) comely men holding big, hefty, thick . . . books. Come on. I know some of you guys want to submit your photos to this site. I'd enjoy it more than your iPhone. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Do you like me?” I asked Mikey yesterday, when I was lying on his bed. It was not the question I expected to hear coming out of my mouth. I regretted it even as the words floated between the steep inclines of his bungalow ceilings. It was a child’s question, a plaintive bleat of need and want that should never have been voiced. Mikey was straddling me when I asked it. Though we both were still in T-shirts and shorts, I could feel the warmth of his groin against mine, and the hardness through the cotton. “Now why the fuck would you be asking that?” he demanded. Because basically sometimes, no matter how well two people know each other, or how close they might be, the stupid little everyday detritus of everyday life clogs up the works. Mikey has been quitting smoking. The last month and a half has been a living hell for him. He’d been taking some kind of drug—Chantix, I think?—to help him back off what’s been a forty-five year habit. It gave him nightmares and made him so depressed that he first cut down the dosage and eventually stopped taking it altogether. It took two weeks to get out of his system, though, and Wednesday was the first day he told me he felt human again. As for why I asked the question . . . let's tactfully say that it was a long and trying six weeks. “What do you need?” asked Mikey. His hands rested on the mattress on either side of my shoulders. I looked up into his face. “What do you need today?” he wanted to know. “I’d like to be held,” I told him. “I’d like someone to be nice to me.” Very simple things, those. Childish things, even. And truthfully, it’s what I wanted most. Though the second floor bedroom was warm from the sun shining through the skylight, I didn’t mind in the least when Mikey pressed his body against mine. His arms scooped under my back; his hands curved up to my shoulders and held them from behind as his mouth fitted against mine. His embrace was firm, and strong. My own long arms wrapped around his skinny chest. We made out, grinding and squeezing and thrusting against each other, trying to close every minute gap that separated us. “I’ll be nice to you,” he said at last, when he separated his mouth from mine. He pulled my legs apart and ran his hands over their length, watching as my blond fur sprang from flat to erect as his fingers passed over it. “I’ll be real nice to you.” He hoisted my hips and began to pull down my underwear. I’d been wearing a plain pair of gray trunks. Once they were off, he held them to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Don’t do that,” I laughed. “They’re not fresh.” “They don’t gotta be fresh,” said Mikey. “They smell like you.” “Oh, stop.” “I’m gonna steal ‘em,” said Mikey. “I’m gonna steal ‘em, kid, and wear them the rest of the day.” Before I could protest his silliness any further, he grabbed my legs and lifted them in the air, exposing my ass. He’d done the same thing the first time we’d been naked together, a long time ago. As he stared at me, he spread my cheeks and buried his face in my hole. I gasped. My breath came in sharp halts and stutters as he licked and bit my hole. For a long time that’s all he did. One of his hands supported the small of his back while the other held my legs aloft. Months of shoulder stands during yoga helped me maintain the position with no effort. As always, I began to feel guilty after a few minutes of pleasure down there. “Is it okay?” I found myself asking. Yesterday was my day for stupid questions. “Is what okay?” “Is it okay if I enjoy this?” I improvised, lamely. He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently lay me back down. He was out of his clothes by now. His penis, flaming red and choked off by a tight cock ring, pointed in my direction. A bead of precum had stuck to my thigh and left a glistening thread between us. He sucked on his thumb and lowered it. I felt the tip push against my hole, followed by pressure. Mikey watched me steadily while he slowly moved the digit inward. I, in the meantime, panicked. My hands clutched at his, pushing him away, trying to move him out. “Am I hurting you?” he asked. I couldn’t answer. “Am I hurting you?” he persisted. “Or scaring you?” “Scaring me,” I admitted. “Even after all this time? How long has it been? Twenty-five years?” Upset with myself, I growled, “Yes. I’m sorry.” Because even after all that time, I still am somewhat affected by the memory of a single night in which a man used violence to have his way with me. It’s silly, and stupid, and in my conscious mind I know I shouldn’t let one very cruel bastard have such a long reach. But the experience is a part of me, and sometimes I can’t help my reactions. He nodded, and pulled out his thumb. Without hesitation, he rolled me over onto my front. I felt his breath along the cleft of my butt cheeks, and the flick of his tongue between them. “Have you seen that television commercial? I think it’s AT&T. The happy birthday one?” I gasped a little. “No? The boy on it looks just like you. Just like you, with hair that's only a touch longer. You haven’t seen it?” “You know I usually—” I drew in my breath sharply as his hands and mouth traveled up my back and left trails of lovely sensations in their wake. “—I usually flip through the ads.” “I think it’s AT&T,” he repeated. “And it’s got this bearded man on a park bench, only it’s on a rooftop, I think, and he’s looking mighty sad. And he looks just like you. I think that every time I see it, and watch, and peek around, and think, how the hell come nobody else is seeing how much like you he looks? So he’s sitting there, and the guy on the voiceover says something like, ‘Remember when you were five and everything was possible? Well happy fifth birthday.’ And then the man on the bench lights up like a Christmas tree, just like you do when you let loose with one of those smiles. He’s so pretty. That's like you, too.” His mouth was near my ear by then. “Oh, my. You turned out to be such a handsome man.” “Let me fuck you,” I said. Much as I was enjoying the attention, and the huzz of his voice in my ear, I wanted to get back into control, back to a scenario I knew and in which I felt comfortable. “Please.” He pulled out a towel and laid it on the bed, and then knelt down on it. Mikey spat in his hand and rubbed it on his hole. I added some more saliva to his and entered him, easily and smoothly, as I always did. “Fuck me,” he moaned, as I reached the bottom. “I want your seed. I want your seed inside me.” The fuck didn’t last long. I hadn’t unloaded in a couple of days, and Mikey’s hole always feels good. I’m accustomed to it; I know how to use it for my pleasure. I had pulled him down to his side and was thrusting hard inside him when I came a few minutes later, hugging him tight around the waist. Only when I was spent, and panting, did Mikey plant a kiss on my cheek. “Happy fifth birthday." He brushed some hair from my face. “Try not to be sad.” “I’ll try,” I promised. But I had my head turned when I said the words, so that he wouldn’t see my own disappointment with myself. I doubt I fooled him for a minute. Before I left, Mikey made off with my underwear. “Oh, jeez,” I said, laughing. “Are you really going to keep it? You haven’t done something like that in years.” “I told you I was!” he said, seeming surprised I’d even question him. “Here. How’s it look?” He pulled on the trunks, and I had to admit they looked better on him than on me—probably because his dick was still thick and hard, and hung to one side, filling it out. “Great!” I said. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo, then showed it to him. “Let me give you a pair of mine.” “You’re so silly,” I laughed, but he went through his underwear drawer and picked out a pair of white trunks still in their wrapper, soft and silky-feeling. “They’re kind of big.” “Are you calling me fat?” he demanded. “You’re skinnier than I am. I’m saying you buy underwear that’s too big,” I explained. After that, my mood lifted. We walked around his garden so I could see what he’d done, and played with his cats until it was time for me to leave. The first thing I did when I got home was to look for that AT&T ad. And damn. I really do look like that sad guy. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire. Here and now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Richmond. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the Virginia Welcome Center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar. Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation. Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere. Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action. When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered. I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, after. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge. No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics class than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!” Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Does it . . . hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?” Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that. By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times. It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me. “Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments. “Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!” He was laughing at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end. More...

Glad you liked, Oz. :-) Thanks!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Gentlemen. You know how it is. You're aroused. You're a little moist. You're rarin' to go. And those little white lies start to pop out of your mouth, so you can get down to business—or enhance the business that's already happening. These days I try to keep the untruths to a zero-level base line. They're tough to keep track of, and I'm at a point in my life in which I no longer care to maintain the energy necessary to keep them going. In the past, though . . . I wasn't as scrupulous. So below are forty lies I've told at some point in my thirty-four year sexual career, of none of which I am especially proud. 1. Of course I'm single. 2. I've only done this like, once or twice before, with a college buddy. You? 3. Underwear is for sissies. I usually go commando. 4. Sure, I live by myself. 5. It hurts a little the first time, but after a while you'll get into it. 6. No, I'm really good with phone numbers. I'll remember yours. 7. Yeah, I'm over eighteen! [Note: Sadly, I don't have to use this one any longer.] 8. I've never been touched down there. 9. Nobody ever comes in this restroom. Don't worry. 10. Sorry, I don't have a place we can go, so it's either here and now or nothing. 11. Gosh, I don't know, nobody's ever paid me before. 12. God, I haven't been with another guy in . . . five years? Six? 13. I've only been topped a couple of times. . . I'm pretty tight, okay? [Note: This was long, long ago.] 14. Wow, I've never seen gay porn before! 15. Just another inch and that's it, I swear. 16. I've never done it in a restroom/park/car before . . . is it safe? 17. Yeah it kinda looks big but I've never met a guy who couldn't handle it. 18. Yeah, I'm a divorced guy, too. 19. Oh yeah, I always eat my own! 20. No, you're not dirty at all. 21. Sorry, I don't do any of that fag stuff, but I guess it's okay if you keep sucking. 22. Weird, I'm just getting out of a long-term relationship myself. It's hard to find nice guys, isn't it? 23. Seriously, I can't take one that big! 24. Just the tip, honest. 25. Yeah, I'm totally hard and naked right now. Want to come over? 26. No, this is my first time here. What kind of stuff goes on? 27. No, that doesn't turn me off at all! 28. You have a great mouth. 29. I've never seen a prettier ass. 30. Sure, I've done that before. You interested? 31. Man, you must be the best fuck in town. 32. Fuck yeah, I'd love to see you again. 33. I only want to look at it. I won't do anything else, I swear. 34. God, no, I don't think anyone would ever guess you like guys! 35. Just make it fast, okay? My kid's napping upstairs. 36. It's just weird, I've never felt this way about a guy before. 37. No, you're not heavy at all. 38. Your breath is fine, honest. 39. No, I didn't come in you. 40. Damn, you're hot. Your turn. What lies have you told either to have sex with a guy, or to keep them coming back for more? Post anonymously if you'd rather keep them confidential. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The spouse was out at a function in Ann Arbor, so I decided to enjoy some social time at the bar with a few friends, Saturday night. Now, I’ve never claimed to be a stunningly attractive man. But I have my well-put-together days, and then the days in which I look as if I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge. Yesterday was apparently one in which I had it going on. My beard was neatly trimmed and leveled, my hair was behaving, my clothes were neat and unfussy. And of course, it never hurts that the bar’s lights were turned down low. Three youngish men had entered a few minutes before and sat down at the bar. One was bearded, buff, and wore a pink Powerpuff Girls T-shirt. I was guessing the other two were lovers, from the way they touched each other’s wrists as they whispered between themselves. One was angular, thin, and wore both mascara and eyeliner; his boyfriend had long hair gathered into a ponytail-bun, hipster glasses, and a day’s growth of stubble. And after one drink, I realized that they all three were checking me out. The bearded guy was unabashed about it. He’d catch my eye and smile, then hold the glance for what felt an uncomfortable length of time. The two boyfriends were more surreptitious about surveying me. The one with the bun would sip his drink from one corner of his mouth, crane his neck, look over his shoulder at me, and then glance nervously at his boyfriend in case he was overlooked. The mascara guy would swivel around so that his back was to the bar and rest his arms behind them, then disdainfully look at the motley collection of gay guys around him before letting his gaze run up and down my length. There wasn’t much I could do about it, of course. I was with friends. They were all friends. I didn’t really find any of them hugely attractive. So I just sat back and enjoyed the stares and returned them when I could. Until, that is, a guy walked up and blocked the view. He was in his early fifties—a burly, muscular guy with a pornstache wearing dark Levis, a crisp white T-shirt, and a leather vest. He was an acquaintance of one of my acquaintances. And he shared my first name. It was with the utmost high-larity that we were introduced: “ [Name], meet [same Name].” “Evenin’, handsome,” he said, with a bit of a drawl. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a manly squeeze. Almost immediately I thought to myself, oh, my. Never mind that he and my friend hadn’t seen each other in a dog’s age. My name twin was all about me from the moment we shook hands. “So,” he said, moving in close. “Do you like guys into leather?” I nearly spit out my Diet Coke. “That’s a hell of an opening line.” “You’ve got a ring on,” he observed, nodding at my left hand. “And you’ve got an armband on.” I pointed at his right bicep, which sported a leather strap drawn tight to accentuate his muscle. “I wear it to let the boys I’m interested in know that I’m into rough stuff. Grabbin’ ass. Stretchin’ it wide.” The arm with his band rested on the table. He extended his other arm so that it lay on the back of my tall barstool. With him in front of me, blocking the way, there wasn’t anywhere I was going anytime soon. “Gettin’ in there deep.” “Wow,” I said, blinking. “With your fist? Does the band mark how far you go or something? Because ouch. I’ve been to the elbow, but the shoulder is pretty hardcore.” My name twin laughed and laughed, so loudly that all three of the boys at the bar turned around to see what was so funny. “I’m not really into fistin’. Just rimmin’ like a crazed dog and then fuckin’ the livin’ daylights out of a hot boy. How old are you, son? Thirty? Thirty-two?” Exactly as he intended, I laughed and got shy. “Forty-six.” “Get out!” he let out a wolf whistle “Well, you’d sure look purty with that sweet boy ass up in the air for me!’ My name twin seemed to have forgotten that my friends were all still at the table, listening to every word. “Well!” said one of them, rising. “I think I’m going to go have a smoke!” “I’m joining you!” said another. The third seemed to be unable to speak. He just grabbed his drink and went to talk to someone far, far away. Once we were relatively alone, I noticed that my name twin not only had kind of pinned me to my seat with his wide-armed stance, but that he’d maneuvered his position so that his legs were between mine. He’d managed to overtake my own personal space in a truly sexual way. That’s my move with someone sitting on a barstool. “Are you coming on to me?” I asked. “Maybe,” he admitted. “I was having difficulty telling. You might want to amp it up, some. You’re coming off as pretty subtle.” “Oh, you think?” he leaned forward, so that his face was only inches from mine. Between my blondish hair and his bristly mustache, we must have looked like the homoerotic cover to Hall and Oates’ H2O album. “I’m very discreet,” he said, with the utmost sincerity. “None of those guys will ever know.” “I’m pretty sure they already know.” “You’ll get great sex and a great fuckin’,” he promised. “Oh, I’m sure. It’s just that I’m a top, too.” “I know.” His admission surprised me. “I know who you are on Manhunt.” He said my profile name. That surprised me even more. “I’ve looked at those pretty pictures a hundred times. I recognized you when I walked into the bar. I know you’re a top. I also know that you’d look real pretty suckin’ my dick while you sat your boycunt down on my face and let me take care of it for you. You’d get a pussy full of sperm, I guarantee. That’s something every top needs. So how ‘bout it sometime?” My eyebrows couldn’t have raised any higher. At that moment, the young guy with the ponytail bun stepped down from his bar stool, locked eyes with me, and gave me a meaningful glance as he began wandering back to the restroom. I didn’t really intend to follow up on it, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of hormones I was giving off that night. I don’t wear cologne, or anything more complex than a scent of soap and deodorant. But the bar was relatively uncrowded, the lights were low, and maybe I was just the best of slim pickings. “Well, I'm flattered . . . to be honest, I am not real sure I’d be any good for you, and. . . .” Before I could naysay him, my name twin leaned even closer. “You are going to think about it,” he said. “And your hole is going to start twitchin’ for me. And pretty soon you’re going to give it up. I’m patient.” He leaned back, then in again. “I’m real patient.” He walked away after that, leaving me grinning and shaking my head. The ponytail guy eventually wandered back from the men’s room and shot me a look of hate. My friends returned, one by one, when they thought the coast was clear. No one said anything about my name twin, and he didn’t approach me again until I was on my way out. Then he only broke off his conversation to slap my ass, point a finger at me, and winked. Sunday morning I logged onto Manhunt and saw a note from the guy. “You think about what I said,” is all it read. I looked at his profile. My name twin’s photos were pretty hot. His dick was short, but very thick. If he was half the top guy he talked himself up to be, there were probably a lot of happy bottoms in his wake. Good for him. And yes, I’m sorry to admit it, but my ass twitched. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My weekend is pretty full. Since I'm probably going to be enlisted into gardening and other household duties, here are a few more responses to your endlessly interesting questions at formspring.me. Do you have questions? Feel free to ask them! Re hetero couples and play - have you gotten into the cuckold scene at all? As a top & a breeder you'd make an ideal "bull." When I get to play with married couples or couples that live together, it's usually in one of two scenarios. In the more common one, I'm brought in by the wife to fuck and and humiliate the husband while she watches. In the other, I'm brought in to fuck the wife and show the husband how a real big-dicked man gets the job done. There's usually an element of humiliation in the latter scenario as well, as the cuckolded husband is supposedly being shamed in his lack of proper love-making skills. I've got this bottom who's turning into a regular and he wants me to be more verbal. Do you think he means more poetical or more demeaning? It'd be awesome if he meant more poetical. That would be a challenge for anyone, pumping out a properly-scanning Petrarchan sonnet while maintaining a steady fuck rhythm. Very Shakespeare-in-Love-y. He means more demeaning. Toss in some shit about how good his ass feels and what a good boy he is for taking you. Ask at regular intervals whether he thinks he deserves your dick inside him.Throw in some nasty observations about what a hot li'l fuckin' slut he is, and you've got it made. With the variety of creative experiences that you've had, have you ever had a "massage scene" type experience? I would almost rather be touched and massaged than have sex. Almost. One of the best nights of my life was when a man undressed me, offered me a choice of massage oils, and then proceeded to give me a two-hour, thorough rubdown, from head to foot. The evening ended not with me getting a happy ending, but with him fucking my mouth and feeding me one of the largest spermloads it has been my pleasure to get. The tactile pleasures of man-to-man contact are the best parts, for me. Someone may have already asked, but how "big" are you? I am six feet and three inches tall, one hundred and sixty-ish pounds, and have size eleven feet. My dick is eight inches long by five and a half inches around. That would be eight real inches, not internet inches. Damn you, internet liars who use 'eight inches' as a default to describe your five-and-a-half-inch-stubby-dick! You make those of us with eight inches have to reassure people we're not fibbing, all the time! what's ur stats? I'm 46, six feet and three inches tall, 160 pounds, size eleven shoe, size thirty waist, a size 14 neck, and I wear a 40R coat. Maybe a 38. It depends on how it's cut. I have 2 1/2 degrees and a mortgage. Oh, and my dick is eight inches by five and a half around, cut. What does it take to really piss you off? Someone being condescending to me is usually the one thing that will fire my jets. I'm not much of a confrontational person who blows up and yells, however. I do the deep-freeze, you're-dead-to-me thing quite well. Do you prefer to have an orgy or a smaller group or even one on one? I enjoy all sizes of groups, but I think my most enjoyable and intense experiences are those that are one on one. If a guy begs you to fuck him, but then asks you to wear a condom, how do you respond? With selective deafness. I'm pretty upfront about how I fuck. I do so because when the clothes come off, I'm not looking for lectures or resistance or because I want to try to wear a guy down. I don't want to have to resort to stealth tactics. I throw out my preferences and expectations and let my pool of bottoms select itself. There's a certain breed of guy, though, who has a lot of mental energy invested in thinking of himself as 'the good boy.' That is, the kind of guy who might be attracted to the grittier and darker side of sex, but who would never go through with anything really dirrrrty. He might sleep around, but he recoils at the idea he might be a slut. Being a slut is what bad boys do. He might solicit sex from an upfront bareback top, but he still feels it's the good boy's duty, at the very last moment, even when he knows what he's signed up for, to say something like, "Maybe we should be doing this with a condom." That's when I smile, develop selective deafness, kiss the guy, sweet-talk him, make him feel comfortable, and proceed to slide in raw. The good boy is relieved of responsibility. In his head, he can still think of himself as a good boy; he asked for a condom the way good boys are supposed to. The top gets to bareback. The bottom gets raw dick the way he craved and agreed to before he showed up, but can't bring himself to ask for aloud. Both parties get what they want. None of them protest or resist. And I've never not been thanked after. Your selective deafness answer REALLY described me. Does that annoy you when you have to put in that extra effort? I'm glad to see someone recognized what I'm talking about. No, I'm not annoyed by the extra effort. I very much enjoy helping someone overcome their internal resistances to meet their true desires. Besides, I'm a great sweet-talker. On average, what's the time from door-closes-behind-him to your-cock-is-in-him? If it's a one-on-one in which I intend to enjoy foreplay, the average is probably about forty minutes. If it's a simple fuck or if a guy is waiting for me in the dark with his ass in the air, less than five minutes. If you had all the time in the world... Bath or Shower? Bath. That's why I like my hot tub. Scratch that. Let's just make the answer 'hot tub.' What's the most unusual lube you've ever been required to use? Hot butter. It did nothing for me. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Filthy. That’s me. I’ve known it for years, of course. But now it’s official, seeing that The Sword has named me its Filthy Blog of the Month. Yes, thank you. Thank you for your applause. You may touch me. No, not there. Lower. Lower. That’s the spot. Filthy Blog of the Month. I know my mother, god rest her soul, would have been proud. I can feel her heavenly spirit looking down upon me and saying, "That's my filthy son!" The article itself is pretty complimentary. Who’s going to argue with, “writes about sex just about better than anybody”? Not I. My favorite line, however, is, “The most appealing thing about this Mr. Steed dude is his grizzly, no-bullshit attitude.” You don’t know how many years I’ve been waiting to be called grizzly. I’m going to own it, bay-bee. Grr. The article touches on a topic that’s been bugging me a little the last few days—namely, the issue of realness. Of veracity, if you will. Though The Sword (correctly and graciously) assumes that I’m not a fictional construct, some of my readers don’t really seem to get that there is an actual person who writes these entries and whose life corresponds with them. I’ll get private emails asking, “Hey, how much of that blog you write is true?” Or a question or three on formspring.me saying, “Sigh. I know I’m not going to get a straight answer, but how much of your journal is real?” Or I’ll have a commenter saying on the entry about my Tuesday romp that it lacks the “stench of credibility.” For one thing, if someone’s already decided that I’m a liar and they’re not going to get a straight answer from me, there’s not really a lot I’m going to be able to say that’s not going to elicit the sigh and the shrugged shoulders. I would actually be interested, if that was the case, why they’d even ask me the question. And for the other: virtually everything I write on my blog is honest and accurate. A-ha! He said ‘virtually!’ It’s true that I have slightly—slightly—fictionalized some elements in my writing. To wit: I mostly have changed people’s names, when I post about them. It may surprise you, but the Silver Fox’s first name is not Silver, and he’s not related to Redd Foxx. If someone has a distinguishing characteristic that would instantly identify them to all and sundry in my geographical area, like a prominent tattoo of all four members of ABBA between their shoulder blades, I might alter it to a tattoo of Adam Lambert. On the guy’s butt. If Scruffy really works in a library as a children’s librarian (he doesn’t), I might change his job to that of a clerk in a video store, so that people won’t be accosting all the unshaven young men in the local children’s stacks with, Hey! Are you Scruffy?! I’m not under the illusion that I have hundreds of fans actively stalking me in my area, mind you. But you understand what I’m saying. I try to observe a little discretion. When it comes to details of my own life, I either graciously don’t comment on them, or I alter a very minor detail here or there to preserve the shreds of anonymity to which I can still cling. I think anyone who knows me, or who has met me, would agree that there’s extremely little dissonance between the persona I present in my journal, and my real-life self. Here’s what I don’t fictionalize, or fib about, or construct out of whole cloth: I don’t fabricate my encounters. I don’t create the people I have them with. The sex I write about isn’t fantasy. I actually have it, or if I’m writing about my past, have had it. As I’ve said a few times now, I have a whole career in which I make shit up. I spent hours a work day dreaming up conceits and bringing them to life. It’s not easy labor. When I write in my journal, I don’t want to have to play make-believe. It’s a relief to be able to write about real stuff that’s happened to me. I draw the people I meet as deftly and fairly as I can. I resurrect the chains of events and the dialogue that took place from my memory . . . which is a pretty good memory for everything except birthdays and remembering to pay my bills . . . and I fashion a self-contained essay about it. Sometimes, as with 3 Loads, 35 Minutes, I’ll illustrate it with the photos I took as it happened. My photographs, from my camera. I think I do a great job of remaining true to what took place. If one looks backs through the comments on entries, it’s possible to find a couple from people who actually know me in the flesh. I suppose the argument could be made that I might’ve created their profiles and blogs in order to sustain a grand illusion that I’m not a fake. But really? That sounds like an awful lot of work for a whole lot of nothing. I’m getting this all out of my system because I want to be able to type it once. Then, in the future when someone questions my very existence, I can point them to a single URL. (Because really, I’m lazy that way.) I write about sex because I think it’s something people do together that shows them at their best, their worst, and at various touching and humorous points in between. I write about the sex I have because I feel my perspective on human interaction is worth documenting. The encounters I write about are very real. And so am I. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve remarked before that I’m continually astonished by the kindness of my readers. When I first started posting my sex entries into a public blog, I made a pact with myself that there were certain things I’d never discuss. When I discussed one of them, long ways around, in an entry called “The Itch,” I had people reach out to me with such generosity of spirit that it made my head spin a little. That gave me the courage to write about something else I’d always been too embarrassed to share with anyone, the events of an entry called “A Very Bad Day.” My reader response to that one was so uniformly positive and supportive that it overwhelmed me for a few days. The entry got more comments than any other I’ve written, and more private email. I was really touched. But I didn’t quite finish the story, as a couple of you have pointed out in comments in emails. I left a little bit hanging, about an arrangement we had, after that day. It wasn’t anything dirty. Don’t get your hopes up, pervs. After the cops picked me up and took me home, dripping and stinking of sweat and semen, to tell my dad what I’d been up to in the park public restroom, I kept away for a few weeks from the park where I’d nearly been arrested. I laid off the sex altogether for a week. When I tiptoed back into it, for a while I frequented other spots that were more distant—the university where my parents worked, the downtown library, the riverfront parks, the park with the bell tower. It took a good month and a great deal of nerve to set foot in Bryan Park again. When I did, I always kept an eye on, and an ear out for, my surroundings. But it was summer, and my days were my own. It didn’t take me long to get back into the swing of things. And every time I’d head out to the patio and unlock my Raleigh five-speed, if my dad was home and around he’d stand out on the back porch. “Going for a bike ride?” he’d ask. “Yep,” I’d say, evasively. I’d tell him I was biking up to the drug store for an ice cream cone, or over to a friend’s house, or any destination in any direction save the one in which I was actually going. “Be careful,” he’d say, repeating the words he’d used on my first worst day of my life. Then he’d watch as I’d hop onto the bike and pedal off to have sex with strangers. Sometimes, to allay his fears, I’d return with a conspicuous souvenir of my alleged destination—a Nehi bottle from the soda machine next to the drugstore, or a couple of library books. I’d always have a good story about what happened at my friends’ houses . . . what we did, what their parents said, what they served me for lunch. My mom was fine with my chattering. My dad I’m sure didn’t buy a word of it, but he seemed at least grateful for me trying to soothe his worries. It was about two months after the incident, somewhere just before or after the school year had started up again, that my father approached me the first time to strike up a bargain. “Were you planning to stay out this afternoon?” he asked. I shrugged, and nodded. I had indeed intended to hit the park that day, as was my custom, and stay out until four or four-thirty. I made up some lie about visiting a friend until that time. “Why don’t you make it about five?” he asked. “And maybe you could, I don’t know, come back the back way. Through the alley.” Almost immediately I was confused. He wanted to stay out later than usual? And return through the rocky alley, rather than bike along the front walk the way I was used? My father swallowed and smoothly continued. “I had a few things I wanted to do on my own, and I told your mother I was taking you down to school later this afternoon. She doesn’t have to know everything we do. Right?” The words were another echo of that very bad day. I knew then what was happening. It wasn’t blackmail, by any means. If I’d said no, my father would still have kept secret what had happened that dark day. It was a pact, plain and simple. He would never tell about me. And he was asking that I didn’t tattle on him. “Okay,” I said, nodding. “Cool.” I went out whoring that afternoon and enjoyed the extra half hour. As requested, when I returned for dinner, I walked my bike down the alley. My dad’s car sat behind the neighbor’s garage. He sat inside, waiting, the radio softly playing. He started the ignition when I was close, and then eased into his usual parking spot behind our house at the same time I reached home. Once I’d set my bike on the kickstand, he opened the porch door for me and we entered the house together. My mom was home, and sitting at the table with a crossword. “There you two are,” she said, and then got up to start dinner. She had no idea that we hadn’t been together all afternoon. It was the first of many, many times that my father and I exercised our pact of silence. Once a week or so, usually on the days when I planned to play the longest, he’d ask if I was planning to be out for the afternoon. If I said yes, he’d say something like, “How about we both get back around five-thirty?” Then we’d go through the same routine. He’d wait behind the neighbor’s garage for me to return, and we’d enter the house together, alibis straight. Occasionally, though not often, I’d be the one waiting for him. He’d pull down the alley in a cloud of dust and hurry, and apologize before he’d hustle me into the house. I didn’t know what to make of the arrangement at first. I didn’t really think about it. I assumed he was shopping, or going to the movies, or hanging around with a friend, or driving around the city. It really wasn’t for a good half-year later, on the afternoon that I found a copy of Penthouse in my father’s home office and had spent an absorbed hour reading the forum section, that it really struck me that my father had a sex life of his own. One that was tucked away and hidden, like the magazine I’d ferreted out. It was a startling realization. Electrical, in fact. And it was from that day forward that I was fairly convinced that my father was carrying on some kind of affair, on the afternoons he had me stay out late. I didn’t have much evidence for it. He didn’t come back stinking of perfume, or covered with lipstick kisses, or sporting pairs of panties in his glove compartment. But I was savvy enough to see the signs. When I visited his department at the college, I kept running into some of the same young women, again and again. There was a student named Mandy, barely three or four years my senior, who always seemed to be occupying his office hours. Mandy turned into a Becki, another semester, and then was followed by an always-changing progression of fresh faces with names like Carrie or Margaret or Beth. All of them were pretty. All of them were pretty young. To this day I don’t feel very badly for the bargain I struck with my father. He and my mother were children of the sixties, I have to remind people. They were both pretty open when it came to sexuality, and I have no idea what kind of arrangement they might have between them. And on one level I really liked the intimacy of the arrangement, unspoken and un-talked-about as it was; after a day that was very precarious, in my teenaged years, it felt like a big safety net into which I was happy to fall. Every family has its mysteries, and its secrets. Mine is no exception. This one I’m content to leave unplumbed, to guess what I can guess, and to leave the remainder in the past. It’s a relic of hot Southern summers, and of restless afternoons. I’m happy to let the bargain lie quietly among them. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The attic of my parents’ home was an unfinished space that lay up a flight of stairs from my bedroom. In the winters, chilly air from outside blew in under the eaves and rendered it the chilliest place in the house. Summers, the sun baked the roof slates and turned the attic into a hotbox. My parents used the room for storing luggage, boxes of Christmas decorations, and old books. Even though the door to it sat in my bedroom, I rarely opened it growing up, except to toss my dirty clothes in the hamper just inside the bottom of the stairwell. Until one early summer day when I was ten, that is. I remember the day well, because it started with me being restless. I didn’t want to go outside. I didn’t want to ride my bike around the neighborhood. I just wanted to be alone. Like, really alone, away from everybody I knew. I didn’t want anyone to find me. I shut myself in my bedroom with the door closed and either played with toys or more likely read a book or something. But that wasn’t enough. My bedroom door was always sticky, due to not being fitted properly. It didn’t so much shut, as wedge itself firmly stuck and leave a large crack at points through which one could have slipped a small hand. That day, I needed privacy. After tossing and turning on my mattress for a while, or trying to get some solitude on the floor on the far side of my little single bed, I eventually turned the knob to the attic door. I pushed past the hamper and up the stairs, which were usually cluttered with objects that my parents meant to take up among the other storage boxes, but had a tendency to sit there for months and years before they remembered. I pulled shut the door behind me. Upstairs in the attic, the temperature had to be in the nineties. The air was still, hot, and stuffy. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. I sat on the top step and tried to read my book, but I was still restless. My eyes danced over the pages, but absorbed nothing. I don’t know what it was that called me upstairs that morning, but I knew that the attic was where I had to be. I was totally alone, and unobserved. No one knew where I was. I set down the book, and decided to explore. With my pants and shirt off. What motivated me to remove my clothes, I didn’t know either. I remember justifying to myself that it was hot up there, and that I’d be more comfortable naked. Perfectly logical, right? Even I knew that the attic was a splintery place where I could cut or jab myself with one wrong move, but for some reason, I really wanted to be naked, and alone. I was looking for something. I didn’t really understand for what. I picked through old books and wandered around, treading carefully so no one would hear my footsteps below. It was only after several minutes that I happened upon the guitar box. It was a simple scalene triangle of a box, made out of sturdy corrugated cardboard, which once held an acoustic guitar my parents had purchased with S&H Green Stamps. Something about the box appealed to me. I pulled it out and set it on its side, so that the longest side protruded up and away from me, like a ramp, and straddled it. At first I played as if I was riding the box like a horse. I sat down and held it tight between my legs, and rubbed my groin against the cardboard. The box’s edges dug into my thighs, but I kept going; it felt as if I’d found what I’d been searching for. My dick was hard, though I didn’t connect the erection with any of the feelings that I was experiencing at the moment. A hard-on was something that simply happened from time to time, and usually in the mornings. All I knew is that I wanted to push at the box with my midsection. I wanted to rub against it. Because the rubbing was making me feel good. Like I said, it was hot in the attic. Perspiration started to dot my brow. My nose was itchy and running from the dust in the attic, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be there with that box, humping and rutting against it. My knees were on the attic floorboards at this point, and my little body’s torso was lying on the upper half of the box, crushing it slightly, but I didn’t notice anything except for the increased beat of my heart and the glorious feelings in my middle. It felt like I tickled all over. It felt like I was waiting for Christmas, with a delicious anticipation I’d never felt before. I was both half-asleep and barely conscious of my surroundings as I humped and squeezed with mounting vigor. And yet I was supremely alive for what felt like the first time, feeling things I didn’t know my body could feel. My chest start to heave. I remember biting my lip and hissing. Then something happened. Heat seemed to course across my entire body, radiating out in waves. I shivered and shook. It felt like I was blooming like a flower, opening up petal after petal until I was laid wide and bare for the world to see. The flush seemed to last forever. It made me tingle all over, and quiver. For a long, long moment, I felt as if I dissolved away and became nothing, and the universe flowed in to take my place. I’d never felt so beautiful before, or so expansive. Or so scared. The wonderful feeling subsided. The universe ebbed away, leaving me in its place. I wondered if I’d died. Or come close to it. Once I’d recovered, I found myself standing up with shaking legs that were sore from so tightly clutching the box between them, wondering if maybe I’d experienced a heart attack. Or heat stroke. It had to do with the heat, of that I was convinced. I felt like I’d peed or something, but nothing had come out of my softening penis—not at that age. Suddenly I was aware of how naked I was. I rushed for my clothes, and put them back on, then grabbed my book and went back down the stairs. Once I was back in my room with the attic door shut behind me, I basked in the cool air and tried to breath again. Something momentous had happened, up above. I knew that for sure. I was aware the basic facts of life, but I knew nothing of what I’d just done, for the very first time in my life. I didn’t connect the feelings I’d had up above with my limp penis. I didn’t know if I replicate it again. Or if I even should. I spent an awful lot of time that summer finding out, though. More...

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To see Breeder's original blog post click here Usually when I write a sex entry, I tell myself I can’t take any more time to write than it took to have the sex. This entry might be a little difficult. After my restroom cruising on Monday I returned home and plopped down at my laptop to catch up on my email. Almost immediately I got a text message from the kid who’d stood me up so spectacularly on Sunday morning. I am so sorry about yesterday, he’d written. Let me make it up to you. I wasn’t in the mood for either apologies and I’d pretty much already put the kid on my three-strike-and-out list, when he started texting again. I am in your neighborhood with a buddy. We can both be butt up and blindfolded any time you say. Please please please come fuck us. You can take all the photos you want. Well. A man can only be so strong. I gave in and texted back, and we arranged for me to be at his buddy’s place, which was less than a mile and a half away, in twenty minutes. The house was a neatly-kept little bungalow on a quiet street near a school. I parked in front, entered through the side door, and locked the door behind me. Then I walked through the tidy kitchen and the immaculate living room, and into the bedroom, as I’d been instructed. Two boys in their twenties knelt on the mattress before me. The one who’d contacted me wore a leather blindfold. He was skinny, good-looking, and covered with tattoos, and sported piercings in his lip. His friend was taller; a vinyl hood obscured his entire head, leaving only his mouth exposed. The only thing I could tell about him was that he was nearly hairless, and that his hole was glistening with lube. I shut the door. I knelt on the bed and without a word, took both their heads in my hands and directed them to my crotch. Both of the boys went to town on the denim of my jeans, running their mouths over the length of hard dick underneath. My boy clawed at my top button and yanked down the zipper, then began sucking my dick through the cotton of my briefs. His friend with the hood pulled down my shorts and began licking at my butt cheeks. A moment later, I yanked off the pants and shorts and was sitting on the hooded boy’s face, letting me dive deep into my hole with his tongue while my boy sucked my dick. The sensations were incredible. Both of the kids were hungry and horny, and ate at me with a hunger that brought me close to orgasm several times. Too close. After a couple of minutes of that treatment I couldn’t stand it any more. “Time to fuck,” I growled. My boy immediately got onto his knees. I slapped some lube from a jar on the bureau onto his hole, and shoved myself in. I’d expected him to be much looser than he was; the little slut was tight as a boy half his age, and he gasped with every inch I worked in. Despite his initial resistance, it didn’t take me long to ease my way in to the base. “Oh god,” he yelled out. It was the first time I’d really heard his voice, and though it was effeminate, it was still pretty on the ears. “Yes. It’s been so long since I had a real man’s dick.” The hooded boy was lying on his back at the bed’s edge. I pulled out of my boy and dived into the hooded boy’s hole. It was looser and warmer, but he yelled louder when I went in. Almost immediately he pulled his legs up and back so that more of his butt was exposed. “Fuck,” he whispered, over and over. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.” For a couple of minutes I went back and forth between the two holes, taking my pleasure in one, then the other. I was close to shooting, though, so I plunged back in to my boy’s hole and held myself in him, not saying a word. “You’re coming,” he said almost immediately. “I can feel your dick throbbing. Oh fuck. You’re filling me up. Holy shit.” “Is he coming in you?” asked his friend. “Yes. He’s shooting it all . . . Fuck.” I hadn’t said much at all during those first fifteen minutes. For one thing, part of me was still pissed at the kid for standing me up the morning before. For another, I kind of liked the idea that the only feedback they were getting from me was the direction of my hands, the feel of my dick, or my mouth and tongue deep in their own mouths as we kissed. They could learn what they wanted from me from my breathing, or my grunts. “Sit on my dick,” I said now, though, instructing the hooded one to climb on my wet rod. My boy held his friend from behind as he slid his ass down onto my cock. He kissed at the hooded boy’s neck and ears and pinched his nipples, hard, as the boy began rising and lowering himself. Despite the fact I’d shot only a minute before, I was still raging hard and had a week’s worth of fucking to make up. “Yes,” I said, when the boy started moving himself in a way I found especially pleasing. “Like that. Just like that.” He responded to the direction quite well. While my boy continued twisting and torturing his nipples, the hooded kid shuddered and moaned as he rode my hard dick. “Just like that. Keep doing it. Keep doing it,” I said. For a couple of more minutes I sat upright, my legs splayed out, while the hooded guy did his work. Then, unable to hold it any more, I pulled him down by the fabric of his mask and crushed my mouth against his. The kid had a very thin, long dick—skinnier than any I’ve seen in some time. It erupted with cum all over my T-shirt as he shook and gasped. His mouth made helpless noises against mine. I didn’t last any longer than it took him to cum. I grabbed the kid by the shoulders and pushed him down. My second load was quieter than the first, but he knew it was happening. “Oh god,” he said, holding onto me for support. “Oh my god.” “Is he breeding you?” asked my boy, with the blindfold. His hands scrabbled for the place where my dick was inside his friend. “Oh fuck, he is,” he said. Cum was already leaking from the hole. My boy licked what he’d found off of his fingers. “Let me clean you off.” I found myself on my back, pushed down by two pairs of hands, as two mouths traveled down my torso. My boy licked what remained of his buddy’s load from my shirt, then pushed it up so that he could chomp on my nipples. The hooded boy sucked my dick, cleaning off the cum and juices from his ass. Then the blindfolded kid joined him, licking at my nuts and ass crack. I didn’t lose my hard-on at all. It was only a couple of minutes later that I found myself mounting my boy from behind, pushing him down into the mattress as I straddled his ass and thrust myself into his tight, tight hole. I honestly haven’t encountered a hole that tight on a guy of his years in a dog’s age. He groaned and panted and begged me to fuck him hard while I nailed his little ass into the bed. “Just do it,” he said, grunting. “I don’t give a fuck what you look like. I don’t care if I never see you. I just want another load. I want you to load me with that big dick. I’ve needed a real dick for so long and dude, you know how to give it to me.” “Shut up,” I told him. He stopped talking. I was close to shooting again, and his voice was distracting me. What put me over the third time was when the hooded guy started licking at my butthole again. The sensation of his sweet little mouth on my ass pushed me over the edge, and I thrashed forward, pinning the blindfolded kid to the sheets as I bred him. “Shit!” yelled the kid. “Shit!” Over and over he said the word while I lay on top of him, waiting for the fireworks to clear from my head. A minute later, I pulled out and stood up. My blindfolded boy rolled over, and exposed the load he’d shot onto the sheets. I wiped off with a towel on the bureau, grabbed the camera I’d brought, and pulled on my pants. “Gotta go,” I told them. I looked at the clock by the bed. Three loads, thirty-five minutes. “Yeah, my dad’s going to be home soon,” said the hooded guy. That only made me pull my shoes on all the more quickly. “Damn, that was hot.” “So hot,” agreed my boy. “Fucking hot.” They lay on their backs, hands on each other’s stomachs and chest, unseeing, when I left. My phone buzzed with a text message when I got back to my house. Hope I made up for everything, my boy had sent. He had. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When the mall first opened several years ago, the second floor restroom was a cruiser’s paradise. The architects had spared no expense in the elaborate and impressive men’s room. The floors and walls were of a dark black marble, polished and gleaming. The fixtures were expensive and state-of-the-art, for the time. And the facilities were tucked away in a quiet corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the crowds. What the architects hadn’t realized—or perhaps there was a cocksucker on the design team who indeed know and understand—was that they might as well have installed mirrors on every surface. If one was sitting on a toilet and someone else walked into a neighboring stall, all one had to do was lean over and look at the floor to watch the guy drop his pants. It was easy to tell every detail of what one’s neighbor wore, his general weight and height, and even how much hair he had on his sac. To get a good look at his features, or to stare at the dicks of the guys peeing at the urinals adjoining, one would lean back and peer at the wall behind the partition. If the guy was masturbating, you could tell immediately. And count the veins on his dick. Yes, the reflection that perfect, and pure. And it took about two years of constant cruising activity before the mall took some kind of abrasive to sections of the marble. These days, a few years after that, no longer can you peer at the urinals. It’s gotten harder (but not impossible) to see reflections behind the partitions. The floors are still nicely reflective, but several years of shoes scuffing them over has reduced their shine. It doesn’t matter. Men still haunt the place for sex, if you hit it at the right times. Monday was perhaps not one of those times. I knew it when I walked past the Starbucks and down the long hall to the remote men’s room. The mall had opened just a half hour before and didn’t have much traffic. It didn’t matter. I was just curious to see what was going on. I sat down in the middle stall and dropped my pants, and started to stroke. I’ve had so much sex in that restroom that it didn’t take long to get hard. I thought about the last time I was there, when I knelt down on the floor and felt a furry mouth wrap around my dick and lick over my nuts, only to find myself on the receiving end of a perfect blow job from a handsome daddy bear in one of the most expensive suits I’ve ever seen. I remembered the time I fucked a Brazilian guy cologned to the gills in the handicapped stall and afterward smelled like him for the better part of a week. I thought about the local newscaster I met there, then fucked in the more private restrooms in Nieman-Marcus before I started visiting him at his home. While I stroked and began to precum, I thought about the dozens of mouths and buttholes I’d been in over the last decade in those three stalls. Men walked in and out and peed at the urinals, but there was no action. Until, that is, the boy showed up. I saw him walk past the middle stall and enter the handicapped stall beyond. His reflection glinted in the marble as he crouched down and glanced beneath the partition at my legs. Then immediately he stood up again, exited the stall, and hovered outside my door. I could see his face through the crack. He was young, that much was apparent. If it hadn’t been a weekday in the middle of the school year, I would’ve pegged him as a high school kid. Very likely he was only a year or two past graduation. Despite the baseball cap that slouched at an angle over his forehead, I could tell he was a redhead by the trail of carefully-tended fuzz around the perimeter of his face. It didn’t cover his chinbone, the way it should; it was one of those amateur beards oversculpted by a hand that didn’t know what it was doing, extending down from his sideburns to run underneath his jaw, just above his Adam’s apple, to the other sideburn. It looked more like the scarlet ribbon chinstrap of a schoolmarm’s bonnet than real facial hair, but the kid was trying. He was watching me stroke through the crack, too. I didn’t bother to hide my erection. Why should I have? It was what he wanted to see. I leaned back on the toilet and displayed it proudly. I even put my feet together and spread my legs wider, to give him a good view. Back and forth his head bobbed, as he tried to look through the crack to get a better view. I decided to give him one. I reached out and opened the door and let it swing open. He stepped back at the sound, but remained in view. The kid wore one of those T-shirts so fashionable these days because they’ve had badly-printed Celtic crosses and illegible words in Germanic script stamped on them. He sported a pair of plaid boxers, with the waistband of his jeans pulled down low around his hips. I didn’t move toward him. I simply sat back again, let the stall door bang the inside of my left knee, and stroked. Gradually he relaxed. Though he kept his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, his fingertips reached out to stroke the denim beneath. After a few passes, I could see the outline of his growing cock. Precum was leaking from my dick like crazy; I dipped my finger in the tip, pulled out a pearl of it, and stick it into my mouth and licked my finger clean. “Fuck,” mumbled the boy. I decided to stand up then. The boy flinched like he’d been shot, or as if I’d lunged at him. He disappeared from the door and scampered over to the sinks, it sounded like. When I sat back down, though, he eventually made his way back over. All he wanted to do was watch. So for a couple of minutes more I let him. I grabbed my balls and pulled them down and out, then let them bounce back into place. I wrapped one fist around my shaft, then two, and let him see that there was still a good two or three inches protruding from the top. He was visibly excited by now. His fingertips danced over the bulge in his pants, but he didn’t unzip. The kid licked his lips unconsciously as he stared, mesmerized, at my dick. I’d just started some backhanded stroking when the men’s room door opened. I eased my door shut, then very quietly pulled the bolt; the kid shot over to the urinals, where he flushed and pretended to be zipping up. I heard the sound of the intruder peeing at the other urinal, so I stood up, tucked my raging hard-on into my jeans, zipped, washed my hands, and exited. I’d had my fun. I didn’t want to stick around long enough to be a loiterer. The kid was gone—it was a damned shame, too, because I would’ve put on a great show for him all the way to the finale. He’d been a cute little piece, too, and I’d enjoyed the fascinated, absorbed expression on his face the entire time he’d watched me. Living porn, that’s what I’d been. Even though I hadn’t gotten off, I didn’t mind in the least. More...

Hey thanks, sub. I'm grateful for every offer. (And I'm glad I checked the mirrored post here!)

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don't know what's been up this last week. I haven't had either a chance to play, or a partner to play with, since Scruffy last Monday. That's a whole week without fucking, people. That's like, the equivalent of ten months in horndog years. Sunday morning I woke up early with the knowledge that I had until noon to play around. Almost immediately I was hit up online by a twink who's been chasing me hard for the last month. He's had one of those fantasies in which he's blindfolded and waiting ass-up in a dark room, and wanted me to come in and find him and take care of his young butt; the problem we've had was of finding a time we were both free. Yesterday seemed to be that time. He was horny and ready, he told me. I could leave my place at eight and be there at eight-thirty. Awesome, dude, he replied. Call or text me and I'll give you directions. Then he signed out. I texted, and got into the shower. When I got out, there was no response. I called. No response. He'd signed off his profile, on the website where we'd connected. I knew I had the phone number right, because he'd given it to me before. So after an hour I wrote the little fucker off. I'd already lined up another guy who seemed eager to meet, a hairy, beefy stud of a man who lived across town and sported a body covered with ink—something I find very sexy. I liked the fact that his chat was direct and to-the-point, and that we went from greeting each other to him inviting me over to fuck him within the space of a couple of minutes. I gave him my phone number. I'm going to log out and hop in the shower, he told me. I'll call you with directions when I get out. Great, I messaged back. He logged out. And of course I never heard from the guy again. By the time I manage to arrange a third hookup, even I wasn't expecting the guy to show. After waiting about forty-five minutes from the point he said he was out the door, I realized he wasn't going to. I don't know what led to my bad luck, yesterday. Maybe it was Mother's Day. Maybe it was the cold weather, or the state of the moon. Maybe I just had the stink of bad sexual mojo about me. I whacked off, and then spent from noon until midnight away from the house, without a computer. Which is really my long-winded way of saying that I didn't get a chance to write an entry for today. I hereby hope that in recompense, you, the readers, will accept from me, the blogger, these two photos of my goofy grin: And that maybe one of you will sex me up today. For real. Ten months! (In horndog years!) More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's time to catch up with some of the questions I've answered at formspring.me.If you have questions you'd like to ask me in an anonymous fashion, this site's the place to do it. What is your ideal number of sexual interactions in week - assuming you have an ideal? Fucking daily is pretty much my goal. More than that is icing on the cake. If you were at a sex party and you were fucking some hot boy, and some guy went around you and stuck his dick in you, would you a) tell him to fuck off tell him to fuck you harder or c) sit back and enjoy both worlds? If a guy had enough nerve to slide in me while I was fucking and enough skill to make me enjoy it, I'd tell him to fuck me harder and I'd keep fucking the boy. I like letting stuff happen organically in those situations. How long can you stay hard? A very long time. The longest I've fucked a guy before I shot my first load was just over 90 minutes; the longest session I've had before deflating, lately, was something like 3 1/2 hours. And that was because the bottom wore out before I did. No, I don't use little blue pills. They give me a pounding headache. Have you ever done anything or used anything to try and make your cock longer or thicker? (Not that you need too, just curious) I've been curious to try a cock pump just to see what it feels like, though not for the extra thickness. A juicy butt is what makes my dick the longest and thickest. How often does a guy cum while you're fucking him (without doing a hand job on himself)? It's often enough that I no longer am surprised when it happens, but not so often that I'm anything less than amazed when it does. There are some guys I see regularly who shoot without touching (or being touched) just about every time. How long has it been since a guy banged a load into your waiting ass? Six or seven years. How big does a guy have to be before you have problems entering? I had to read the question a few times before I got it. A lot of the size issue is a mental game. I've seen guys with hungry holes take a huge dick just as easily as a tiny one. A guy who's resistant to being fucked is going to have just as much of a problem with a monster dick as he is with a monster rod or a very tiny one. If a guy looks at a cock and thinks, "I can't take that," very likely he won't be able to, or it'll be a misery for everyone. If he looks at a dick and approaches it with a sense of fun and desire, that dick will go in. I have a friend with an 11" dick (he's in a different state, sadly) whom I've seen open up some very tight holes that have been horny to have fun with him. The ones who get scared of the sight, though, usually clench too much to be opened. Have you ever engaged in sexual acts in a semi-public place such as a car, locker room, public park, etc. (anywhere there was great risk of being discovered) I've done cars, parking lots, alleys, locker rooms, gym showers, gym saunas, gym steam rooms, public stairwells, public parks, public restrooms, mall restrooms, supermarket restrooms, adult bookstores, mainstream bookstores, churches, priest's offices, my old office, other people's offices, libraries, the lobby of a college frat house, florist shops, housewares shops, rest stops, truck stops, public parks, national parks, state parks, and after hours in a day care center. So yes. Which position works best for you? I like all positions, to be honest. My favorites involve the guy on all fours or on his stomach. I also very much like to spoon with a guy on our sides and fuck him. Guys who sit on me and milk out a load will get bonus points and a gold star. I enjoy fucking a guy on his back, but I don't get in as deeply that way unless he's in a sling. Have you ever had sex with the delivery boy? the Fed Ex/UPS guy? the postman? the plumber/carpenter/handyman? I seem to have seen this question on a lot of peoples' pages. Delivery boy: no. Fed Ex/UPS guy: Yes, but off-duty. Plumber/carpenter/handyman: Yes, but I was fucking him before I hired him, and this is where I learned not to fuck the help. Have you ever been a sperm donor? In a literal sense? Yes. I used to donate sperm and blood regularly when I was in graduate school because I needed the cash. And also because the agency liked my well-bred, well-educated sperm. Metaphorically I've donated as well. I impregnated the wife of a couple with whom I was friends, at their request. The husband was infertile and they didn't want to go through the standard sperm donor process. I also am fairly certain that another married couple I used to play with were seeing me so that they could have a free sperm donor as well; they stopped playing with me when she got pregnant--and I'm fairly certain it was from me. If you're married with children, how do you manage to have so much time to devote to fucking men, and then writing about it? I am a creative artist. I do not work in an office; I do not report to a boss. I can set my own schedule and work at home when I please. I manage my own deadlines and work for no one but myself and the people to whom I deliver finished product. Thus my schedule is pretty much my own. I could sleep until noon and work from ten at night until three in the morning if I chose. (I usually don't. I get up and work early so I can do what I like the rest of the day.) I make money from what I love doing. The trade-off, of course, is that minimum wage worker would snicker at my income. I'm highly disciplined, however, and have a set portion of the day in which I accomplish my daily tasks. I have a portion of the daily in which I work on my journal. I have a spouse who is away a good portion of the day, and a kid who's old enough to take care of himself if I'm out. If I have a chunk of free time in a day I want to spend fucking, I can. If I want to spend my journal-writing hour writing about it, I do. Are there any requests that you've had made to you that were simply too silly to follow through on? Anything you couldn't do with a straight face? by Tat2dgy Some of the stuff guys ask me to do leaves me a little bewildered sometimes. For example, the first time someone wanted me to help them in an adult infant scene (which is essentially a big man soiling himself in diapers), I was so so overcome by the absurdity of it that I had to leave. There are a few things I've refused to do because they were absurd. I had to turn down one guy who got sexually excited by popping balloons, and I turn down crossdressers because I don't think I can be sympathetic to their sexual needs. Although I'm fairly used to race-abuse play requests black and latin men, I once turned down a request to treat one guy like a filthy Jew because I didn't want to wear the Nazi outfit he'd assembled. What would you do if your son was being curious and came across your blog? I would hope he'd wipe off the screen. Bad joke. I think the likelihood of it happening is small. However if it did happen, the message I'd hope he'd get is that sex is something to be celebrated and honored, no matter what the deed. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In honor of hitting my hundredth follower yesterday, this morning I'm posting a photo of myself in action. That bearded face is mine, if you wonder. What'll happen when I hit 200 followers? I'll have to find something to top this, won't I? More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Whenever I create an online profile at a hookup site, I’m always cautious to warn guys that I don’t fit into any of the traditional gay types. I might be lean, but I’m not muscled enough to fit the ideal of athletic. I’m forty-six, but not silver-haired enough and too young-looking to fit most people’s idea of daddy. I’m not a twink, I’m not a partier, not a leather man, not a cowboy, not an Indian or construction worker. I’m bearded, but too skinny and hairless otherwise for most bears to go for me, much as I love them. I’m fine with falling between the cracks when it comes to type, though often it feels as if I’m apologizing to guys when they contact me. I’m not built like you, I feel obliged to warn the muscular guys with the model-quality bodies. Or, You’ve seen my face pics, right? I’ll ask the beautiful. When the bears start to grrrr and woof! at me, I feel as if I need to warn them that my body’s pink and smooth beneath the clothing. Everyone wants what they want. I get that. But it’s always seemed to me as if the guys who categorize men into types don’t want those of us who ooze outside the clear coloring lines. Men who invest a lot of time and money into A&F shirts and baseball caps don’t usually seem to want someone who scorns the logos. Leathermen don’t often want to pick up someone who doesn’t own any gear. Bears, for all their talk about being dismissive of traditional gay stereotypes, have become a traditional gay stereotype who tend to ignore guys who don’t look like carbon copies of the burly bear blueprint. It’s always seemed to me that a lot of men want men who are exactly like themselves, only two degrees hotter. And it’s for that reason that I spend too much time online warning guys what I’m not. Of course there are plenty of men who will go to great lengths to explain in their profiles what they don’t want. No fats. No fems. No one over 30, over 35, over 40. 35+ ONLY. No one old enuf 2 b my dad lol. You must be fit. No one over 200 pounds. No blacks (sorry it’s just a preference). Brothas only no whites!!! No poz. Poz only! I have standards! One of my biggest pet peeves with the gentlemen who structure their profiles so that they read like a list of prohibitions is one that I, as a type-defying sort, run across pretty often. I’ll receive an email from a kid who’s written that he is interest in men under 35 ONLY, fit ONLY, and who lists himself as a top. Cum fuck me lol! he'll say. Or I’ll be on Adam4Adam and get an email from a black guy who says, pretty explicitly, that under no circumstances is he interested in being with a white man. Every time I write back and point out that I don’t fit their criterion. I always get the same response: I’m willing to make an exception. And every time I do, my own reaction is the same: Well thank you very goddamned much, but don’t do me any favors. People, if you’re going going to devote so much energy in your online profile to excluding guys, don’t be surprised when they react badly to suddenly being propositioned. What you’re telling me, essentially, is that none of the men meeting your rigid standards are online or want to hook up with you, and that out of boredom or horniness, you’ve decided that I’ll do. I really don’t want to be anyone’s exception any more than I want to be anyone’s pity fuck. For one thing, I don’t have to be either. I’m not desperate, or unattractive, or in need of pity. I do just fine, thanks. If you want to have sex with me, don’t do it with the proviso of you’re not my type, but. . . . or I’m going outside my usual restrictions for you. I’m not going to feel grateful. I’m not even going to take you up on the grudging offer. I’m simply going to say, Thanks, but I see you’re not into guys my age [or height, or weight, or color, or whatever]. Good luck finding what you want. And then I’ll never reply to you again. I know, it’s kind of harsh. I could be missing out on some good times. But at the same time, I enjoy having sex with men who are really there, who are in the moment and enjoying themselves. I’m not likely to get that with someone who is lying there thinking, Jeez, I wish this guy were under 30. Or, I’d surely rather be naked with someone who looked different from you. I don't want to be with someone who's slumming. That might not be what the guy thought to himself as we romped, certainly. But it would be what I’d be projecting on him, and that’d be enough to yank me out of it. You like what you like. As I said, I get that. I don’t expect all guys to like me. Just want me for what I am, that’s all I ask. Don’t make me your exception. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I wrote yesterday of taking some video footage with my phone of fucking Scruffy. Here's the video (and here's a link to it at XTube). Enjoy! More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When Scruffy bounced through my back door Monday afternoon, he sported a short beard like mine. “Well hel-lo!” I said, looking him up and down. “You look adorable.” He flushed, and his hands immediately went to his face. “I haven’t shaved in a while.” “I like it a lot. It suits you.” I pushed him against the wall, and grabbed his T-shirt with both fists. The legend written on it, If I throw this stick will you run away?, crumpled between my fingers as his back hit the plaster with a thud. “I’ve missed seeing you.” “I missed you too,” he said, with his lids half-closed. Then I pressed my lips to his, and for long moments we kissed. “I’ve missed you so much.” I took him upstairs, and laid him on the bed, and made out with him some more. I love the way Scruffy kisses. His eyes close, his head thrusts forward, and his lips grab hungrily for whatever they can—my lips, my tongue, the hair on my chin. It’s as if he wants to devour me, one greedy slurp at a time. My mouth can be hungry too. “I am going to make you feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. I kissed down the line of his furry jaw, across his neck, and down to his nipples, poking out from beneath his upraised shirt. Like the rest of him, they’re pink and sensitive, so when I nipped at them with my front teeth, he would hiss and groan. Once I had his body writhing, I dragged my own hairy jaw down the inside of his rib cage to his soft stomach, his navel, his hip bone. “Was there a memo?” I asked, as I pulled down his camouflage cargo shorts. I was wearing a similar pair. And like me, he wore black underwear and a green T-shirt. He laughed, but didn’t respond, because my nose nudged his pretty pink dick and his smooth, shaved nuts. I sucked him to hardness while he propped himself on his elbows and watched. A smirk covered his lips. Off came the shorts, and then the briefs. I forced him onto his back when I pushed his legs into the air to expose his pretty boy butthole. I’d seen a slick move in a Dan Fisk movie in which my favorite top had grabbed his bottom around the middle, stood up straight, and rimmed the boy in a standing position while the kid hung suspended upside down and propped on his shoulders. This seemed just as good a place as any to try it; Scruffy yelped when I hauled him up and into the air and buried my mouth between his cheeks. He stared up at me as I watched him, over the top of his hanging sac and stiff dick. With every slurp or bite he twitched and thrashed around. I’d been at it for about five minutes when at last he gasped out, “I can’t—my neck.” That was fine. I could make him jerk and shudder the old-fashioned way, too. Once he was face-down and in the pillows, I stretched his butt cheeks apart as far as they’d go, slapping them until they turned a bright cherry red while I continued munching on and spitting in his hole. I held his fat cock in my hand and milked it while I worked. Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer. “Your turn,” he said, and flipped me onto my back. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing at that point, so he undid my cargo shorts and pulled off my trunks and threw them across the room. Then he did that thing he does to my nuts. I don’t know how to describe the technique he uses on my balls. He lies down between my legs and takes them both into his mouth at the same time. Then he fellates them. Back and forth his mouth goes, in and out, in almost the same manner as if he was working up and down my cock’s shaft. He never lets my balls pop out, but the sensation of his tongue and lips and teeth around them, and the rhythmic stretching of my sac always drives me nuts. It feels like edging during masturbation; there’s a low-level feeling of ecstasy that plays around the base of my spine that widens and narrows, and the softest of tickles at the back of my neck. I feel as if I’m close to orgasm, or even having it, but it’s the most gentle and sweet of orgasms ever, and lasts for so much longer. Whenever Scruffy goes for my balls and nuzzles them in his mouth, I know I’m in for a good fifteen or twenty minutes of grabbing at the the headboard and hanging on for dear life. “I don’t know how the hell you do that,” I told him, once he was done. I was actually sweating, despite the ceiling fan. I’d shut the windows before he’d come over. “I like making you feel good,” he said. “Now fuck me.” I obliged. I’ve never shot less than three times on any of Scruffy’s visits. He always milks out the first load expertly, demanding that I shoot in him to juice him up. Then, once my first set of shudders and quiverings subside, he’s relentlessly squeezing and nursing my dick with his hole to keep me hard and interested. “I love your cum,” he told me yesterday, while I was working up load number two. He reached down to the point where we connected, which was slick with my first sperm deposit. His fingers swiped some of the excess from his hole, and he sucked it off. “Whenever you’re in me, it feels like home.” “You feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. We were lying on our sides, and I had my arms around him while I swiveled and ground my hips. “I want to be home for you, too, daddy,” he said. Scruffy is a sensual boy. He responds to every stroke of my fingertips, every lick, every swipe of my beard. When I ran the flat of my palm down his side, his skin shivered and erupted in gooseflesh. “You are home,” I assured him. “You are a beautiful boy, and every time I’m inside you, I am home.” “I want to keep doing this forever and ever,” he said. His hand was working over his dick, which was wet with precum and the juices he kept slapping on from our fucking. “Please say you’ll keep seeing me.” “Of course I will!” I said, surprised that he’d even say such a thing. “I love seeing you. You know that!” “I just worry you’ll find another boy you like better. I want to be your boy.” I couldn’t answer that one, right away. At last I said, quite honestly, “I’m here. I’m in you. It’s just you and me, and every time I shoot inside you, you’re more and more my boy.” “Yes,” he said, groaning. I was saying exactly what he wanted to hear. “Every time you take my sperm, you’re more and more clearly marked as mine. All mine.” “Daddy’s boy,” he whispered. “Daddy’s boy,” I agreed. When he came, it was softly and almost as if he didn’t realize it was happening. Sperm gushed from the slit of his dick and spread over his abdomen and dripped onto the bed. The warm gush of it covered the back of my hand and turned me on so much that I followed shortly after, shooting a second load deep inside. For my third time I fucked him on his back. “I wish I had pictures of this,” he said. “Or a video. Just so I could see what it looked like.” Though I didn’t stop fucking, I held up a finger. “Just a second.” I leaned back and grabbed my phone from the table nearby, without pulling out. While I continued stroking in and out, I turned on the video capture, let it run for a minute, and then replayed it. “Too dark,” I said, handing the phone over so he could see the results. “Still hot,” he murmured, licking his fingers and then reaching down to his swollen hole. I pulled on the ceiling fan light and tried again. This time, the video was more cooperative. You could see my wet dick going in and out, and my red cock head pausing right before every thrust. I filmed for a while, then handed over the video again. “Oh god,” he groaned. The sight of his own hole being fucked made him tighten up and clench at me. His excitement contributed to my excitement. Soon I was pumping load number three deep into his guts. “Every time,” he yelled at top volume, thrashing around even as my own orgasm subsided. This is why I’d closed the windows before he’d arrived. When he’s excited, Scruffy is a loud, loud boy. “You do this every god-damned time! How do you fuck out so many loads? I’ve gotta—!” What he had to do was throw me down onto the bed, where he buried his face between my butt cheeks. Scruffy likes to eat my ass as he shoots. It didn’t take him long before he was grunting and buckling. He shoved me down onto the bed and brought his cock to my mouth just as it started to explode. I reached forward with my lips and greedily sucked down the cum, every drop. “So good,” he said, lying back afterward, panting. Then he started laughing. Outright laughter, deep belly rumbles, as if he’d just heard the funniest fart joke in the world. I sat upright. “What?” I asked, genuinely curious. I couldn’t help but laugh too, though I didn’t feel like I knew why. “Just—I’m just so happy right this minute,” he said. “Laughing seems like the right thing to do.” He was right. Laughing seemed perfect for that moment. So I lay there with him and laughed, just happy to be well and alive and enjoying his company. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After the Thursday Morning Questions entry I posted to appear while I was on the road last week, one of my readers, Mark, had a question. About a decade ago I was teaching part-time at a local university and managed to get roped into some committee work. I grumbled and griped about the extra assignment because I don’t think any of the other part-timers had been asked to do that kind of crap. I didn’t really protest, though, because the committee was primarily social and one of the perks was getting tickets to a lot of free stuff. And free stuff is, you know. Free stuff. Even if it is the university theater department’s stultifying retelling of As You Like It in Vietnam War drag. There were a few more committee members—a graduate student who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, a professor of linguistics who was supposed to be the committee’s chair, and two female faculty who really ran the show and talked so much that all I needed to do was show up and work sudoku puzzles at the table’s far end. Our typical meeting went a little something like this: the two female faculty members would enter the room together when the big hand was on the twelve, talking about some change in departmental policy that was totally and absolutely outrageous and not to be borne. It was a conversation that would continue until the big hand was on the three. At that point the linguistics professor would stare at them over his wire-rimmed glasses, adjust the bow tie that was his trademark (and a gimmicky trademark I always thought it was), clear his throat, and suggest that we get the meeting back on track. Then he’d slump back defeated in his chair when neither the grad student nor I would look up from our (free) muffins and our sudoku and magazine, and let the women keep talking. Eventually the hour would be up, and the graduate student and I would grab our free stuff and vamoose, leaving little clouds of dust where we sat, much like the Warner Bros. Roadrunner, minus the “beep-beep!” I felt a little sorry for the linguistics professor because he was having to do all the committee work by himself. Yet I wasn’t so sorry that I, you know, volunteered to help or anything. When my service period ended, our relationship chilled a little bit. I hadn’t been his ally (or let’s face it, all that helpful) on the committee, I didn’t have an interest in linguistics, and I wasn’t impressed with the professor’s reliance on his quirky little glasses and that stupid bow tie to remain relevant to the students. When we’d pass in the hall, we’d nod. In the parlance of drag queens, neither of us was quite ready to cut a bitch, but the atmosphere was definitely severe up in here, if you know what I mean. Cut to about six months after I’d taken my last free ticket to a student-run experimental set of dramatic monologues based on the weaving of the Bayeaux Tapestry. I was on one of the online sex sites—Men4SexNow.com, I think it was—when I got email from someone with a pretty hot profile. The guy was in his late thirties and had a tight, muscular body, visible in the photos only from the neck down. His dick was an average size, but his butt was round and beautiful. My photos were of my cock and of a few fuck shots, as this was back in the days when I didn’t have my face exposed all over my profiles as I do now. He asked if I wanted to come over and find him naked in bed ready to be fucked. I replied that I would be at his place in twenty minutes. The guy lived in a nice home in one of the city’s better suburbs. I parked my car in his drive, walked through the open front door, found the way upstairs, and walked into his bedroom. “You ready to get fucked, stud?” I said, kicking off my shoes and dropping my jacket onto the floor. “I sure am,” said the guy, rolling over. And of course it was the linguistics professor. There was a long, terrible, breathless moment after we recognized each other and didn’t know quite what to do. He was totally naked save for a pair of socks. I had my shirt half-open and my fingers clutched one of the lower buttons. “I didn’t realize it was you,” he stammered. Well, no shit. Because I know if he had, he would’ve blocked me on the website or something. And if I’d been aware of his identity, I would never have come over. I would’ve simply saved the pictures for blackmail purposes and gone on to the next bottom. (I’m kidding. But I would’ve saved the photos to snicker at.) I knew I had a choice to make at that moment. I could play it off and exit gracefully. I could sigh and be disdainful and stalk out in silence and cut him in the halls next time I saw him. Or I could do what I ended up doing, because my life motto is pretty much to always take the piggiest choice. Plus, he still had a hard-on. “And I didn’t realize you were Clark Kent,” I told him. The joke went over like a lead Frisbee. “What?” he asked. “Glasses,” I said, pointing to the spectacles on his bedside table. Then I made vague motions to the area of my neck. “Bow tie. Phone booth.” “Oh." He blinked. We were at something of an impasse. I decided to cut to the chase. “Hot dick!” “Lemmeseeyours!” he sputtered without hesitation. And that was how, a couple of minutes later, I had the university's premiere tenured linguistics professor up on his knees with his butt on my face. We had sex maybe for a total of seven or eight times over the space of four months, and then kind of stopped. After that we were fairly good buddies, though. We had lunch together on a weekly basis for a very long time, did some more committee work together (in which I actually participated), and got to be pretty good friends. He had a taste for the college boys and would actually steer some of the more bottom-y prospects my way, while I pointed out a few more dominant personalities out to him. We would compare notes and assign informal grades on extracurricular subjects. It was a good working relationship. But I still never got the bow tie thing. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I watch him sleep, but he doesn’t know it. Several times I’ve woken during the night, bewildered by the pale light diffusing through the plastic blinds. My week at my dad’s house hasn’t helped my confusion. Each time I rouse asking myself the same questions: Am I in my bed at home? Or in the first house I bought? Or is this my father’s home and my old bedroom? Who's this beside me? The false dawn is from a streetlight on a strange avenue. I’m in a state I’ve never before visited, naked in a stranger’s bed. My lover is a reader of my blog, who reached out to offer the comforts of his body on my drive home from Virginia. And every time I make the same startled realization, I become aware of that body beside my own, curled into a naked, white comma. His soft breathing is like a sleeping cat’s. It comforts me, and I sink back beside him, happy again to drown in the dark beneath the windowsill. But now it really is after dawn. The weakest of sunlights has transformed the room’s shadows into actual objects: my sweatshirt and pants on the ground, crumpled where they fell. My knapsack in the corner, not touched since I dropped it there on my arrival. Books in shiny library wrappers on the shelves beside the bed, their titles nearly legible in the room’s blue-grey haze. A clock-radio on the floor, with its cord trailing to an outlet impossibly far away. He’s lying there on his right side. His chest rises and falls gently. So deeply is he asleep that he doesn’t notice me separating our sticky bodies. I rest my head on my right hand, and watch him. We’ve been sharing a pair of quilts all night, huddling beneath them for warmth like boys on a sleepover. I’d meant to ask the night before who in his life had taken the time to sew the little patches together with such careful stitches, but other things had taken precedence. Sometime in the previous hour he’d shed the quilts so that they covered only his pajamaed legs. His naked chest is a slender reed, pale and soft in the light creeping through the room. It’s hairless, save for his nipples, from which dark hairs hang like Spanish moss. His hair, wavy and thick but soft to the touch, lies in messy curls. His upper lip is clean-shaven, but a painter’s stroke of a beard covers his jawline, broad and dark. A knot of gray hairs interrupts that bold brush mark; they’re the same pale gray as the circlet of gray above his left temple. The evening before, when I’d pulled into the parking lot of his building and had seen him standing there at the back door, waiting and anxious for my arrival, I’d noticed that clump of gray. That and his wide, hazel eyes had put me in mind of a tufted owl—alert and watchful. Through closed lids those eyes now dart back and forth, pursuing something in his dreams. He’s so deeply asleep that he doesn’t notice when I brush the curls away from his forehead to take a good look at the disfigurement they conceal. There’s an ugly zigzag of a cut there, a Harry Potter blemish that’s still scabbed and angry. Every time I’ve seen that scar I’ve wanted to pull him close to me, to hold him until both it and his memories of it vanish. There’s something about his face, his fetal position, his vulnerability that makes me want to rescue him, to whisk him away from all the world’s dangers. But I am no white knight, and he is no damsel in distress. He’s simply warm, and sleeping, and so very pretty, and trustful enough to dream while he lies in my arms. He shifts again, spooning closer. His lips curve into the slightest of smiles as his cool back makes contact with the warmth of my stomach. “Hi,” he murmurs, his eyes opening to slits. With a sigh that sounds contented, he writhes backward until he’s completely snuggled against me. “Hi,” I whisper. Once again I brush away his messy curls from his face. “How’d you sleep?” His answer is unintelligible. It doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in the way his round ass is pushing against my groin. I don’t even realize how rigid I’ve been until he grinds against my hardness, up and down, up and down, sliding his crack against my cock. I reach down and rub my hand over the softness of his stomach. His hipbone digs against my forearm as I wrap my fingers around his penis. It’s like stone in my hand, made hot by baking in the sun. His neck cranes as he turns his head over his shoulder to plant a soft kiss on my lips. Though I’m worried about my breath, I return the gesture. My hand dives lower; the elastic of his waistband slips down beneath his balls. His naked, furry butt grinds against me more insistently, and then he’s grabbing my dick and rubbing the head against his hole. I want to be inside him, like I was the night before, but I hesitate. “You don’t have to do that,” I protest. When we'd fucked before we'd fallen asleep, he was so unused to a cock of my size that I’d hurt him. I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t even known, until he’d told me afterward, that he’d bled a little. “I want to,” he murmurs. “I want us to.” Before I know it, he’s put me on my back. He’s gripping my dick so tightly that he seems to be hanging on for dear life. His hole is so tight, so resistant. But then I’m in, just an inch. Then two. “Oh,” I breathe softly, as he stares at me with those big, hazel eyes. I slip in deeper. “Oh. Oh, oh.” He’s in pain again, I can tell. His legs shake as he slides up and down. He wants to please me, though, I can tell. I’ve traveled hundreds of miles out of my way for him, and he’s determined to make me remember and not regret my impulsiveness. “Lie down on your stomach,” I urge, more worried for him than anxious for anything I might desire. “Like you did last night. Just promise to tell me if I hurt you.” His ass is beautiful as it turns itself up in the air. I spit on my dick to make it slicker and slide in. Soon I’m up to the base, and he groans with pleasure. I wrap my arms around his chest. Our fingers entwine as he grabs at them while I begin to stroke in and out. He’s tight like a boy, or like a warm, wet vise. It isn’t long before he speaks up, sounding nervous and worried. “Can you come quickly?” he frets, sounding apologetic. I can tell he’s on the edge of his endurance. Usually I can’t shoot on command, but I want to give him what he plainly desires. I’m already turned on to the point that my skin is tingling and the base of my cock prickles with heat. The sensations of his hairy hole surrounding my cock are pulling me closer and closer with every thrust. I want to fill him up. Then he murmurs three words guaranteed to make me fill him, as he stares at me over his shoulder, his head pressed against the pillows. The words work. My breathing halts, and I hear myself groaning as I shove myself deep. My dick throbs, seizes, and before I can say anything, I’m delivering deep inside the load he so badly wants. “I can feel it,” he whispers, wonder filling his voice. “Oh, I can feel it.” I pause for a moment, and pull out before he’s in too much pain. Then I hold him in my arms and wish away the hurts. “If you blog about this,” he tells me at one point, “I don’t want you hold back. Don’t be anything but yourself.” He’s serious, but as he speaks I can't really hear the words he’s saying. All I can think is how adorable I find his sweet face. How pretty he looks. How I wish I could stay with him for days, weeks, or longer. I’ve a long road home ahead, though, and I can’t remain. Even though I want to. “Don't change anything just because you know I'll be reading. Say what you want to say.” All right, then. Here’s what I want to say: I loved the night I spent with you in that untidy bedroom on that strange avenue in a state I've never visited before. I loved the smell of you, the peanut-butter taste of you, your hungry kisses, and the affection and kindness you lavished upon me. But the sweetest part of all was when you were at your quietest and most unguarded. I’m honored to have watched you while you slept—though at the time you didn’t know it. But once you read this entry, you will. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of my blog readers asked, on formspring.me, the following: am I correct in assuming (a) that your father is still unaware that you’re a whore & ( that you’re still not out to him? It’s one of those yes or no: do you still beat your wife? questions with which it’s impossible to win, so let me just say this about that. If having an actual sex life instead of masturbating to internet porn makes me a whore, then yes, I’m a total whore. Thank you for noticing! The assumption is not correct, though. My father is forever tied up in the events of the first of the really bad things that have happened to me over the years that I tend to call The Six Worst Days Of My Life. And the first really bad day of my life went a little something like this. I led an elaborate double-life in my teens. To my family I was the perfect child. I got straight As in school and eventually graduated as valedictorian. I excelled on my SATs. I played multiple musical instruments, participated in band and choir, did every extra credit assignment, and participated in every extracurricular activity I could in order to plump out my college resume. I played tennis and lacrosse and swam competitively. And yet from middle school on, I was sucking dick and getting fucked in restrooms and parks across the city every chance I got. I’d tell my parents I was going to the public library to study, and I’d spend hours in the basement there, hunkered down on the floor feeding on dicks beneath the stall. I’d travel with my mom or dad to their university offices, ostensibly to research one of those extra-credit projects in the library, but mostly so I could research how much cum I could take through the second-floor men’s restroom gloryhole. In good weather the long, healthy bike rides I’d take in the great outdoors instead of staying inside and watching TV like my contemporaries, were more likely than not to end up in one of the local parks or along the riverfront cruising spots, where I’d lock up the bike and spend hours pedaling the air while guys held up my legs and fucked me. I was adept at juggling the two lives. I’d get all my schoolwork done during classes and lunch, so that once my extracurriculars were taken care of, my free time and weekends could be devoted to sex chasing. My parents both worked full time and at odd hours, so I looked after myself. For my purposes, it worked out well. I planned to spend the summer of my fifteenth year as I’d spent the previous three—cruising for dick and perhaps scoring some quick cash in my favorite cruising spots. I’d wake up early in the mornings, hang around the house and read or watch television until eleven, and then hop on my bike and spend the day in the parks, not returning until around seven for dinnertime. Sometimes I’d head out again after that. Most days I’d head to Bryan Park, a spot perhaps a mile from my parents’ house known for its spectacular banks of colorful azaleas in the spring. The front half of the park was where the rednecks parked their trucks and drank beer in the picnic shelters; the back half was where the cruisers drove endlessly up and down the road or walked trails where one might spy naked bodies fucking in wooded, out-of-the-way places. The two demographics rarely overlapped. Though I liked it, when they did. And they did to a certain extent, that Bad Day. Usually I liked positioning myself down by the duck pond near the entrance to the park’s cruisy drive. From a spot beneath a tree where I pretended to read, I could scan the men driving in to the park, pick out the ones I liked and played with before or the new guys who looked hot, and either let them pick me up and take me somewhere to play, or trail behind them so I could lean in their car window and talk about the things I wanted to do for them. The morning of the Bad Day, I arrived late to the park, for some reason. Figuring that most of the action was taking place either in the dank restrooms at the road’s end, or on the trails behind, I rode my bike into the shady oaks and chained it in the picnic shelter. Several cars were already parked near the restrooms. The men’s room was a mold-infested and grubby spot that today I’d shudder to enter without a bucket of disinfectant, but in those days I didn’t care. Two guys were already sucking each other in one of the two stalls. One of them looked at me when I walked in, but didn’t bother to close the stall door. I remember wearing yellow Ocean Pacific shorts with a running stripe down one side that day, and some kind of white T-shirt. I liked the shorts because they had an elastic waist that could easily be slid up and down my legs without much notice. I pulled them down my nuts, started stroking my already-hard cock, and watched the two go at it. My dick was almost at full growth by that age, but that wasn’t what most men wanted from me. The guy getting sucked quickly changed from his buddy’s mouth to mine. I sucked him and swallowed the load as my reward. For the next hour guys came in and left—a steady stream, with never less than two or three waiting their turn. Most of them wanted head. I’d gobble and slobber over their dicks with my eyes closed, sucking and slurping until they’d shoot a wad on my lips. Some of them fucked me. They’d me over toilet in the far stall, rub their hands over my ass, and work their way in. By two in the afternoon I had three loads in my hole and more in my throat, and still had two guys working on me. The little bathroom stunk of sex and cum. It was hot; the only ventilation came from the opening door and a pair of little horizontal windows louvered open over each toilet stall. I don’t remember much about the two guys, save for that they were from the rougher, redneck side of the park. One was grizzled and had eyes bloodshot from booze or pot, and wore a plastic trucker cap (it was back in the days before that particular item was the hipster’s badge of irony) that fell from his head as he fucked me. “Ain’t never fucked no boy before,” he kept murmuring to himself the entire time. He came noisily, as if he was hacking up a furball, and left his load in his ass with the three others. The redneck lingered around for a couple of minutes when the last guy shoved his dick inside me. I remember it had a huge mushroom head, but a skinny little stem. I didn’t much care. I was in heat, rapt in my own little daze at the sensations of dick after dick in my holes. I was clutching so hard onto the toilet hardware that my fingers were striped—white in some places, deep red in others. The redneck rubbed his jaw and stumbled out the door, leaving me along with my top. I still have an impression of him as being kind of doughy in shape, bald, and blue-eyed—one of the butterballs that Virginia’s good at serving up. I’d certainly never seen him before, nor me, but neither of us cared about that, either. He was enjoying a piece of ass and I was into my third hour of non-stop sex when the awful thing happened. I didn’t hear the police announce themselves, though I suppose they did. All I know is that through the rush of blood in my ears and in my cock I heard the restroom door slamming against the wall with a bang, followed by sounds of footsteps, and of loud voices and yelling. Something hit my back. I stumbled forward and banged my head against the tile wall. When I blinked and looked up, I saw a pair of feet dangling out of the little window overhead. Damned if the butterball hadn’t used me to vault to the top of the partition, and then scrabbled his way out of the ventilation window. I, in the meantime, was left behind with my yellow OP pants on the ground and semen dripping down my legs. I was dazed; my forehead had a slight cut and was bleeding. A polite officer stood in front of me with his hands on his hips, regarding me as if I was the most disgusting thing on earth. I’m still confused about what happened next. There were questions, and demands to know what I was doing. The male officer was so offended by me that he could barely look at me; a female officer did most of the grilling. I was so much in shock that I can’t even remember what I said, but I know it wasn’t much. Some instinct of self-preservation told me to divulge no more than my name and address and phone number, and not to commit to much else. I ended up sitting in the back of the police cruiser that sat outside with flashing lights, wondering how in the world I’d been so unlucky. I was scared. I’d never before been so scared in my life. I’d been vaguely aware that there was always a danger of being caught in those places, but it had seemed so remote and unlikely that I’d forgotten to watch out for myself—and this was the result. I didn’t know what was going to happen. Would I go to jail? How long would I have to stay there? Would they publish my name in the newspapers? I thought I’d read somewhere that they printed the names of homosexuals in the newspapers, for everyone to read. While I waited, and sweated, and stunk up the squad car, the police officers chatted with each other. The woman pointed up to the window through which the guy who’d been fucking me had made his unlikely escape. While her partner paced with his arms crossed, she walked around the building. Finally they both returned the car, got in, and started the engine. They ended up taking me somewhere far worse than a police station. They took me home. I don’t know whether I looked young and pitiful enough, or whether with the dried blood on my forehead made it look as if I’d been forced. Or perhaps, and this is my theory, the crime back then simply didn’t merit an uproar. It was a different era, after all, and a time in which a lot of these things were either overlooked or swept under the table. All I knew then is that while I sat in the police car with the male officer, who sighed every ten seconds as if he’d rather be anywhere else, the female officer sat in my house with my father. My mother, thankfully, was not at home. After what seemed like an eternity, the other officer and my father came out of the house and stood on the front stoop. The male officer let me out. When I approached the door, the female officer said that she’d told him everything I’d been doing, and that they didn’t want to have to see me again. She seemed to want some kind of answer, so I nodded and mumbled something. I didn’t want to look either her or my father in the eye. The worst part, though, was afterward. With the door shut, and the police car gone, the silence between my father and I was deafening. We were on the precipice of a conversation I never intended to have. I was numb, however, and frozen, and unwilling to make the first move. In fact, I remember feeling certain that I’d turned to stone, and might remain in that rigid posture against the front door for the rest of my life. At last my father spoke. “Are you hurt?” he asked. I shook my head. “No.” A long silence followed. “Were you doing what they said?” I nodded, but the lump in my throat prevented me from saying anything. My father would have been not much older than I am now, on that bad day. And this is how cool he was: he walked over to me, took me in his arms, and gave me a soft, considerate hug. Then he rubbed my shoulder, held me at arm’s length, and said, “Please be careful.” I think that shocked me most of all. I’d expected to be reviled, and instead he showed me kindness. For the first time since I’d arrived home I looked into his eyes, where I saw a multitude of emotions at war. There was pity, and fear, and flashes of anger. Mostly, however, I saw sympathy. “You should clean up before your mother gets home,” he advised. In answer to a question I could never ask, he responded, “There are some things she doesn’t have to know about.” That was the soft landing to my very bad day. We didn’t speak about it again, though there were certain consequences, a couple of years later. Monday night, I was taking my dad to a Thai restaurant on the far side of town. We had to drive down the long hill along which the park lies, and I let my gaze slide sideways to the waterfall visible from the road. “Yeah,” said my dad, looking in that direction too. “You know, they blocked off the road that leads through the park.” “Oh really?” I asked casually. Very casually. “I guess there was stuff going on they wanted to discourage,” he said. “It’s a pretty park, though.” “It is a pretty park,” I murmured. And that’s really as close as we’ve come in thirty years to discussing it. More...