TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We’d fucked like dogs in heat two days before. It had been a session in which Rock Star blew an explosive five-day load all over my chest, face, and his pillows. After that, the pressure’s off for the week. Today’s supposed to be a cuddle day—one of those mornings when he and I get together with no particular sexual agenda. Sometimes on a cuddle day we lay naked in bed beneath a thin blanket, letting the air conditioner roar over our bodies as we talk. Sometimes we drift into a morning nap that lasts until the noon sun breaks through the skylights above. Sometimes, like this morning, we make out like kids in a split-level basement party after school. Our dicks grow hard as we hold and paw each other. He tries to climb on top of me; I push him down and suck on his long shaft as he studies me with dark eyes covered by even darker hair. Finally, he swings around to lay his head on my thigh. His mouth wraps around my dick. He comes that way, masturbating with my shaft in his throat while I fondle his balls and gently rub on his nipples. We’re in a tangle afterward. Sweaty. Smelling of each other. The dog’s curled in furry beige lump at the bed’s head, protecting the toy he’s held in his mouth for the last two hours. “You know what I liked?” says Rock Star, from where he’s using my stomach as a pillow. “What?” I rumble. My eyes are half-closed. It’s a sleepy, lazy, wonderful moment. “I liked those photos of you sent to me. The ones of you in college.” “Oh gawrsh,” I chuckle. I was camera-shy for my first four decades. Of the handful of photos I have from my college years, I only have a few digitized. I’d texted Rock Star three, one day, to lift him out of a bad mood after work. One was of me dancing with a female professor at a costume party. Another was of me on the Jamestown ferry, my eighties Paul Young mullet made even more poofy from the wind. The last is of me drenched and glistening and soaking wet from a storm, laughing like crazy from the exhilaration of the driving rain and the wind. At the time I thought of myself as a hideous creature that should’ve been living under the bridge the Billy Goats Gruff traveled. Now, with time, I see why so many men wanted me. I’m fresh-faced, and sunny, and smooth-skinned. I was beautiful then, and never once gave myself the credit. “You look so . . . you in them,” he tells me. And I know just what he means. My hair’s less crazy now, my face bearded—but my smile’s the same, as are my eyes. I still laugh in the same half-self-conscious way. Take a high-speed camera and capture shots of a speeding baseball at two points in its trajectory and you’ll see it from different angles; the markings vary, the stitching transform. But it’s still undeniably the same. “Thank you,” I say, feeling shy. Then, in a more assertive tone, I add, “But I was all bottom then. You wouldn’t have been as crazy about me.” “Re-ally,” he says, intrigued. I tell him in brief about what a slut I was in college and before, and how it wasn’t until I’d graduated and begun graduate school that I was introduced to topping. He listens with amusement, as if I’m spinning some unlikely fiction. He sits up in the bed and props himself on my naked chest. “Does that mean you want me to fuck that hole of yours?” “Oh yeah,” I say, snickering a little. “That’s what it means, all right.” “You want me to flip you over and show you my sex-ay top moves?” He’s teasing, but I play right along. “Yes sir,” I tell him. “I want you to show me your sex-ay top moves right now.” He’s shot only a few moments before; there’s no chance he’ll be hard enough actually to do anything. I’m amused, though, as he roughly grabs me by the shoulders and flips me onto my stomach. He straddles my ass and flops his cock against my crack. It’s not turgid, but it still has enough residual blood in it to make it hefty. It spreads my cheeks as he pushes his weight into me. “Well first,” he says into my ear. “I’d make love to you, all sweet and gentle.” His long, long hair hangs down and tickles my bare back. I feel the heat of his breath on my spine, followed by the wet lick of a tongue. He plants kisses on my shoulders that make me sigh. “And then. . . .” Rock Star gives one of my buttocks a heavy wallop. He waits for my reaction. It’s been years, but I’ve been spanked and paddled by pros. That spank I barely felt. I look over my shoulder and peer at him with one of my eyes. “Was that it?” I ask. Without warning he grabs the top of my skull. Shoves my head into the pillows so roughly that I exhale and lose my breath. Begins pounding my ass with his pelvis. He’s giving it a real battering, too. His dick flops around heavily, bludgeoning my ass. “Then I say, Take it, little bitch!” He jackhammers me into the mattress while he wrenches my head back and forth by the hair. The dog looks up mournfully from his pillow. I can barely breathe, but I start laughing. I can’t stop, either. The hilarity of it hits a chord deep inside, and once struck, it won’t stop jangling. “You are crazy,” I tell him. “Then I’ll pull out and give you some relief,” he says. He pulls his pelvis away from my body. I feel the tip of his dick dangling just above my hole. The air conditioner pushes coolness over our sticky skins. My laughter has subsided into giggles, but they keep on coming. I know it’s not over. Sure enough, he starts mock-pounding me again. Every thrust brings stars to my eyes. His hipbones are so pronounced and sharp that they have to be bruising my backside as he slams into me, but can’t stop laughing. Full-force, now. I’ve got tears in my eyes. “Yeah, rippin’ into your daddy ass,” he growls. “Your boy gettin’ his own back. Turning daddy into my bitch, bitch!” His mouth is next to my ear, just as mine is when I plow into him. “Maybe I’ll shove you up against the wall, lift up a leg, make you chew on the plaster to muffle your yells while I pound the shit out of your daddy ass!” “Okay!” I say amenably. “It’s going to be a fuckin’ bloodbath!” He pushes himself off and rolls me over. I’m still chuckling, deep from the gut. I can’t tell if I’m breathless from his weight, or from my amusement. “You are a deeply, deeply silly man,” I tell him, trying to sound grave. “Then I’ll take those sheets, all covered with blood from your daddy hymen, and sell them to a New York art gallery for a buttload of money,” he says. “It’ll be my art installation. I’ll call it. . . .” He pauses to think. “Revenge,” I suggest. “No, Revenge #2.” “Revenge #2,” he agrees. “By Daddyfucker.” He can’t help himself either. A single snort rips through his rough, tough would-be top’s facade. He collapses next to me on the mattress, and tickles my ribs. We both erupt into renewed giggles. Our arms entwine around each other. Our lips meet. We kiss, still laughing like little kids, and disappear beneath the blanket to enjoy each other while there’s still time. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So he’s lying on his mattress, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes, hands clawing at the sheets, feet paddling the air like a kitten. I’m straddling his chest, sitting on his rib cage. My weight’s holding him down, making him breathless. One of my hands is clamped over his mouth, muffling the whimpers and pleas. The other is reaching back to work on his sloppy butt. I’ve got four fingers plugging that gape; my first load has already seeped out onto the rumpled sheets, and into the palm of my hand. My fingers stink of semen and boyhole. “That hurt?” I ask the Runt. To get the answer I want, I add my thumb to the cone I’m making and jab it in. Harder. Deeper. His eyes widen. His lashes are already fringed with moisture bordering on tears. “I said, does that hurt?” The sound he makes is smothered by my hand, pushing down so hard on his mouth that his head is disappearing into the pillow. “What?” I snarl. “I can’t fucking understand you. Does it hurt?” He tries to speak again, then realizes that I’m not going to let up on my grip on his face. Runt looks up at me and nods as best he can. His panicked eyes telling me all I really need to know. It hurts. His dick tells me the rest of the tale. He’s shot already during the first fuck, and not that long ago, but it’s hard again and red and glistening across the gentle downward slope of his abdomen. There’s a pool of precum sliding out of his dick’s tip. Sure, it hurts. But the little fucker loves it. My eyes drill into his as my hand insistently probes his hole. His legs paddle helplessly. As he begins to accept the sensation of being opened wide, their fruitless motions lessen, then cease. His dick leaps up and points to the headboard. I feel breath on the side of my head from his nose, as he sighs deeply. He fucking loves what I do to him. He settles into the mattress and open his legs wider, inviting me in. The Runt lives with his folks still. His room’s still a boy’s room. There’s a pile of laundry in a corner that carries the vaguely goat-like stink of boys his age. His desk is covered with video game discs and electronic equipment. His closet looks like it’s been used to contain the explosion of a hoodie factory. He doesn’t have an adult’s artwork on the walls; he’s got posters. I don’t fuck him at his home much. I drill his little hole in cars. I bring him to my place and ram the shit out of him. Anyplace I can get the little fuck on his knees, spread his cheeks, wet him up, and slam it deep. Because when it comes down to it, the penetration is what he craves. Penetration is the defining moment of sex for him. It’s the point of fucking, to be put in his place, spread wide, and violated. There hasn’t been a time we’ve been together when he hasn’t let loose with his load, the moments I’m forcing myself into his hole. The rougher and more humiliating I make it, the harder this boy shoots. Oh, he’s still in it for the fuck. He grinds his ass and begs for my load. He loves cock in his shitter. But the penetration is what gets him off—that sensation of being ripped into, of being entered, of giving it up to a superior cock. The more painful it is, the harder he climaxes. So I play it up and make sure he fucking feels it, every time. I let go of his mouth. There’s a red print on his face from the pressure. His lips tremble and work to bring the blood back. “Get up,” I order him, as I swing my knee over his body and release him from my weight. I flop back on his stinky bed, let my head dent the pillows. He scrambles to his feet. Reflexively, his hand touches the collar around his neck. It’s the dog collar we bought together. It’s a talisman for him. He’d wear it 24/7 if I let him. “Fuck, son,” I drawl, letting some of my Southern cadences color my voice. “You’re a sloppy mess.” He looks up and down his body. He’s covered with silvery dry traces of his own juice. With lube. His moon-white skin is covered with my pawprints. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You look like a fucking whore,” I tell him. “You look like you’re just a cunt. Is that all you are? Just a cunt?” There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s liking this. His skinny cock is still rock hard, and it’s projecting out in front of him. He nods. “Go over to your desk,” I tell him. “Get one of those marking pens in that cup there.” He shuffles over his books and manga and pulls out a blue highlighter from the cup. “No,” I say, annoyed. “The black one. There.” He comes back with a thick-tipped Sharpie, which he offers me. “Uncap it.” He obeys, his eyes on me unwaveringly. I sit up, take the pen, and turn it so that the tip is facing him. “So you’re just a whore, huh? A little boy-whore?” He nods. Another bead of pre-cum oozes from his dick and begins to hang down underneath the head. “Yes sir,” he says. It’s barely a murmur. “Come here.” I reach up and pull him down by the collar. He thinks I’m going to kiss him. I do not. Instead, I hold him at a distance, so I can write on his chest with the Sharpie. His eyes widen as I scrawl a thick W over his right nipple. I put a H on his pectoral, and a O right in the middle of his sternum. An R follows, and then I finish off with an E over the left nipple. When I release him, he staggers back and looks down at himself. It’s upside and backwards from his perspective, but I know he can read. “What’s that say?” I ask. “Whore,” he says, faintly. His face is red. He looks mortified that I’ve written the legend on him. But that dick doesn’t lie. He loves it. Loves it. “Is that what you are?” I ask. He nods. “I didn’t hear you.” This time, he asserts his answer a little more loudly. “Yes sir.” “Turn around. Bend over.” He thinks I’m going to eat his cummy hole. Or maybe shove my fingers back inside. I do neither. “And this,” I say, brandishing the Sharpie, “is what this is.” On his left cheek I write a large, dark CU. On the right, NT. Right above the crack, I draw an arrow pointing down. “Look in the mirror,” I tell him. He turns, and looks at his creamy white butt in the full-length mirror on his door. His cock leaps as he realizes what it says. “What are you?” I ask. “A cunt, sir,” he says. “And?” “A whore.” “Fucking right. Put this away.” I throw the marker at him. He nearly misses grabbing at it, but he caps it and returns it to the desk. “Now get over here.” I pull him down onto the bed using his collar. Put him face down. Pull the pillows so they’re under his hips. Yank his ankles apart so that little butthole is exposed. Drive in two fingers. He gasps, and groans. I’ve arranged his dick so that the pillows are pushing it between his thighs. It’s pointing straight down at the mattress, exposed, hard, angry red. “What are you?” I ask. “A whore,” he moans, into the bed. “A cunt.” “You’re a fucking cunt,” I tell him. Then I take my cock, aim it at his hole, and shove myself into that warm, tight boyflesh. No mercy. No kindness. I plow all the way in, and and land on the little nub that’s his prostate. I mash my dick’s head against it. He cries out, loudly. His body shakes. It’s almost as if he’s trying to buck me off, his reaction is so strong. But it’s only the orgasm taking over. His semen squirts down onto the bedclothes . . . one, two, three jets of the thick and sloppy stuff. “I’m a cunt,” he whimpers. He’s saying it more to himself than to me. It’s a mantra to him now. “I’m a cunt. I’m a fucking cunt. Just a fucking little cunt.” “Good boy,” I say, letting him hear the pleasure in my voice. “Lesson learned.” I wait until his body stops shaking. Then I withdraw a few inches, slide in, and begin the real fuck. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It's the last week of summer.* I'm feeling remarkably lazy. So here. Here's a photo of my dick, in lieu of an actual entry. Well, okay, here's another. Fine. Here's a link to a movie of me banging some whore in a hotel, I finally got around to uploading. That ought to hold you through the weekend. Have a good Labor Day, everyone! More...

I'd watch that show. If we filmed it naked.

I can always predict when I'm going to get the most angry letters: when I have sex with a straight guy, when I have sex with a black guy, and when I have sex with a woman. I was never making bread that early, but I was baking cakes and pastries from scratch by 12. I guess I liked those better than whole wheat loaves.

Thanks for the compliment, Jizz. Yeah, I was telling someone else this morning that I wish they could've seen my face when he asked me to fuck him. There were a few seconds of "What'd he just say?" followed by several seconds of "Did he just say what I thought he said?" followed by a whole lot of "Holy crap, he really did say it!" I must've stared at him for a good thirty seconds.

I kind of remember that having wet dreams was a badge of manhood, in my early double-digits. Everyone at school was bragging about having them. I'd never had one (and still never have), so I had to lie about it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m not really a candy person. That is, I’m not going to turn up my nose at it. I don’t have a lingering neurotic fear of wrapped candy as the result of a childhood trauma involving a circus clown, a birthday piñata, and a Mexican donkey, or anything. But if you laid down an array of expensive hand-rolled truffles to my right, and a bowl of discount-brand Cheetos snack equivalent on my left, I’d walk away from the table with orange fingertips, fake cheese breath, and the plate on the right untouched. (Well. If there were a coffee-flavored truffle, I’d probably pause to Hoover that down my piehole.) I make an exception for one particular brand of candy, though. In the last year I’ve become addicted to Chimes Ginger Chews—little sugar-dusted chunks of taffy-like goodness with a strong taste of crystallized ginger. I carry around in my man-bag a little tin with a supply of them; they’re good for satisfying any post-meal sugar cravings, they freshen my breath, and they also come in peanut butter flavor. Secretly I suspect they’re probably about as healthy as M&Ms, but since they’re ginger flavored, I can pretend they’re all organic and natural and healthy and shit. Many thanks to the reader who very kindly gifted me with a one-pound supply of the things from my Amazon Wish List! They’ll keep me (and my dentist) happy for months to come! Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. Or spring.me. Whatever they’re calling themselves these days. If you've got questions you'd like to ask, either email them to me directly with a subject line of 'Sunday Morning Questions,' or use their site to submit them anonymously. I'm always grateful for the chance to talk about myself. Yet again. Have you ever had music playing while fucking? Is there any kind of music that you find works well with or stimulates fucking? Does any music get you (even more) in the mood to fuck? I'll come out and say it: I dislike music during fucking. I am not fond of dance music during fucking. I don't like pop music while I fuck. I don't want to be listening to R&B or country music during a lovemaking session. And I really dislike guys who sing along to the music while we do it. The only time I personally find music acceptable is if I'm about to bang someone in an apartment with paper-thin walls and I don't want the neighbors to hear the yelling. Then I'll turn that shit up. What actor would you like to play you in the story of your life? I'm going with Bradley Cooper. Because we're practically twins. Did your family eat around a single table when you were little? Although they were unconventional in a lot of ways, my parents were very strict about having a sit-down dinner at the table, with no television, and polite conversation of a general nature. I can only think of a handful of occasions when we didn't eat all together until I left for college. Mind you, after about the age of ten, I was cooking about half the meals, since my mom hated preparing dinners and both my parents were often working in the late afternoons. So they weren't THAT old-school. I was revisiting your Landscaper series and was curious about how you two got in contact, as it's not really revealed in the first piece. Do you still meet up with him and might you right more about him in the future? Yes, absolutely I still meet with the Landscaper. It's not frequently, exactly, because after each meeting it takes his internal clock a while to reset to a point where he desperately needs the man-to-man contact again. We originally met when I answered an ad of his on Craigslist. I have not been writing about these encounters, though, for three reasons. The first, and simplest, is that there's a sameness to what goes on in the meetings. I tend to want to write about encounters that bring a little something new to the table, either sexually or interpersonally. There have been a couple of developments with him of a minor nature that I would write about . . . save for the two reasons below. The second reason is that when I write about the Landscaper, there's a very small (but VERY vocal) contingent of readers who immediately write in tsk-ing and tut-tut-ing comments that accuse me of 'exploiting this poor man's internalized homophobia' or other similar nonsense. I've got two responses to that. The first is: FUCK YEAH I AM! That's what makes it hot, bitches. And the second, more reasoned (but no less sincere) response is that I would posit I'm giving this guy, who obviously has never, ever allowed himself to pursue with men the physical intimacy he so very obviously craves, a safe space to explore his sexuality. I'm not going to stalk him. I'm not going to blackmail him. I'm not going to endanger his relationship, or beat him up and rob him. I'm not urging him to leave his wife and kids and leap into a relationship for which he's clearly not ready and doesn't want to be pressured. I'm not pushing him to do anything he's not ready to do. In fact, though I'm ostensibly the 'trade' in this situation, I'm letting him call the shots from meeting to meeting. We haven’t verbalized it, but he keeps returning to me because he understands every single one of those things. I give him an amazing time, and he gets the outlet he wants and needs. If that's exploitation, it's of the very mildest kind. Furthermore, I would ask the moralists who make it their business to pout and throw tantrums whenever I write about the Landscaper: where are you guys when I'm tossing out racial epithets during some in-bed roleplaying with minority bottoms? Or when I'm butching it up with gay guys who are fascinated with my marital status? Or when I’m letting some young guy call me ‘daddy’ as I’m impaling his ass? The self-appointed critics are, to a man, okay with me treating gay guys as sexual fodder. It seems that once I throw the Landscaper into the mix, however, suddenly well-off white straight men are an endangered species who must be protected from me at all costs. And that disparity strikes me as self-loathing, on their parts. There's a third reason I've stopped writing about the Landscaper, and that's because at the other extreme, some readers are way too overly vocal about wanting more entries from him. It's not as grating as the second reason, but it's a little tiresome to write a hot entry about some other sexual encounter and the only comments I get are along the lines of "This is hot and all but what happened to the Landscaper?" The name of this site is not The Landscaper's Blog. I would like to compose more entries about him, but the conditions have to be right. Hey man . . . gotta tell you, I'm a bit jealous of your scoring record. While I keep drawing a blank. I'm pretty good looking, but don't photograph well, well all the self-pics come out so weird, that I wouldn't fuck myself . . . get the drift? What gives! I'd suggest that you take the time to figure out how to take better selfies. If you're taking your own photos and they're not turning out well, you've really only got yourself to blame. It's not as if your digital camera or your phone camera is going to run out of film, right? More...

During my teen years in the 1970s and early 1980s there wasn't such a concept as safe sex—all the fucking I took was raw. It was just the way it was done. It wasn't until about 1984 that I started to see urgings to rubber up. I justified not doing it by thinking I'd be safe enough, well outside any of the big cities seeing their gay populations hit hard by AIDS. When I changed from top to bottom, I still fucked raw for a time, but I tried to be a 'good boy' from about 1987-89 before deciding that rubbers interfered with any sense of intimacy and pleasure. It was in 1989 that I decided not to wear them any more, and the act of going without rubbers became for me not just something I did, but a conscious act of choice and defiance. It's interesting that I remember fucking raw as a choice before the vocabulary for it existed. Not until late 1991 did I ever hear anyone refer to it as barebacking. I'd been invited to join a very underground group of men on IRC who sought each other out for unprotected sex; the channel operated under a number of names for a couple of months until it settled on, and stayed on, #bareback. I don't think the men of the channel invented the term, but they were the first I know who used it, long before it ever made an appearance in any kind of mainstream forum or press.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here He’d arrived late to that party I’d attended, earlier in the summer. The room had been as pitch black as the host could make it, noontime in a cheap hotel room with shabby drapes. Like vampires caught mid-feast, we’d recoiled from the blast of sunlight and froze in a tableau on the bed. When the door opened I was balls-deep inside the state trooper, his legs over my shoulder, my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, while someone or another ate my ass. Then I saw this guy come in. Pete, I later found out his name was. Thrown into silhouette by the sun, he seemed immediately the most attractive man in the room—and with a bald muscle pup and a built black guy and a state trooper arguing over my dick, that was some pretty stiff competition. He had the build of a construction worker. Broad shouldered. Worked-out arms. Narrow waist. Long surfer’s hair. The door had closed. He stared at me. Then he’d removed his shorts and his T-shirt, taken his already-hard dick in his hand, and walked over to where I knelt on the bed with my dick shoved up the cop’s hole. Then he’d pulled my head to his, given me a surprisingly soft and gentle kiss, and then maneuvered me down to his dick. I’d melted at that. I want Pete, I’d written the host after the party. Give him my email or my profile or something. You are barking up the wrong tree there, the host wrote back. He’s even more top than you. He’s total trade. Don’t care, I wrote back. I just want more of his dick. In his email back the host had given me a written shrug. Okay, but you’re just going to be disappointed if you want to fuck him. I figured I could live with that disappointment, if it meant getting that man’s hog in my mouth again. I don’t mind servicing trade. Especially handsome trade like that. He’s married, though. And I’m married. Neither of us can host that often, so hooking up for a second go-round, one-on-one, has been difficult. But here it is, an afternoon when the family’s not due back until midnight, and he’s actually free. I’m reminded of that afternoon in the hotel when he gets out of his car and strides up my walk. I’m sitting on the front porch in a T-shirt and a pair of thin sweat shorts, no underwear, hard at the prospect of seeing him again. And he’s still as burly and handsome as before. His hair is long and curly and hangs down to his shoulders; he’s got on a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of khakis. I push down my boner from inside my pockets, greet him warmly, and lead him into my home. Once we’re inside, I put a hand on his chest. Through the flannel I can feel his heart beating. He looks at me with his big blue eyes and says his first words to me: “I’m kind of nervous.” They take me aback. “Why?” I ask. “You know me already.” “Barely,” he says. We stand still for a moment in my living room. It’s a warm afternoon. A breeze blows through the windows and open door. We stare at each other, and then he reaches up to pull my head down to his again. We kiss. I go with the assumption he’s not as nervous any longer, after that. I take him back to the bedroom. Sit down on the bed. Unbuckle his belt, undo the khakis. He’s not wearing any underwear either. His dick is soft, hooded with foreskin. He starts to unbutton his shirt when I bend down to suck him. His hands settle on the back of my head, holding it gently, cradling it. When I back off a half-minute later, he’s rock hard. I stand up and maneuver him onto the bed. I make sure he has a pillow beneath his head. Then I spread his legs and sprawl between them, so I can go to work on his dick. “I just want to make you feel good,” I tell him before I go down on him again. “Anything you want.” It’s an honor to be taking this man’s cock; he’s just fucking handsome. I want to take him so he’ll be in my system. If he’s in my mouth, down my throat, he’s part of me. Simple as that. And it’s a great dick. It’s not huge by any means, but I love the ample foreskin, the fatness of it, the generosity of his head and its obscene veininess. It throbs and jumps in my mouth as I fellate him. I know I’m doing well when it releases little tastes of precum on the back of my tongue. “Not yet,” he says suddenly, as he pries my head off of him. When I look up, he’s panting. He’s got a short trigger, this one. I hadn’t realized. I hadn’t been the one to get his load at the party. Then he gets aggressive. He pushes me back, makes me get on my knees. He yanks off my t-shirt, pulls down my sweat shorts. My dick flops out lewdly and strikes the mattress. Then he wheels around and lands on his stomach. I feel his hot breath on my meat, and then his mouth surrounding me. “No,” I say, shocked. This is the guy who hadn’t sucked any cock at the party. He’d been total trade, content to let man after man service him. “You don’t have to—“ But he’s not doing it out of obligation. He’s sucking me because he wants to. He’s cramming my whole cock down his throat, even though it’s pushing him to his limits and beyond. When he looks up at me, his eyes are brimming with tears from the effort. His face is red. His hair is spilling over his face and he’s still looking up at me, judging my reaction to his cocksucking. It’s good. I’m so totally flabbergasted that this sexy brute is sucking my dick—and sucking it well—that I groan and gasp a little. This position isn’t the best, but so long as it keeps my dick in his mouth, I’m not moving. I let him slobber over me for a little bit until he comes up for air. Then he shocks me again. “Would you ever consider fucking me?” he asks. I’m not even sure I’ve heard the words right. In fact, I figure what he really said is that he wanted to fuck me. But no, I realize that’s not how it came out. “What?” I say. “Would you . . . fuck me?” Then, in the softest coda I’ve ever heard, he adds, “Please.” I’m stunned. “Really?” He nods, almost as if he’s embarrassed to be asking. My cock hardens even more than it was before. A surge of possessiveness and top aggression starts to surge through my veins. “You want my big dick in you?” “Yes. I want your big dick in me,” he repeats. He’s speaking so softly that I can barely hear him. I know when to take advantage of an opportunity, though. I nod. I turn him over. I spread his legs, and pry open his butt. My tongue flicks out. Licks it. Tastes the mixture of sweat and soap smell and the metallic tang of his inner ass. He wraps his arms around the mattress corner and hangs on as I eat harder, deeper. Whether or not I get in there, I’m going to relish eating out this man’s hole. And I do, for long minutes. Then I reach for my lube, and apply a quarter’s worth onto his hole. Another quarter’s worth goes inside, pushed in by my index finger. I can already tell he’s tight. So fucking tight. Maybe even first time tight. That realization just makes my dick harder. I rub the head on his hole. “You like that?” I ask. He grunts. I let my fleshy head bounce in and out of his hole. I’m using the gentlest of fucking motions. Not pushing at all. Very gradual. The fact I’m rock hard at the thought of topping this top, of getting the impossible, is turning me on like crazy. When I’m sliding back and forth now, he’s taking the head and an inch. The head and an inch and a half. The head and two inches. Bit by bit, increment by increment, he’s opening for me. And he’s loving it. “You okay?” I ask periodically. “Yeeeees,” he groans out. “Have you had dick in there before?” I demand to know. “Not . . . like this,” he pants out. “Not your size.” Good. The news pleases me. I’m a competitive top. The news should surprise no one. It’s about four inches in that we start to run into problems. I no longer have to hang onto my dick to make sure it doesn’t splay out at an angle as I fuck; I’m definitely in him. I could even fuck to completion at this depth. I’ve done it with less. But I want to be all the way inside him, and we have to get past that inner ring. I push. “Whoa,” he says, startling as he realizes what I’m doing. “Ssshh,” I say, reassuring him with kisses on his shoulders. “It—“ I know he wants to tell me it hurts. But he doesn’t want to discourage me, either. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just enjoy it.” He grimaces as I continue to push. There’s a massive amount of resistance. And then I’m through. My final four inches slide into him smoothly, as if they belong. Pete’s head lolls and I hear him take a sharp breath. “Am I hurting you?” I ask him. “No,” he says. Then again. “No. Not at all!” There’s a sense of wonder in his voice. I take that as permission to fuck. In and out I slide. With every thrust, his hole opens more. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed much. Maybe he hasn’t bottomed at all. But he’s responding like some of the hardened whores I fuck, grunting with pleasure and animal lust when I get all the way in, clamping down on me and refusing to let me out when I piston back. “You like it,” I tell him. “You like it, don’t you?” “Yes,” he whispers. His brow is furrowed; his eyes are clamped close. At my question he opens them and looks back at me. “I love it.” “You love my big dick fucking you.” “I love your big dick fucking me,” he agrees. Yeah, he really does. He’s pushing back when I thrust now, trying to move his hips, give it up to me and make it good. The big old top who never gets fucked is my bitch. And he fucking loves it. He shoots when I position him on his knees and milk the load out of him with my hand. It only takes a few strokes. His guts contract around me and threaten to suck in my junk, nuts and all. Then I pump my load inside him, squirt by squirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs as I breed him. “Thank you. Thank you.” It’s the sweetest whisper I’ve ever heard. We collapse to the bed together. “Don’t pull out,” he begs. I remain on top of him, my dick still swollen and wet from lube and sperm. For a few moments we pant and breathe. Then finally he lets out the longest sigh I’ve heard in ages. “So that’s what it’s all about,” he says, sounding half-asleep. Yup. That’s what it’s all about. And I’m fucking proud to have shown him. More...

I really was a sweaty mess. Walking across the city after didn't help. You're fast approaching 'Whore' status there!

He was really good...especially since it's pretty rare I get off from oral alone.

Oh, he already knows I intend to visit often.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Do you like gloryholes? he asks me on a sex site. No, I shoot back. I fucking LOVE gloryholes. Then you should try my home gloryhole sometime, he writes back. Conveniently located near Times Square. I look at the clock in my living room. I was just about to leave to catch the train into the city, in fact. Fifty minutes for the ride, a half-hour for a quick lunch, ten minutes for walking. . . . I’m going to be in that area in ninety minutes. He sends me an address. I copy and paste it into in my contacts. I use Gloryhole for his surname. Home for his first. So here’s the setup. He’s in a seven-story building on a busy street in the east forties. It’s one of those doorways I wouldn’t even notice if I weren’t looking for it, wedged as it is in between commercial storefronts and restaurants. I ring the bell, he buzzes me in, I walk up to his floor. Each floor has only one apartment; the only door there is ajar. I step through. Shut it behind me. Let the latch click. There’s a solid wall on my left. An opening to the right that has black fabric tightly stretched across it to keep out intruders. Then, directly across from the doorway, a six-foot stretch of drywall. Right at dick level is the hole. It’s oval, about four inches high. Smooth around the edges. It’s a professional setup. He’s bolted a long pipe—a plumbing fitting—into the wall right at the level of my forehead. I see a single ring hanging at the far end. I instantly deduct how this stark room with the hole looks when he’s not stripped down, mouth open, behind it. Curtains, probably, to hide the hole and break up the monotony of the wall. Maybe a little table to discourage people from lifting it up and discovering the gaping vacancy right at waist level. Art hanging from the hangers I can discern on the left-hand wall. A proper little foyer for an expensive midtown apartment. Not an anonymous dick delivery system for a cocksucker. I’ve already shoved my sunglasses and wallet into my bag. I let it fall to the ground with a thud. I step up to the hole. See him beyond. Squatting. Ready. Even through the narrow hole I can see that his body is beyond muscular. It’s a Men’s Health magazine body. He’s shirtless. His hand is inserted into the fly a pair of madras shorts. I see a shadow approach the hole. He’s looking through. Mouth open. He’s ready. I step up. Unbutton. Unzip. Pull down the waistbands of my jeans and shorts simultaneously. I’m wearing the thickest and heaviest of my cock rings. It weighs down my nuts, makes my dick flop out and swing. Then I step up to the hole and insert my junk right through. There’s a pause. I imagine he’s looking at me, planning his attack. I feel my dick lift. There’s a slight breeze on the top of my balls. Then I feel wetness around my soft cock, and warmth around the base. I’m in. His mouth is so soft and wet, and his tongue action so gentle that I can’t pinpoint the moment I go from soft to hard. All I know is that suckling sensation all around my meat, insistently nursing it to fullness. When that happens, he starts up and down the shaft. I feel his lips travel, slowly, insistently, deliberately, along every one of my inches. He’s in no hurry; he’s making each trip from base to glans last. He’s savoring the taste of my flesh—flicking in and out of the slit when he reaches the top, nuzzling against my pubes at the bottom. I can tell I’m in good hands. Or a good mouth, anyway. I grab the bar from beneath, push my body against the wall, and relax. I don’t know how many minutes I’m there. It seems like an eternity. He does this thing where he clamps his mouth down on my dick, gets me going so hard that my whole body’s shaking. If it weren’t for my grip on the pipe above, I’d probably fall to the floor. I’m trembling, I’m bucking so hard into the wall that my knees make it resound with deep, percussive thuds. “Please,” I croak out. Then he’ll stop, leaving me gasping for more. He’s got it down to a science. He knows how to give me enough to make my body shake and quiver. When he stops, my dick is wet and red and angry that the cocksucker’s not finishing me off. He could finish me off so easily. He knows it. That’s why he’s torturing me like this. Fucker. Two can play at that game. Still hanging onto the bar, I lean back, let my body fall into a long S-shape. My engorged cock is on my side of the hole now. I can see he’s got his pants open. His fat, short dick is out; his forearm is busy beating it. His jaw approaches the hole, rubs against it like a cat marking his territory. It’s a strong chin with a two-day growth of stubble. I’m kind of wondering at this point if it belongs to a face I’ve seen on the screen before, large or small. A personal gloryhole would be a good outlet for someone known to indulge in his favorite sport. I don’t really care to whom that mouth belongs, though. I just like the look of it, lips protruding and begging for my dick. I give him the tip. He responds hungrily. I pull out. My turn to tease. A little tip more before I swing back again. Then I’m feeding him the head, backing out, and pushing it back in. I’m using his mouth as a fuckhole, and it’s as wet and hungry as most of the boys I drill. Finally he’s getting it all. He handles my inches like a pro as I drive into the back of his throat. He doesn’t need his hands; he’s got his mouth to get me off. By the time I’m thrust all the way through hole, he’s using his throat like a pussy and getting my body shaking again. I’ve got sweat soaking the back of my head; my armpits are dark spots on the fabric of my shirt. “Please,” I whisper. “Please. Please!” I don’t know whether or not he hears my begging. Doesn’t matter. I get what I want. My cock erupts almost painfully, tossing ropes of seed down his open throat. I hear him grunt on the other side of the wall, feel his lips widen to take more of me in. Feel his throat swallow around my shaft. For what seems an eternity I blast away into that unseen mouth. When I come to, I’m hanging from the pipe with weak hands and feeling him nurse the very last drops onto his broad, flat tongue. I withdraw. Take a breath. Try to stuff my still-stiff cock and balls into my pants. Zip it down tightly, and pick up my bag. “Thanks, buddy,” I say to the figure still crouched on the other side of the hole. No reply. No worries. I wasn’t there to listen to the guy talk. He’s got better things to do with that mouth. Damn, that mouth. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still thinking about that mouth. More...

Thank you, Jizz.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There’s a long and twisting flight of stairs to take to Rock Star’s wing in the house where he lives. As softly as I try to tread, my rubber soles against the shiny varnish on the wooden steps echoes like gunfire, every time I creep up to his room. Every time I open the door at the summit, I never know what’s going to lie behind. I’ve swung it back to find him dozing beneath the sheets, his long hair spilling over the ivory comforter like an inky river. I’ve stepped through to find him on all fours wearing nothing but a jock, head in the pillows, hole begging for attention. I’ve been pulled by a wet and slippery hand from the threshold into the bathroom adjoining, to entwine with his soaked limbs beneath the steamy waterfall of the shower head. I never know what to expect. It’s like opening the door on an old Mystery Date board game—only there’s never a dud. The air in the stairwell is as hot as still as the summer weather outdoors. When I step through the doorway, I’m almost directly in front of his window air conditioner. Rock Star is nowhere to be seen. There’s no sound of running water from the bathroom. He’s not arrayed on the mattress for my pleasure. Then my senses kick into overdrive as I sense someone behind me; the shock of knowing someone’s over my shoulder is colder than the air conditioner’s blast. It’s Rock Star, my brain tells my body. Don’t worry. But it’s too late. My skin has erupted into gooseflesh; the microscopic hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up. My heart starts to race from the unexpected surprise of having him sneak up on me. Then it pounds simply because I feel his hands on my shoulders, his breath beneath my hairline. I start to turn, to take him into my arms. “Ssshh,” he says, arresting my twisting motion. “Close your eyes.” “What?” I laugh. “Just ssshh. Keep your eyes closed.” When he whispers, it stirs the already-alert hairs on my nape. They tingle and send chills down my arms, along my spin, around my sides and down to my cock. It stirs in my shorts. I feel the brush of something against my face. When I open my lids, I see him lowering one of his bandanas over my face. I smile, and close my eyes again. He tightens the makeshift blindfold, and knots it in the back. “Can you see?” he says, moving from one ear to the other. When I peek again, I can. The bandana is light in color and hangs over my nose. I can look down the bridge and see him steering me in the direction of the bed. “No,” I tell him, closing my eyes again. “I can’t see.” “Good,” he tells me, stopping me short of the mattress. I feel it press against my shins. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.” His voice is soft. He holds me on my biceps; his hands are warm on my arms. I relax. I trust him. I let him do what he wants. I feel his hands undo the buttons of my shirt. I let him pull it from my arms. His palms run up and down my rib cage, warm where the air conditioner cools my skin. I feel him unbuckle my belt, tug on my shorts. They’re too big for me as it is; he doesn’t even have to unbutton the fly to make them fall to my ankles. One after the other he lifts my feet, removes my shoes and socks. I’m naked save for the blindfold. For a few moments his hands seem to brush over all the parts of my body. My buttocks, between my thighs, my belly, my chest. His fingers trace circles over my shoulders; I feel his kiss against my cheek. “I love you, and want to make you feel good,” he says, as I feel his mouth on my nipple, my abdomen, at the crease of my pelvis. “I have to give back a small portion of what you’ve given me.” “Sweetheart,” I say helplessly. We’ve had this conversation before. “You give me so—ah.” I lose the train of my thought as I feel his mouth nuzzle my balls. I try to resist reaching out to guide his head. He wants to be firmly in command here. “You always—“ I sigh as I feel him part my legs, run his hand down my taint to my hole, then back to a sensitive spot at the very back of my balls. “You always—fuck.” He’s got my member in his mouth, now. In one rotation of his tongue it grows from half-mast to fully erect. “I love this cock,” he tells me. “It’s the perfect cock.” “You—“ “Shut up,” he says. I shut up. Very gently he turns me around, only to push me so that I land on the bed. I feel his hands on my thighs. Roughly he parts them, and goes back to his sucking. Rock Star’s mouth is sweet, and soft, and warm; it’s an ideal combination for oral sex. When I try to lift my hands and stroke his hair, he pushes them back down again. “My cock,” he says, letting my dick drop with a wet slap onto my abdomen. “Fuck whatever you want with it, but it’s my cock. Belongs to me,” he growls. I can tell by his tone of voice that he’s seriously aroused. It’s the tone of a man in serious heat, who can’t think of anything but flesh and pleasure. “Whose is it?” “Yours,” I say, weakly. I know that if I looked at my dick, it would be raging and red. In his clutch it strains. I like the sensation. “Mine,” he agrees. I whimper, and sink back into the pillows. I hear the lube before I feel it, when the plastic bottle clatters against his nightstand. His weight shifts, and suddenly he’s slapping on cold fluid and warming it with his hand. My dick points to the ceiling; I feel him position first his feet, and then his knees on either side of my hips. I feel the pressure of him as his ass seeks to locate my tip. His large hand wraps around my shaft to hold it steady. Then he’s lowering himself onto me, and I groan. “Please,” I beg, when he stops halfway. He’s teasing me. Squeezing with his hole, moving up and down in the most minuscule increments possible. Making me want more, but denying it. “Whose dick?” he asks again. “Yours,” I say, in more strangled tones. I try to reach up to him, but he shoves away my hands. As punishment, he pivots up and off my dick. I make sounds of frustration in the back of my throat. But then I hear him applying lube to himself. He’s back on my dick, sliding this time all the way down to the bottom. “I’ve been thinking about this dick all week,” he grunts out as he begins riding up and down. “I’ve been wanting this dick all week. And you’ve been keeping it from me.” He’s rocking his hips up and down at the base of me, grinding my dick like it’s some kind of toy. He’s tight. He’s always been tight. But today he’s latching down on me with a firmness I didn’t expect. He’s implanted on my dick, and plainly isn’t coming off until he’s done. I don’t care what he says. This fuck isn’t for my pleasure—though let’s be honest, I’m getting a lot of pleasure out of it. It’s all for him. He’s treating me like his plaything, and it’s turning me the fuck on to be used like that. I can tell he’s slicked up his own meat and is beating at it furiously. When I take a little peek down my nose and under the kerchief, I can see his hand flying up and down over his dick. “Asshole,” he says, shoving me by the forehead backward. “Cheater. Stop trying to look.” Before I can apologize or protest, his mouth is on mine. His kisses are hard and relentless. I want to grit my teeth and punish him; I want to flip him over and pound the fuck out of him just to show him who’s boss. But part of the sweetness of this scenario is that he’s the boss, here. He’s the one who has the power—the power to excite, the power to consummate. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You better bet you’re sorry.” He’s back to riding me in smooth, sinuous movements. His hips slide, snake-like, back and forth. “Fuck. Maybe I won’t let you juice me.” “Please,” I say. My throat is already parched; my lips feel cracked and dry. “Please let me.” “No,” he says, like a querulous child. “Please.” I’m begging. “No. Not yet.” He’s going faster and faster, seated on the stiff locus of pleasure that’s my dick. When I get too close, though, he clamps down; he stops. He takes me to the edge, again and again, but never steps over. Then he shoots. I don’t know it’s happening until I hear his gasps, hear the sound of him crying out and feel his nuts bouncing up and down on my midsection. Then I feel hot splashes of liquid as he covers me in his seed. He’s making sounds I’ve never heard from him before—hoarse and guttural, from deep within his core. The rocking subsides. He’s still astride me, but he’s leaning on my chest, breathing heavily. Recovering. I’m almost afraid to break the hush, to speak and interrupt the patterns of his breathing. So I lie there, waiting for him to tell me what’s next. “My cock,” he finally says, giving me a vise-like squeeze with his ass muscles. Then I feel his mouth cover mine, and his chest press against my own. The seed he’s spilled glues the two of us tightly together. “All mine.” I’m happy to let him have the last word on that topic. More...

I'm not really a Stephen King fan, so I've kept away from the Dome. I do like Defiance, when it comes to current science fiction TV series. I sat down with Netflix and watched the first season of Revenge and thought it was fairly silly, but couldn't stop watching it. My main question is why the fuck do all the other socialites in the Hamptons show up to Victoria Grayson's parties, when every single one of them ends up with a murder, suicide, shocking arrest, or scarlet fever? I mean, shit, the woman can't throw a family clambake without a hostage situation arising. If I got an engraved invitation chez Grayson I'd be running the fuck in the other direction.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the more annoying things I do in a social situation—though to my slight credit, I usually wait until people know me slightly, so they catch on that it’s a joke—is to pretend ignorance of sexual slang, just so I can get a giggle out of watching someone try to explain it to me. Last night, for example, I was at a potluck with a bunch of gay guys and someone was looking at a picture of Sam Elliott in his early-eighties heyday wearing a sleeveless T bearing the legend MUSTACHE RIDES. I crunched my eyebrows, screwed up my face, looked at the guy with the photo on his cell, and asked, “What is a mustache ride?” “SERIOUSLY?!” he shrieked. Then, when my expression didn’t change, he started stammering, “Well, when a guy has a mustache, and he um, gives oral sex to someone, it’s called . . . OH YOU FUCKER.” Because by mid-sentence, of course, I will be giggling like a Japanese teenaged girl and the proverbial jig will be up. Later that night, the same guy was telling a story about going to a straight strip club for a colleague’s birthday party and how one of the strippers did an acrobatic stunt that ended with her muff in his mouth. While everyone was laughing at the tale, I stopped it briefly. “Now, by muff, do you mean one of those fur accessories women insert their hands into to keep them warm in the winter?” Automatically, just because I have one of those faces that would never, ever lead anyone astray, he started to stammer out again, “Um, a muff is a. . . . A muff is. . . .” Then he remembered the mustache rides incident of earlier, laughed at himself, and yelled at me, “Yes, her muff was a circular hand-warming fur, because I WENT TO A STRIP CLUB FOR GOD-DAMNED VICTORIAN ICE SKATERS.” And we all laughed about that one. So late in the evening, a bunch of the guys were playing some Cards Against Humanity/Apples to Apples-like party game tailored to gay guys, in which in response to a question, everyone around the table has to hand in a card with a comic response. (Apparently ‘double-headed dildos’ will win every time.) I was standing behind a friend watching the game proceed, when the friend started reading out cards in response to his question, What’s that dripping sound? “A lesbian wedding. . . .” he said, flipping over the first response. “Pat Robertson’s dentures. . . .” he read, to minor titters around the table. “Fletching. . . .” He’d already started to toss that card on the table when I stopped him. “Felching, sweetie,” I said. “Fletching is something you find on an arrow.” He looked at the card again. “What’s felching?” “Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I replied, thinking he was trying to pull one over on me. “I’m not fooled that easily, mister.” “What?!” he asked. “What’s felching? I’m serious.” “Mm-hmm,” I said, playing along. “No, I mean it!” Then I realized that he did indeed mean it. “Felching is when one ejaculates inside another’s anus or vagina and then licks it out,” I told him. In the way that gay guys do when confronted with real-world mention of an act that they’ve secretly gotten off to while watching internet porn countless times but don’t want to admit it, every man in the room went ewwww! or gross! My friend with the cards, however, looked at me with horror on his face. “How do you even know what that is?” I shrugged. It’s a rough job, being perpetually innocent. Let’s get to some responses to questions I’ve received recently. If you’ve got questions of your own to ask, either leave them at my formspring.me site, or email them to me at the address in the sidebar. I appreciate the thoughtfulness of the questions I often get—they give me the chance to spout off on topics I wouldn’t normally address in my blog. Does sex always involve intimacy? Nope. A lot of sexual transactions feel less intimate than withdrawing cash from an ATM. But a lot of the best sex involves intimacy. Are you generally more interested in sex in the spring? July is the month in which my hormones suddenly shift into overdrive. Yes, even more than usual. I figured out the pattern when, a few Julys ago, I was ready to write an entry in my journal about how inexplicably horny I'd been. Before I started typing it out, though, I had a vague memory of writing something similar the year before. Sure enough, I'd written a "Why am I so horny?" entry in July. There were other July horniness entries in my journals for several different years. Sometimes keeping a journal over a long period of time helps to identify these patterns. But it still doesn't get anyone on my dick any quicker, come 7/1, yo. Hi, this is Jim. Long time reader. You mention having great success with instagram. How does that work in finding guys? Hey Jim. I don't believe I ever said I had 'great success' finding guys on Instagram. However, I have had regular old economy-sized success. Considering that the g-rated photo-sharing service of Instagram is not intended in the least to be used for picking casual sex partners, I suppose any kind of success there at all is a great success. There's a whole subculture on Instagram of guys who take photos of themselves for other guys and gals to admire. They don't take art photos. They don't take photos of their vacations to post. They stand in front of a mirror, point their camera phones at themselves, and snap shots of their muscles. The photos are shirtless, often. They're pretty photos of pretty men. I don't take a lot of these photos myself—I take and share the arty crap—but I do follow a handful of the men and boys who do. And by handful, I mean dozens. There have been a several times when I have commented on these photos and found my comments met with an encouraging response. A couple of times these encouraging responses have come from local guys. Men within driving distance. And on those couple of occasions, I ended up getting together with the guy when I pointed out how close we were. If that's great success, I'll still take it. What is something you remember happening when you were in Grade 1? I lived close enough to my first grade school that I walked to it in the mornings from home. My dad would make my lunchbox, then get me across the street to the baseball field that separated our apartment complex from the school, and then watch as I made my way across the field to the school's back entrance. One morning, we were late in getting me off. I don't mean five minutes late. I mean, laaaaaaate. Maybe my dad overslept, maybe something adult was going on that I wasn't aware of—but I remember being woken up and crammed into my clothes and dragged out the door with my lunchbox banging at my knees, and then propelled against that baseball field toward the school. But when I got to the door, it had been locked. Apparently they did that, after all the kids were inside. I looked back to see if my dad was still watching, but he'd gone home. So in a panic, I had to go all the way around the school, trying doors. Which were all locked. It was only when I finally got around to the front door about fifteen minutes later that I was able to get into the building at all. When I got to the classroom, I was red-faced, panicked, and sweaty. The teacher shushed my excuses and made me sit in the back of the classroom as a punishment. It's been forty-three years and whenever I'm late to something—anything—I flash back to that day in first grade and I'm that little boy with the lunchbox and the fear in his eyes all over again. Given your enjoyment of Gilligan's Island, do you think the TV series Lost should have ultimately been revealed to be a Gilligan's Island spin-off series? First off, let me reassert that my enjoyment of Gilligan’s Island was limited to my prepubescent years. For adults, the show is pretty much unwatchable. If I have to watch Bob Denver, give me the smart and bittersweet Dobie Gillis every time. Now, about Lost. I think any resolution would've been better than that load of steamin' doo-doo I wasted five years of my life watching. I am still somewhat angry that a show that started with such promise devolved by the third season into something I was simply shrugging my indifferent shoulders to (time travel to the 1970s? Okay. Nuclear bomb? Sure, why not? Crazed chess-playing gods who never appeared in any other season? Might as well be, I suppose). Lost and Battlestar Galactica taught me that simply because I want a science fiction series to be as good as its original premise doesn’t justify the hours and DVR space I put into it, when it’s obvious it’s going down the toilet. I learned that lesson well, believe you me. I ditched Once Upon a Time and Revolution and Falling Skies the minute they grew tiresome, and haven’t had a regret about it. More...

The elastic was shot enough that I easily could've.

Let's try it, drscorpio. See what place that ends up being.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’m in a hotel that’s only five minutes from my house. It’s the first place I stayed after I discovered I was moving here from the midwest; it’s the first place on that same trip I banged one of the locals. Whenever I get a chance to fuck here, I take it. The parking’s free, the trip’s quick, and by and large, any guy who spends the night in this budget establishment isn’t looking for an everlasting romance. Just for a dick in his slutty hole. And this guy’s slutty. Hot looking. Muscular. Smooth flesh. He’s wearing nothing but a jock, and he’s assumed the position on the mattress: legs spread, butt high in the air, his nose buried in a bottle of poppers. Just the way I like ‘em. The jock is old and stretched out. When I grab it like a pair of reins and pull his ass to my glistening, lubed-up cock, I can tell the elastic has seen better days. But fuck. That hole. It’s perfect. It was already greasy with Vaseline when I rubbed some of my own lube into it. The mixture makes my dick slimy as I push into that hole. It’s warm. It’s loose. I can tell this is going to be a hot fuck. I crunch the elastic into a ball in my hand and swat him across the ass a couple of times with the loop of it hanging out the top. He grunts, and groans, and pushes back against my hips to take all my inches. “You like that?” I growl. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yes sir. I love it.” That’s what I want to hear. I started some swivel action with my hips. This one’s going to get the load quickly . . . and since some other top’s on the way, that’s probably a good thing. I put one foot on the bed and start pistoning in and out, sliding my slick meat in and out of his pussy, making it my own. “You’re big,” he says, taking another hit of the poppers. “Damn right I am.” “Fuck!” he says. I take it as a compliment. Then he says it again, in a normal tone of voice. “Fuck. Sorry. I’ve got to pee.” “What?” My sex trance is shattered when the guy hops off my dick, flips around off the side of the bed, and gets to his feet. He pads into the bathroom and runs the water. And I stand there. Naked. Dick hard, pulsing, and unsatisfied. I figure he’s running the water to get the bladder going. It works for me sometimes, too. But he’s taking fucking forever, while I stand there with a dick that’s leaping up and down. When I peek around the corner into the dark bathroom, I can see him standing over the toilet. So at least I guess he’s not doing anything shady. But still. Eventually he comes back. “Feels like I’ve gotta pee, but nothing’s coming out,” he tells me. Flops down on his back. Puts his legs in the air. “Fuck me,” he begs. I’m back to square one. I slide in that hole, amazed again by its heat and velvet interior. My dick is back to its full stiffness; I start sliding in and out. In this position he’s tighter. He’s clamping down on my dick hard, and gripping onto the head and the last inch for dear life whenever I pull out. “Fuck!” he says, stopping that scene even before it starts. “I’ve gotta pee!” Then he’s up again, and I’m holding my dick, and thinking to myself, Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t really care how convenient is the locale. I don’t care how hungry the guy said he was for some dick in his hole. I’m beginning to think I don’t really give a damn that his hole is a hot one. All I know is that being interrupted twice in five minutes because this asshole has to pee is pretty fucking irritating. If he does it again, I’m thinking, I’m just going to leave. While he’s in there standing over the toilet, I’m going to slip on my shorts, put on my sneakers, and walk out that door. What’s he going to do, chase after me down the hall with that ratty jock falling off his ass? I think not. He’s back again. “Get on your knees,” I say, my brusqueness coming solely from the fact that I’m pissed off at him. He groans slightly when I push into him for the third time. Ticked off as I am, I can’t deny the fact that I like the way his ass feels. I mean, fuck. It’s unfair that I know nice guys with holes that aren’t half as fuckable, while this asshole’s wandering around with the best hole I’ve dicked in ages. And I haven’t even been able to do anything with it yet. I’m fuming as I fuck. I’m barely concentrating on the sensations at hand, even though from the moment I’ve shoved inside him, my dick’s inching to orgasm. I can hear he’s grunting to himself as if I’m causing him pain. And sure enough, he’s pushing himself up with his hand. “I’ve gotta. . . .” I’ve got my hands on the reins of his jock. I let go with one to shove him down again. “You can pee all you fucking want after I’ve gone,” I tell him. “Until then, shut up, man up, and take the fuck.” And then I hold him down while I pound. He must be able to tell how irritated I am with him. He lies there, face in the mattress, whimpering, mouth gaping like he’s developmentally challenged, eyes rolling in the back of his head. Meanwhile, I fuck and fuck and fuck. This is where I get mine. I go in deep, angle my dick to the side on the pull-out, and thrust in again to give my head the maximum sensation. I don’t care if he fucking pisses on the bed. All I know is that he’s not getting up again while I’m there. “You got something for me?” he asks softly when he hears me breathing harder. “Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ve got something for you all right.” I shoot hard. The bed rattles against the wall; the mattress shudders. I dump the load inside his guts, right up that slimy cunt. Then I stand there while he milks my meat with his hole. Fucking slut. I knew his need for cum would override his fucking bladder. I pull out. Watch my cock slither back and point, still long and half-hard, toward the floor. I grab my sweat shorts and step into them. Slip into my sneakers. It’s only a matter of seconds and I’m ready to go. I open the hotel door. “Now you can pee,” I call back over my shoulder. I don’t bother to wait and see if he does. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When it comes to online hookups, it’s usually pretty easy to tell whether the other guy is serious or not. Usually it boils down to one thing: whether they ask too many questions, and about the wrong things. This last Sunday I placed an ad stating I wanted to give head. Nothing complicated. Nothing too weird. I said I just wanted to walk in, take down a guy’s pants, suck him to completion, swallow the load, and get the hell out. (Okay, I didn’t actually state the very last part. I hoped it would be inferred.) After I’d discarded the overwhelming number of replies over my photo that of course read with variations on, Hot dick! You should let me suck it!, I was left with a couple of promising possibilities. I wrote the guy who was most local first. His first reply had asked, Are you looking for now? I wrote back that I was indeed. What’s your body like? he wanted to know. Are you fat, fit, overweight, what? I wrote back that I was six-three and a hundred and sixty-five pounds, and that I was actually pretty lean, as he should have been able to tell by my photos, which had been taken that morning. He wrote back another email saying Well I don’t want you showing up and seeing you’re a fat slob. Are you looking for now or not?, I wrote. He wrote back, I notice you didn’t answer my question about whether you’re a fat slob or not. Photos can lie you know. At this point, I figured the guy was just dicking me around. Out of politeness, I wrote him and said that I had in fact answered his question in my second email, that my photos were current, and thank you, but I was going to look elsewhere. Five minutes later I got another email from him. So are you looking for now or not? I didn’t answer. This was not a guy who was going to hook up. A guy down I-95 seemed a little more promising at first, when he sent me an email saying he could host all afternoon and needed someone on his big dick soon. You got any more pics?, he asked when I wrote and told him I was available at that moment. When I sent pics, he wrote back, Any more? Face? I pointed out that I’d sent a face pic in my last email, and sent another. Any pics of your ass?, he wrote. I wrote back declining to share one of those, because he wasn’t going to be seeing my ass, much less doing anything with it. You got any videos of yourself? he wanted to know. I just stopped answering. The last guy was a Puerto Rican kid. Early twenties. Fucking hot, from his photos. Huge dick. I mean, easily nine inches of uncut skinny dick that he said he wanted sucked. I could cope with that. Are you free now?, I asked. Do you have more pics?, he of course asked. I sighed, considered just signing off and going about my business, but in the end gave him a chance and sent a few mixed X and G shots. He replied with a few more of his own, which at least gave me slight hope. Are you discrete? was his next question. I replied that I was very discreet, and used the correct spelling. How far away are you?, he asked. I told him it was no more than ten minutes from my place to his. Will you suck me deep down? he wrote back. I sighed, pretty sure that every new email was reducing my chances of actually seeing that Puerto Rican dick by about twenty percent. But I told him I’d suck him deep down. Can I take a video of you sucking me? was next. Look, I’ve got about ninety minutes, I wrote him. Do you want me to come over and suck you now, or should we put it off until later?, as in never, I was secretly thinking. But then to my surprise, he gave me his address and told me to text him after I’d parked. I was out the door like a shot before he changed his mind. The area in which I live has these odd and unpredictable outcroppings of granite that jut out of the earth like giant building-sized teeth; they’re massive fuck-yous from some ancient glacier that just dropped them millennia ago. It’s easier to construct urban areas around the damned things than excavate or destroy them. And this guy’s apartment building, I found out, was build atop one of the rockiest and highest plateaus in the city. I had to park at the bottom of his street, walk a steep incline to his parking lot, walk another incline to his building, and only then did I see him coming toward me—down a long and twisty staircase. I’m not totally out of shape. I do a lot of walking. But I was already winded from the uphill climb, and when I saw I still had another small-sized mountain to scale just to get to the door of the apartment building, my heart sank. But I followed him up and even assayed another flight of stairs to get to the second floor. By the time I was finally in his apartment, my heart was pounding like I’d undergone an old-fashioned stress test at the doctor’s office. “We have to get it done before my roommate comes back,” he whispered to me. “When’s your roommate back?” I asked. He shrugged. Which didn’t allay my anxiety level, let me tell you. Now, as I said, in his photos the guy was hot. I mean, super-hot. In person . . . not so much. I didn’t get a general sense that his photos were old or manipulated. I think he merely photographs spectacularly well, given his looks. Which weren’t ugly, exactly. But they surely weren’t pretty. I wasn’t there for his face, though. I yanked down his gym shorts and got my mouth on his dick. “Suck it deep,” he commanded. Not a hard order to follow, since he was soft. I ran my tongue around the inside of his foreskin and took him down to the root, slobbering over his dark-skinned stick and letting the tip of my tongue tickle his nuts when I hit bottom. He started to get hard almost instantly. “Get naked,” he whispered. I took my mouth off his dick. “I’m not getting naked if your roommate is going to walk in at any second,” I told him. “Show me your dick,” he begged. I was just wearing a pair of flimsy sweat shorts. No underwear. Big cock ring. I let the shorts fall around my ankles, and showed him my hard dick. “Show me your ass,” he pleaded. I complied, then started to kneel between his legs again. “Come on me,” he whispered. “Cum on my dick and lick both our loads off.” And then—I’d been in the apartment maybe for all of a minute and a half at that point—he started to dribble a very small load all over himself and the carpet. Mostly the carpet. I stood there, still half out of breath and astonished at the lightning speed with which this kid shot, just kind of gaping at him. “Come on me!” he said again. Well. I might as well get some kind of nut out of it. I stood between his legs and beat at my dick. “Hurry,” he ordered. Because that’s the way to get me feeling sexy, of course. I let go of my cock and stooped to pull up my shorts. “I think I’m just gonna head out. . . .” He cursed en español. “I got cum on the carpet!” he yelled. “Fuck! I’m going to be in trouble!” Like he’d been stung by hornets, he jumped up and ran to the kitchen, presumably for something to wipe up with. He returned wild-eyed. “You gotta go! My roommate’s gonna be home any time!” It wasn’t even until I was out the door that I thought to check for my keys. Luckily I had everything. Gentlemen (and ladies), learn a lesson from me. Sometimes it just behooves you to honor your instincts. And sometimes it’s just doesn’t pay to leave your house. Even for a nine-inch Puerto Rican cock. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I recently decided to give Craigslist a try again. Twice, in fact. A couple of local friends of mine had claimed great success with the m4m ads there, and something about the site has to keep compelling people to come back, right? I guess none of you will probably be surprised at all to hear that my ventures into the East Coast of Craigslist-land were just as spectacularly unsuccessful as in the midwest. Oh darn. I’ve gone and given away the whole plot of this entry! Many of my readers know that although I’ll follow just about any road that leads to sexual adventure, there are still a couple of areas unexplored. That’s mainly because they’re unusual enough that it’s difficult to find a partner to help out with them. One of these, of course, is my oft-shared fantasy of being blindfolded and restrained by a bottom I trust, and then of being used as a top by that bottom—or, in my more wild imaginings, by a number of unknown bottoms. A kind of reverse gang-bang, if you will. I’ve had several guys offer to put it together for me, but so far no one’s pulled through. (Will it work if I sigh heavily, gaze off into the distance, and say, I guess nobody loves me? Because although I dislike passive-aggression, I’ll queue it up if it works.) What I decided to advertise on Craigslist was a variation on that theme, essentially. I wrote an ad asking for someone to play dominant bottom to my submissive top. Now, having control, and exercising it, is part of my daily diet as a top. I’m used setting the pace and the agenda of a tryst; I’m totally accustomed to telling my partner what I expect of him and how he should accomplish it. I utterly get off on knowing that when I give an order, it’ll be obeyed. And it will be obeyed. I feel territorial pride about the holes I fuck, and I love knowing that if there’s anything I want from a guy, all I have to do is tell him. He’ll comply. Asking a bottom to dom me isn’t merely something that rubs against the grain; it’s almost so much against my natural instincts in the bedroom that it’s unimaginable. Forbidden. Definitely erotic. Ceding control, a quality that as a natural top I prize, has the tang of the taboo. So I wrote up the ad. Included my stats. Stated plainly that I was looking for an assertive bottom who wanted to control a top. Included a photo that showed the most of my assets, by which I mean my smile, of course. (And my junk.) Very clearly said that I’d only be replying to responses that were relevant to what I was looking for. And I stated that furthermore I’d only be replying to guys who included photos with their response. Twice I did this. Twice. In one of the largest Craigslist markets out there. And in response I got: - Approximately thirty-five responses from guys saying i want u to hold me down and facefuck the shit out of me ; - In the area of twenty-five to thirty responses that said hot dick r u dom?; - About twenty replies of dubious relevance that didn’t include a photo; - Another dozen that contained face pictures that looked like they’d been culled from the FBI Most Wanted bulletin board in the post office; and, - Three offers to make money from home safely and easily with no investment required! Out of all the responses I had to my ad, exactly one seemed suitable. A guy in Brooklyn sent me some shirtless photos that would’ve made any of my readers sit up and take notice. He was fit, furry, and masculine. He had a meaty, round ass. He was all bottom, he told me. He’d had fantasies of having a top who’d do his bidding in the sack, and who’d wear a leather collar and call him dad. He wanted to be in control. He could host. Well of course I replied back to the guy. We swapped two emails and batches of photos, and he told me he’d be back in touch when he got back from his vacation. Then I never heard from him again. Ordinarily I’d be positive about the results. I did, after all, get a reply from a hot guy I liked who seemed to understand what I was looking for. He didn’t follow through, but hey. I was close. That’s encouraging, right? In the wake of over a hundred replies, though, that one near-miss isn’t even looking too hot. Maybe I’ll try again in the future and hope for a new batch of Craigslist viewers. Maybe I’ll try somewhere else. Or maybe I’ll just set aside the scenario as the stuff of fantasy. If it’s ever meant to happen, it’ll happen. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Some sage advice from me to you guys: if one of your friends suggests a Christopher Street bar crawl, just say no. Or at least have bladders that’re larger than ours. The plan was to start at Rock Bar, right at the Hudson, and work our way east one bar at a time, stopping in for a single drink in each. I agreed to the plan because it sounded, as Barney Stinson might say, legen—wait for it—dary. In my head I pictured myself with my four friends, stopping in pubs old and familiar and new and interesting alike, then leaning against the bar ledges and tossing back shots, all in the spirit of friendly camaraderie. What actually happened was that we’d arrive in a bar with our legs crossed and expressions of pain on our faces, and then we’d all immediately run for the men’s rooms. After what would feel like hours of pissing like horses while making orgasmic sounds of relief, we’d stagger to the bar, take a couple of sips of something, and then repeat the process as we walked cross-legged with another gallon of liquid trying to slosh out of our urethras. Middle age is a bitch, folks. One of the friends I was with that night last week was an old buddy from Michigan whom I’ve known for almost a quarter of a century. He was young and handsome and a little bit arrogant when I first met him; over the years he’s grown jowly and morose. He moons over and falls desperately in love with twenty-year-old male Russian strippers who don’t see anything more of him than his wallet. When they’ve tickled him like a human ATM and extracted all his cash, he mopes and wonders why he’s so alone. Eeyore, I think of him. By the time we staggered into Pieces near the end of our trip, Eeyore had been itchily consulting his phone every thirty seconds. After I came back from the restroom and waved away the cute bartender offering liquid refreshment—I’d had enough fluid to pee out a tank suitable for a Titanic set piece—I found him slump-shouldered and morose on one of the barstools. “Can we make one more stop. . . ?” he asked me. “Well, sure,” I said, praying that wherever it was had a clean men’s room. “. . . in Midtown?” he concluded. It turned out that Eeyore had learned that one of his crushes was at a bar near Grand Central. His name was Ken, and he was a lawyer. We gathered that Eeyore’s plan was to show up, stare at Ken from afar, and feel sorry for himself for not being able to go home with the guy. It sounded like kind of a downer of a ending of a boozy kind of evening, but we agreed to it, steeled ourselves to holding our bladders for another twenty minutes, and went out to hail a cab. We quickly saw, upon walking into the Midtown bar, that Ken was not exactly what we’d expected. Eeyore had described him as a ‘hot redhead with a killer body’, when in actuality he was a kind of skinny, skeevy-looking redhead with a pot belly who was drunk off his ass. He was also singing along, badly, with the piano player in the lounge. “Why’s he singing with an accent?” I asked. “He’s from Alabama,” said Eeyore, staring at Ken over his drink. “Is that the accent you hear?” “No. . . .” I said, trying to think of how to phrase it. “It sounds more like if a Muppet version of Bette Davis were auditioning for Wicked. While gargling with Listerine. That kind of accent.” “Oh, stop,” Eeyore growled. We met Ken immediately after he finished defying gravity, when he came over, spilled his drink on me, and then proceeded to shake all our hands and immediately mangle our names. “This is my boyfriend, James,” he said, putting his arm around a handsome Asian man who’d been lingering off to the side. Well. All of us looked at James and Ken as they exchanged pecks on the lips, and then at each other. And then we looked at Eeyore, who looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon being slowly deflated. I swear, the man shrunk two inches in height right before my eyes. His lips had permanently wrapped around the straw in his vodka and soda. He stared at the floor. “Aw, honey,” I said, as I rubbed his back, after Ken and James had retreated to the other side of the room, where they dabbed at each other like fledgling couples tend to do. “Are you all right?” “No,” said Eeyore, sounding like he meant it. “He’s so beautiful.” He sighed, and stared at Ken while he sipped at his drink. I looked at Ken with more sober eyes, and saw an overgroomed thirty-something stuffed into some Abercrombie & Fitch clothing too young for him, but I kept my mouth shut about it. “I know, sweetie. Do you want me to break them up?” Ken turned his eyes to me, and raised his eyebrows. “It wouldn’t take much.” “What do you mean?” he asked. “All I’ve got to do is give the boyfriend a little of this,” I said, grabbing the crotch of my jeans, and squeezing. I spread my knees out and thrust forward my groin. “And you know. Give him a little of this.” I narrowed my eyes in James’ direction—neither he nor Ken were looking our way at the time. I bit my lip, and curled it, and let loose with a few come-hither looks intended purely for comic purposes. Then I sneered in a cocky manner and pretended to spank an invisible bottom. It didn’t cheer Eeyore up completely, but at least I got a small laugh out of him. That’s all I wanted. “Oh yeah,” I growled, toward James’ back. “The power of ma peen will take care of James for you,” I told Eeyore. “Twenty-five minutes, tops. Then Ken’s allllll yours.” “Yeah,” snorted Eeyore, as I pulled up my feet onto the bench where we were sitting, and jacked my legs open to their widest. “That’ll work.” “Don’t underestimate the power of ma peen,” I scowled at him. A drag queen dressed in head-to-toe zebra print, as she passed by, reached out and touched me lightly on the wrist. “Very subtle!”, she assured me before moving on. I looked at Eeyore. He looked at me. We both burst out into laughter, and I gave him a hug. I hadn’t fixed his sadness, but for the moment, I felt like I’d stopped the bleeding with a friendship Band-Aid. Well. I was still having issues holding my water. I spent a few minutes in the restroom emptying my bladder (and making out a little bit with a boy who was enjoying his twenty-first birthday). When I returned, my buddy Eeyore was sitting slumped over on the bench, fascinatedly watching Ken and James across the room. The pair were faced off against each other like a couple of fighting cats—shoulders hunched, eyes wide, mouths twisted into snarls. All that was missing was the puffy fur and the exposed fangs. “What the hell happened?” I asked Eeyore. “I don’t know!” he said. “One minute they were all over each other . . . it was disgusting . . . and then the next. . . .” He gestured at them. The pair rose and stalked by our table, in the direction of the outer bar. Their hands were stuffed into their own pockets. The drag queen passed by on her super-high stilettos, very carefully balancing a martini in her painted talons. “There will be drama to-noight!” she assured us. For several minutes Eeyore and I sat at our table, watching the formerly-happy couple bicker in the other room. They faced each other at the bar, gesticulated wildly, and shook with anger. At one point, Ken got up, slammed down his drink so hard that it sent a spray over the bar, and stomped out. He returned a couple of minutes later, stomped past poor James, who looked as if he’d been socked in the stomach, and marched into the piano lounge where we were sitting. “Well. Guess who just broke up with his boyfriend?” he asked Eeyore. Then, seeing James come after him, he sighed heavily, and escaped to the outdoor courtyard. James pursued him, obviously with a few more things to say. “Holy fuck,” I said. “Holy fuck,” Eeyore echoed. He seemed as stunned as I. Then he looked at his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. Almost exactly.” “What?” I asked, not comprehending. “The power of your peen.” He gestured down to my junk. “Oh,” I said. Then it sunk in. “Oh! Crap!” I’d been joking, of course. I knew it. Eeyore had known it. But there we were, less than half an hour later, and the happy couple’s relationship was hanging in tatters. “Wow. The power of ma peen.” I looked down at my open legs, amazed. Eeyore reached down, put his hands on my knees, and gently pulled together my thighs. “Be careful where you aim that thing, cowboy,” he said. “It’s done enough damage already.” More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My recent sojourn to Cape Cod didn’t coincide with Bear Week in Provincetown . . . though we overlapped a little. The last couple of days of my beach resort town vacation, mixed in among the tourist families and the twinkish gay boys with a weekly rental to their names were men of a decidedly more hefty and hirsute sort. By the time I left on Saturday morning, the patio of Joe’s Coffee on Commercial Street was overflowing with bearded men whose chest hair was bursting out of their XXL tank tops. And I certainly heard about Bear Week, the entire time I was there. You should see this place during Bear Week!, every merchant told me, with a knowing shake of the head. They would whip up visions of streets packed from side to side by partying bears, and of two-hour waits at the more popular restaurants, and of entire supermarkets gutted of everything, even health food, after swarms of hairy men descended upon them like ravenous vacationing locusts. I’m not crazy about crowds, personally, so getting out before all that happened was fine with me. Also, why attend Bear Week when it was all I heard about from my real-life friends when it happened? Not to mention the delicious and nearly constant stream of drama I get to witness on social media, afterward. The big saga I got to witness this year involved a very active and body-conscious muscle bear and his circle of friends blocking and defriending anyone who dared to suggest that Bear Week in Provincetown can be clique-ish and exclusionary. Not in MY experience, they sniffed as they clicked on the delete buttons, and then proceeded to gripe about the offenders in their various social media feeds. “Tedious insecure people!” said one of them. “Extreme introverts!” said another. “Obviously they have body insecurities that border on mental illness,” said another, dismissively. Now, if you think about it, a bunch of similar people of the same social circles blocking others and then agreeing among themselves they were right to do so is pretty much the dictionary definition of being clique-ish and exclusionary. Somehow the irony is escaping them, however. I’ve commented several times that for a group that had its roots in pushing for an acceptance of more body types, ages, and types of masculinity than were popular in gay iconography twenty-five to thirty-five years ago, its self-identifying members can sometimes be even more clannish and restrictive than twinks and circuit boys. The extreme intolerance of dissent within their own ranks that I sometimes witness just kind of reinforces that. And what is achieved, exactly, by vilifying those who dare to express an opinion they don’t wish to hear? Does feeling excluded automatically make someone an extreme introvert or someone with borderline mental illness? Can’t someone simply be disgruntled—and maybe even somewhat right to feel so—without being classified under some DSM-5 diagnosis? There are people out there, certainly, who hang back and don’t make an effort, then crab about it afterward. There are many people who achieve self-fulfilling prophecy by telling themselves (or others) repeatedly that they’re going to have a miserable time at a social event, that no one is going to like them or look at them, and who then give off such a negative vibe that everyone stays clear. The person in question gets the easy vindication of being right, but at the cost of making himself (and everyone else) pretty miserable. In big gatherings there are often a number of very closed-off, cliquey bears. (There are also cliquey muscle boys, and cliquey twinks, and cliquey nudists, and cliquey orgy hounds. Just depends on the group.) There are also a number of people who are so insecure that they refuse to have anything other than a terrible time. When the latter set up a hue and cry after an event, they’re pooping on the good times everyone else had—and it’s understandable to feel confused or even hostile about it. When the former badmouth and block anyone who dares dissent, though, it not only feeds into the negativity, but reinforces it. Your experience is not everyone else’s. Your good time is not everyone’s good time, nor is your week of feeling lonely and miserable what everyone else shared. Talk about your experience, certainly. Share it. But do so thoughtfully, and without painting everyone else to be the bad guy. Do it in a way that encourages communication—not shuts it down entirely. But enough about Bear Week. Let’s get to some questions from my readers. Feel free to ask me yours either via email (there’s an address in the sidebar on my blog), or via formspring.me. Do you find when composing your blog that the language just flows and it is perfect as written? Or do you find yourself going back and recomposing whole sentences and paragraphs? I don’t spend a whole ton of time on my journal entries. Although I do take my entries from my personal journal and post them publicly, they are at heart written for my eyes. I have a busy enough life that spending hours and hours on a blog post doesn’t seem like a great investment of time. So mostly my journal stuff tends to be what I would think of as first draft material. There have been a couple of occasions in which I’ve taken old journal entries and repurposed them as essays; in those cases I’ve had to do some considerable revision. My general rule of thumb is that I don’t like spending more than an hour writing an entry. Certainly the writing shouldn’t take any longer than the actual sex acts described therein. Since I do a chunk of the writing work in my head beforehand, generally I can stick to this goal. I’ll take a considerable amount of time deciding what approach I want to take to a piece, what the focus should be, and how narrow I intend to keep the aperture of my mental camera (I don’t know how to describe it in any other way), so that when I sit down to write, I know what I want to do. Adding to the last question—as your write do you discover things about yourself—that is, coming to realizations that you were not fully conscious of? Absolutely. This is why I keep a journal. I’ve always joked that journal-keeping is a lot cheaper than therapy would be. Since I know a lot of people who have seen therapists—and I know a lot of therapists, too—I know that I’m not far from the truth. Sitting down on a consistent basis and attempting to face truths about my behavior is exactly what I would want to achieve through therapy. I simply choose to do it through writing instead. I don’t always come to an epiphany every time I sit down to write. Sometimes I learn things about myself only over the long course of time, or when I examine old entries about similar topics, or individual lovers. As I learn to see the patterns of my life, though, I get more insight into what makes me tick. If I seek change, knowing myself makes it easier. What I do know is that as I live my life, I leave behind a trail of words. They don’t describe me in uniformly glowing terms, or as some idealized version of myself. If I wanted to be a role model, or leave the impression that I was a better and nobler person than I actually am, I wouldn’t dwell so much on my failures, or my insecurities, or be so frank about my sex life. What those words do is paint a picture of who I’ve been and who I am now, warts and erections and all. Because of my 35-year habit of keeping a journal, I’m not ashamed of that person in the least. Manual or electric toothbrush? I couldn't live without my Sonic toothbrush. That thing disintegrates plaque on contact and leaves my gums feeling like they've been massaged by a thousand tiny fingers. Given the ratio of fakes and flakes on hook-up sites, do you have recommendations or a recommended strategy for bottoms seeking to get laid? First of all, I have to concede that I'm not usually advertising on hook-up sites as a bottom. A real and successful bottom might be a better person to ask. There are legions of bottoms on Manhunt and Gaydar and other hook-up sites, however, and they're all competing for a limited number of tops. A bottom needs to stand out in several ways. At bare minimum, I ask that the bottom: --Respect my privacy --Refrain from being a psycho stalker --Refrain from behaving as if he's entitled to my dick, and --Not be a pest. If you can convey your sanity in both your profile and your subsequent communications with the top you want, then he really should respond politely. But you still have to stand out as a likely prospect, which to me (other tops might have other standards!) means conveying: --A genuine desire to meet --A means to make a meeting happen, sooner rather than later --The promise of a rinsed-out hole --That you're someone who'll be focused on my cock first, and his own orgasm second, and --That you're someone who will not allow substances to interfere with the sex. Then and only then do tops look for the most personal things they want from a bottom. These are even more highly individual traits. For me, they include: --A hunger for sperm, especially mine --Guys who share my enjoyment of sub/dom, dad/son, and non-vanilla play --A great kisser, and --A very tactile approach to lovemaking. But that's just me. Other tops are going to have other specific interests. You've got a limited amount of time to impress a top. The more quickly you can communicate your stability, genuine interest, and specific ways that you suit an individual top's needs, the more likely you are to get his cock. Typing " 'Sup?' " or "Looking?" isn't going to do it. A couple of other things: With so many bottoms showing ass photos online, no top wants to have to beg and plead to see your photos. If they're locked, unlock them up front. If you don't have them posted in your profile, for the love of god post them—or offer in your initial note to send them through email. And please don’t lock them again immediately. Chances are you’re not running for Congress. You can leave them open for the top to peruse at his leisure. Show yourself to your best advantage in your profile, your photos, and in your interaction with the top. Make him feel as if he's the one top who can satisfy your needs—definitely don't act as if he's a dildo attached to a pair of hips. Don't make outrageous claims you can't back up. And keep hunting, even when you've been rejected a few times. More...