TheBreeder

That made me laugh aloud, emb. Thank you!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I first moved from a small Southern city to the U.S. Midwest, I felt as if I might as well have moved there from Kazakhstan. I was supposed to be among my intellectual peers in the grad school that had given me a full ride. Whenever I opened my mouth to speak during my first week of class, though, my peers would simply stare at me, agog. The first couple of times I thought it was because I’d stunned them with my intellectual brilliance, but no. They weren’t listening to what I was saying. They were stunned by—and giggling at—my accent. “You talk funny!”, one of them volunteered. Even one of my professors, that first week, said to me, “What you just said might have been true for all I know, but I was too busy listening to that hilarious accent of yours to notice.” Hilarious. Jesus. At worst, my Southern drawl was extremely mild. I learned very quickly to scrub my speech patterns and speak only in approved Midwestern tones. I wanted people to listen to what I was saying, not how I said it. I also had to battle Midwestern perceptions about Southerners and race. It seemed that every Detroiter wanted to corner me and get the real deal on how we treated African-Americans. “I bet you’ve seen some rough stuff down there,” they’d say confidentially. “Beatings. Lynchings. That kind of thing.” Well, no. I didn’t. The more unfortunate side of the Midwestern attitude toward race could’ve easily been summed up by something someone said to me my first month in Michigan: “I know the South is full of prejudice, right,” one white guy said to me. “It’s like, the only place in the country you can get away with saying anything about hating spooks.” Nice, right? It’s okay to be racist in the Detroit—where one can actually draw on a map the dividing lines between the highly-segregated black and white neighborhoods. It’s just considered polite not to say anything about it in front of other, presumably lesser, races. And it’s considered acceptable, to a degree, because hey, they’re still way better than Southerners, right? I always had to explain, rather stiffly, that I grew up in a Southern city that was richly integrated, that neither I nor anyone I knew had used racial invective, especially the word spooks, and that although the South had a deep history of shame when it came to race relations, I was finding Michigan simultaneously both self-congratulatory about its alleged liberality, and yet a hell of a lot worse than anything I’d ever encountered back home. I’ve been trying to formulate a response to all the Paula Deen nonsense that’s been filling the airwaves and creating noise on the internet the last couple of days. If you’ve not been paying attention, the rotund Southern television chef gave a deposition in which she admitted that she has, in her lifetime, uttered the word nigger. Consequently the Food Network terminated her contract. The situation’s ugly and unfortunate on both sides. It’s an ugly and hurtful word. She shouldn’t have said it. No question about it. It’s reprehensible. At the same time, though, I have some complex feelings about the response of both the media and the internet. I’m always suspicious of cultural events when huge groups of people dogpile on to express their outraged indignation about what someone has done or said. Justified or not, there always seem to be other motives at play—whether it’s the quick fix of a rush of adrenaline and self-righteous glee, or the schadenfreude to be enjoyed from taking a vicious swipe at a target already laid low. I’m no fan of Deen’s—either her television personality or her cooking—but a portion of the excited glee that seems to be coming from kicking her while she’s down seems to arise from people who like to take cheap and easy shots. She’s a fatty—therefore you know she must be morally weak. She uses a lot of butter—she must have no self-control whatsoever. Then there’s the fact Deen is Southern. She talks funny. (She has exactly the same accent as my mom’s mother used to, so it’s not particularly comic to me.) Of course she’s said the word nigger. She’s from the South, right? They all talk funny and act like that down there. Not like the rest of us, the nice people. I’ve seen outrage on social media from men I know who have absolutely no issue calling women who stand in their way words like cunt and bitch; I’ve seen moral superiority from a former school acquaintance who during the election was so loud and obnoxious about “Obama bin Ladin and the fags controlling him” that it’s tough to take anything she says seriously about how deeply shocked, shocked and appalled, she is about Deen’s admission. All of us in our lifetimes have used hateful language. That fact excuses nothing. But to dogpile onto someone else when she’s been backed into a corner, merely to express our own superiority, is disingenuous. Finger-pointing accomplishes nothing; it doesn’t help anyone explore we we use hurtful words, or under what circumstances. And those are dialogues that we, as a society, really should be having, rather than resting on our perceived laurels and congratulating ourselves for not being as bad as other people. Whew. Heavy topic this morning. Thanks for putting up with it. Let’s get to some questions from formspring.me. With all the sexual encounters you have had, what was the wildest request for sex from someone you have done, and to compare what was the wildest request you wouldn't do? I think the most offbeat request I ever had was to stretch someone's scrotum skin flat and tight, like a drum—or like Cassandra the Last Human on Doctor Who, for those of you who watch that—and drive sterilized finishing nails through it into a block of wood. That I had no problem with. I did have a problem when the same guy wanted me to study up on genital scarring and perform some of those rituals armed with a sterilized skinning knife. I passed on that one. As a married man do you find having a wedding ring attracts more attention? Also I’ve heard (not experienced) that married men usually make lousy tops supposedly because they're doing all the humping like they do in marriage & prefer to be done than the doing. I was just noting last week that individuals tend to be observant about certain things. Some people are very observant, for example, about eye color, and could tell you exactly what hue a person is simply by talking to them once. (I am not good at that.) Other people are good about wedding rings, and can tell you immediately if an absent person wore one or not. (I'm not really good at that either. What I am good at is telling you exactly what I ate at any restaurant I've visited in the last 15 years, and probably what everyone else in my part ordered, as well.) So for those people who just don't notice rings, no, mine doesn't really attract attention. There are men I've been with a dozen times who don't realize it's there. I'm pretty open about being in a relationship in online profiles, so that people can self-select whether they care to pursue anything with me or not based on that criterion. However. For those who meet me and notice the ring, it often becomes a focal point of the encounter. There are a lot of men who like to kiss it or to suck the ring it's on. Some men like to have me remove it and place it in my pocket or on the table or somewhere out of sight, so that they can pretend I'm single and theirs for the duration of the encounter. Others like me to place it on one of their fingers while we fuck, as a bonding experience—like we’re temporarily married during the fuck. I don't know where you hear that married men are lousy tops; I hear from my best bottoms that their best tops are usually married men who fuck women as well. There are a lot of married men who prefer to be done rather than do the doing, if that makes sense—but there are just as many gay men who are like that too. Who was the first person you thought you were in love with? Do you still think you were in love with them? When I look back on my teen years, I think it's odd that despite all the men I had sex with, I never really fell in love with any of them. I was fond of a few. I certainly enjoyed a lot of them. I saw many of them for years. But I assumed romance wasn’t in the cards, so I didn’t expect or look for it. It wasn't until college that I fell in love for the first time, and it was with a girl in my sophomore dorm. She was smart as a whip and tolerably pretty, in the same way Hermione is pretty at Hogwarts though neither Harry nor Ron ever notice her through most of those books. But she was from Long Island (which was as exotic to me as Hogwarts would’ve been) and she caught my fancy. I spent most of my college years mooning after her from afar. We were good friends, you see, but she was spending most of her college years mooning after another boy. And he treated her like dirt, while he kept her hoping for an eventual romance and traditional white wedding. He kept her on the hook, while she kept me on the hook, while I mooned after her and kept dozens of hopeful men on hooks of my own. Was I really in love? Yeah, probably. But if I didn't have the nuts to tell her about it, I didn't deserve to have her. Simple as that. What it did teach me, eventually, is that sitting around and hoping is a piss-poor excuse for courtship. I never made that mistake again. Rob, I feel I must thank you for sharing a private side of your life and innermost thoughts. I feel there are others like me who find it difficult to respond to you as we have very ordinary lives that may bore you. Thank you again. I appreciate that you're grateful, my loyal reader. Thank you. I wish you wouldn't refer to your own life as boring, though. Or if it is boring, make it exciting! You have the capacity to direct your life toward goals that are both exciting and fulfilling—but it’s up to you to steer in the direction you want to go. It won’t simply happen without you taking control. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There are slow or even tragic evenings at the park-and-ride lot. Then there are Monday nights like this one, when I pull with a sharp right up the ramp and into the center of an empty stretch of spaces at the far end. I’m not even there for a hot minute when another vehicle slides in next to mine. It’s a slick black sedan, foreign-made. I look up from my phone warily, steeling myself for the sight of a bad set of teeth, or a less-than-attractive face, or a belly upon which one could easily rest entire shelves of commemorative plates. But no, the guy’s handsome—clearly Latin, with salt-and-pepper hair on the pepper side, groomed into a professional and sexy wave across his forehead. Despite the gray, he’s younger than I. He’s wearing a crisply-pressed white businessman’s shirt, and a gray suit jacket. He’s lost the tie somewhere before this exit. His head is turned to look in my direction. I have absolutely no qualms about staring back. This man is fine. Damned fine. For a half-minute we bathe in each other’s glances. I can tell from the flicker of his eyes he’s checking out my jawline, my hair. I’m looking at the neat lines of his shirt, the angle at which it falls against an obviously-muscular chest. He unbuckles. Open his door. Steps out of his car. When he stands, I can tell he’s only about five-five, maybe five-six. But he’s a hot little fucker. While he maintains eye contact with me over his windshield, he pulls off that expensive suit coat, folds it deftly, and stores it on his seat. His fingers flip open the clasps on his cuff links; he tosses them atop the jacket and shuts his door. Then he’s folding the ends of those French cuffs over each other and exposing his brawny forearms as he moves in my direction. He bends down a little, looks through my window. I nod, and he lets himself in. “I like your looks,” he says, once he’s sitting down. His hand reaches out to massage the bulge in my jeans. There’s not a shy bone in this guy’s body. “Damn. Big boy.” He’s got a lump in his own pants that he’s rubbing with the heel of his free hand. “You’re not tiny,” I comment. “You married?” he asks. I nod. “You?” “Yeah,” he says. “Sixteen years. Damn. I love that dick. That’s what I need.” He looks around. I do, too. There’s a pickup truck at the lot’s other end with its back hatch pulled down; two men are moving something from a car to the truck’s bed, but they’re a long distance away. He unzips his pants, pulls them down beneath his butt. They’re wrapped around his knees. He’s wearing a pair of blue-striped boxers from Brooks Brothers; he opens the fly and pulls out his cock. It’s no monster, but it’s a beauty. A good six and a half inches, maybe, fat, perfectly formed. “Fuck,” I say. “Let me suck it.” “So you like sucking?” he asks, looking around. “I love to suck.” “Ahhh, probably shouldn’t do it here though.” “Just a taste,” I beg. I’m hungry for that beauty. “Show me yours.” I unzip, unbutton. I pull out the goods. He hisses at the sight. “Sssssshit. You’re way bigger than me.” “You’ve got a hot one though,” I assure him. I’m still staring at it. “What gets you super-hard?” he asks. I look around again. “Privacy,” I joke. “How about a hot ass?” I nod, and lick my lips. Yeah. I love hot ass. And he can tell. The fucker responds by turning in the passenger seat so that he’s resting on his right hip. He pulls down his boxers and exposes his butt to me. It’s round, and smooth, and creamy. “Touch it,” he says. “Go on. Touch it.” I waste no time. I reach out with my hand and grab the man’s butt. He loves the way I manhandle his flesh. “Squeeze it. Yeah. It can take some rough treatment,” he says in a soft voice. “Yeah. Just like that.” I have one cheek in each hand, and I’m squeezing and separating them. I’m pulling them apart to expose his hole. It’s tiny, and pink, and hairless, almost as if it’s been shaved. I’m pretty sure this is natural, though. “You can touch it,” he whispers. “It’s cool. It’s clean. Touch it.” I run a fingertip over the pucker. It responses by disappearing and then blossoming out. “Beautiful,” I muse. “You want it?” he wants to know. I nod at him. He looks at me over his shoulder, then sticks a meticulously-manicured thumb into his mouth. He wets it, then reaches around and shoves it into his own hole. “Show me how you’d fuck me,” he says. He gestures with his head at my dick. “Beat it.” My meat is stiff and throbbing at this point. I check around me again before I begin pumping, but then I keep my eyes on that hole. He’s sodomizing his own butt with his thumb, driving it in and pulling it out again. His wedding ring glints at me with every thrust. “Would you fuck me hard?” he wants to know. “Yeah, I’d fuck you hard,” I say. I start pounding my fist around my meat, to show him. It turns him on. He squirms and pulls apart his cheeks to expose his winking hole again. “I’d fuck you like a bitch in heat.” “Bet the wife loves that monster raping her,” he says. Our eyes meet. “I know I would.” It’s the intimacy of that instant that sets me off. Sperm spurts out of my dick and cascades down my clenched fist, icing the knuckles and dripping down onto the seat below. He watches with fascination until I’m done. Then he rights himself on the seat, stares at my still-oozing erection. In a swift, unexpected motion he leans over. I feel the heat of his breath on my shaft, feel the wetness of his tongue. It grazes against the head as he takes a lick of my load for his prize. Then he’s groping in my glove box and tossing me a napkin from Taco Bell, while he pulls up his boxers and suit pants and pulls himself together. “Are you around here often?” I ask. I want to see this man again. Naked, in a hotel room. “Not often. Even the little I am is too often,” he says, not unkindly. We both know the chances of running across each other again soon are slim. “I get that,” I tell him. He waits for me to clean up my mess, and to pull up my pants again. Then he’s out and gone. From his own car he gives me a salute before he pulls out. Encounters like I wrote about last week are what make me always consider not going back to this particular car park. Men like this one are what keep me going back. More...

One of the points I meant to make (but forgot...typical) was that sometimes for every hot fuck, there are a lot of strike-outs, misses, and sometimes outright bad encounters. We might not want to dwell on them, but they're there, and sometimes it's important to acknowledge it.

I'm regularly taken aback by how many people never visit the dentist. I grew up assuming it was one of those things that everyone simply does as a matter of course. I now see that it's not. I feel sorry for those who don't understand why it's important, and even more so for those who can't afford it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Guys are always asking me in email or on an instant messenger about the park-and-ride lot I visit. They picture it as basically a roadside orgy, an outdoors bathhouse—a spot where cruisers approach my windows the minute I drive up, hoping for a taste of my dick. Throw in some roller skates and a chocolate malted and the cruisers sound like carhops at a sexy Treasure Island drive-in. Obviously, it’s not like that at all. No, the park-and-ride lot is first and foremost just a parking lot in the middle of nowhere where businessmen and women meet for carpools into Manhattan in the mornings. It’s where families from different parts of the county will meet to transfer crap for a weekend tag sale from one trunk to another. It’s the spot from which busses carrying school groups to a weekend theater matinee will leave, and where the parents will idle at the appointed time to pick them up again. At any given time, eighty to ninety percent of the cars in the lot are there for legitimate business. Frankly, there are days on which the remaining ten percent aren’t worth hanging around for. I’ve had a little more time to myself than usual this month and I’ve ended up hitting the park-and-ride a little more than usual in the last couple of weeks. I went at eleven on a Sunday night (“Sunday nights are incredibly hot at this place!”, read the online review at a cruising site) to find myself the only car in the lot at all. I left after a very quiet and action-less fifteen minutes. I paid the lot another visit when it was on my way home the next night. It was after rush hour, so there were plenty of open spots around. I was a little disappointed when, after a couple of minutes in a quieter corner of the lot, a woman pulled in next to my car. It was dusk, and her van had some kind of tinting on the windows, so all I could really see was a blond bob. I figured it was some suburban housewife picking up her husband after a late night at the office. Then she got out of the car with a black clutch in her left hand. It wasn’t a woman. It was definitely a cross-dresser. Not an artful cross-dresser, either—that is, not one who went to any lengths to create an illusion of femininity. Basically, it was an old bald man with a wig in a Lily Pulitzer dress, with thick chest hair sprouting out of the neckline. He looked like Benny Hill’s sidekick, Jackie Wright, stuffed into leftovers from the local Methodist church rummage sale. Luckily I’d already pulled out my cell phone to check mail when I’d thought it was a housewife; I slunk down in my seat and did my best to appear invisible as she made several passes by the front of my car in an effort to entice me. It didn’t work. Another time I went back to find the place hopping—just not with anyone I found remotely attractive. After I parked my car, two guys—one Phillip Seymour Hoffman lookalike who was actually wearing a trench coat that made him look like a flasher, and the other a married guy with a comb-over who pulled a fifth of bourbon out of his trunk and took a massive swig from it before approaching—circled around my car like it was a fishing boat, and they were sharks from one of the Jaws movies who’d caught the scent of bloody chum. When I maintained a studious (and oblivious) concentration on my cell phone and proceeded to make an imaginary call to no one, they took off into the woods and presumably went at each other. And they were welcome to it. A third man approached my car after they left. He wasn’t bad looking. He was tall, in his forties, and wasn’t actively cultivating the image and dress sense of a child molester. My bar isn’t too high, you know. “How’re you doing tonight?” he said, rubbing a bulge in the front of his jeans. “I’m good,” I told him, giving him a great big smile. Men like my smile. I like to disarm them with it. He was so charmed that he smiled back. I actually recoiled at the sight of his teeth. At the roots they were yellow. Out toward the ends, they were a rancid brown. Even as I type these words, I’m trying not to gag at the memory. I don’t know whether I was looking at active decay, or the kind of tobacco stains that came from religiously packing chaw into his mouth before every bedtime. But it was vile, whatever it was. It was so disgusting that I was actually speechless. “You looking for fun?” he leered at me with those brown teeth, as he leaned in to look through the driver’s side window. I was totally speechless. There was no way I was having sex with that man. I didn’t want that mouth and those teeth anywhere near my dick. Despite the fact that he’d already peered in to see the outline of my hard-on beneath the flimsy shorts I was wearing, I was considering initiating another imaginary phone call. Then the guy saved me, when he saw my left hand scrambling to cover up my quickly-evaporating arousal. “Aw, fuck,” he said, heaving his shoulders. “You’re married.” He wheeled around like a teenaged girl upset that I hadn’t bought her the pair of shoes she’d wanted. “Fuck. Why do I always have to fall for the married ones?” “OH WELL!” I nearly shouted with relief, as I rolled up my windows. “SORRY ‘BOUT THAT!” I think the tread marks are still there that I left as I peeled rubber home. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I don’t think there’s a single person alive who, when a kid, didn’t hope he could affect the world with his thinking. Coincidence happens when the paths between the wished-for and the actual cross, and little kid brains become convinced some mystical assertion of will is the cause. Is there anyone who hasn’t clenched his juvenile fists and closed his eyes and tried to move mountains with one desperate, silent wish? I doubt it. Last week I was playing bingo at the local watering hole, and when the bartender wandered over to look at my card, he asked what numbers I was looking for. “I need two,” I replied, trying not to stare at the guy’s biceps, “G-55, for one.” Then right at that moment, the drag queen pulling the bingo balls yelled out, “G-55!” I felt a momentary rush of imaginary power over the world for a moment. The bartender fist-pumped the air. I just grinned, shook my head, and chalked it up to the persuasive power of coincidence. But that didn’t stop me from concentrating really hard for the rest of the game and thinking, B-9. B-9. B-9!!! Just in case. This story I’m about to tell took place on Tuesday. I’m in the city, walking across 48th Street. It’s a beautiful day out—sunny, temperature hovering around seventy-two. The kind of spring afternoon on which anything seems possible. I’m running errands, but I’m in no particular hurry to get them done because of the balmy weather. So I’m passing the uptown stop for the B train and for some reason remembering that bingo game from the week before. And I’m mentally shaking my head at my silliness and thinking, I just WISH I could get what I want by thinking it. Then my eyes light on a guy stepping up onto the sidewalk from the subway station steps. He’s handsome. Oh my god, so handsome. The guy looks like Gerard Butler’s beefy, impossibly hard-bodied animated character from 300 has stepped off the screen and into business casual. He wears a lilac-colored pressed dress shirt that hugs every muscle in his considerable chest. His slacks, dark and fine-woven, cling to his hard ass. His face is rugged, his hair thick and wavy. I don’t usually notice eye colors right off, but it’s impossible to miss the sapphire blue of his. When I pass the guy, we’re no more than three feet apart. I take in the tight shirt, the beefy body, those glittering gemstones of eyes, and think to myself, If I could make stuff happen just by thinking it . . . Fuck. That’s when our eyes meet. I feel that shock that sparks when two men lock stares. The pop of electricity that leaves me startled and breathless. He isn’t just looking at me. He actually stops still at the top of the stairs. His eyes only break from mine to flick down the rest of my body. I’m wearing a dark gray sport shirt and a pair of dress jeans—nothing special, but I’d found the outfit flattering when earlier I’d left home. Then our eyes fasten back on each other. And I walk on, while my brain wildly thinks, Holy crap! Did I make THAT happen? It’s tough to justify why I don’t stop walking. It’s a Manhattan thing. We have places to go. Things to do. Strolling is for tourists, people. Our little legs keep moving in the direction we’re pointed. It’s not until I’m a few steps past that I’m thinking, God damn, I wish I’d stopped. Or that I even realize that stopping is an option. By the time I do, only three seconds have passed. He’s still standing there by the subway stairs, looking after me. So I pause, then turn and walk back to him. I don’t know how to talk to beautiful men, generally. Built fuckers in their thirties whom I’m half-convinced and half-afraid are only staring at me because I’ve stunned them in the tracks using solely the power of my brain waves? That’s even tougher. But I fake it. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Hi,” he replies, staring at me like I’m the answer to his god-damned prayer, and not the other way around. “I—“ I start to stammer. At the same time, he says, “You—“, then trails off. We both laugh a little. That ice is broken. “Are you hung?” he blurts out. “You kinda look like you’d be hung.” I nodded and reply that yes, I am. “Top?” he ask. “Yes again.” He looks at my crotch, then looks into the steady stream of people meandering by. “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he says, using the preamble that men use right before they do something they’ve done many times more than once. “But I’m horny as shit. Do you wanna come home with me for a little bit? I’ve gotta stop off at my office real quick, but . . . maybe you’ve got something you need to do, right?” “I don’t usually do this either,” I fib. “But yeah. I’ll go with you,” I say. In the back of my head, that little part of me begins to nag. It’s the part that always pipes up I’m not worthy, that he’ll laugh at me when I got my clothes off, that I’m being set up for some massive Carrie prom night-scaled disaster. I switch that obnoxious twat right off. There’s no earthly reason I don’t deserve to be with this man. I swallow, then say with more assurance, “Yeah. Let’s go.” The stop-off he has to make was on 50th; I sit in the lobby under the watchful eye of a security guard while he dashes up to his office and back again in the space of ten minutes. Then we’re off again to push through the crowds on the way to his place on Ninth. We don’t speak much beyond pleasantries. But I can’t help but notice, on the way over, how both women and men glance at him with appraisal as we pass. Nor can I help from inwardly crowing, Yeah, but I’m the one who stopped him in his tracks with my magical thinking. He starts to shed his clothing the minute we’re through the much-varnished door of his Hell’s Kitchen flat. He kicks off his tasseled loafers on the mat, flips open his cuffs and shirt buttons as we pass the efficiency kitchen, drops the shirt at the entry to the living room. The belt hits the floor by his flatscreen. The pants he tosses on the armchair. He peels first his black dress socks from his feet and then the tank from his chest as if they’re layers of onion skin, and lets them fall so that he’s standing there in nothing but his underwear. Andrew Christian, they are. Designer underwear baffles me for the most part; it seems as if most men buy and fetishize it as if they believe pulling up a pair of overpriced briefs over their knees and thighs will magically transform their bodies into those of the sleek and muscular models on the boxes. It never does. With this guy, though. Fuck. That underwear probably fantasized that it’d be lucky enough to find someone like this piece of work to wear them. That underwear probably prayed that could ever be cozying the junk of a guy like this. Now I’m stunned. I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor and stand there, hands at my side, and stare as the musclebound god faces me. He correctly assumes I’m admiring his physique. He’s incorrect to think that I wanted to see him pose, though. He makes a stupid duck face and curls his arm to show off his guns, then hunches over to flex his chest. I find that crap phony and off-putting, so I hold up a hand and twirled an index finger at the ceiling. “Turn around,” I tell him. Perhaps not entirely coincidentally, it’s the same finger and motion one uses to signify Big whoop. He turns. He puts a leg out, shifts his weight. He looks to the side, his eyes sidling back to mine. He’s posing again. His thumbs hook into his underwear, and he teases me by pulling down the waistband. I haven’t taken off a thing until this point, but as he puls his undies up and down over the round perfection of his ass, I unbutton my shirt. I slide loose my belt buckle, unbutton my jeans and let them fall to my ankles. My own underwear—five bucks a pair, Uniqlo with a Keith Haring print—fall into them. I cup my dick in my hand and point it at him. All the phoniness of his poses evaporates. “Fuck, you are hung,” he says. “I don’t lie,” I say. “Not about that.” He licks his lips. We stare at each other again, eyes locked as firmly as they had been on the street. “I want it in me,” he admits in a half-whisper. I nod, once, in the direction of the sofa. He grabs the back with his hands, and settles his knees on the seat. I kneel down behind him. “I don’t know if I’m real fresh,” he says from over his shoulder. “I’m clean to fuck. But I don’t know about rimming. Sorry, dude.” “Okay,” I say, standing up. He’s got a bottle of lube and some poppers on the glass table behind the sofa. He takes the lube, squirts some on his hand, and rubs it on his hole. Then he reaches back to grab my cock. It’s the first time he’s felt it. He gives it a good squeeze, tests the heft, feels the length. Then he clasps the lube and poppers in his hands like talismans and nods over his shoulder at me. This isn’t a romance. We haven’t kissed. We’ve barely talked. He hasn’t made a move to suck my dick or get my number. This is a fuck, raw and simple. My dick’s hard and already dripping, anticipating pushing its way into that muscle ass and owning it for a few minutes. He’s not easy to get into, either. I can’t tell whether he’s bearing down against me, or trying some exotic technique to make himself appear tighter than he actually is, but getting the head past his outer ring takes effort and a minute of battering my dick against him. But once I’m in, I’m in. All the way to the base. And it feels good. He’s clamping down on the last inch of meat where my dick meets my pelvis, waggling his butt around and refusing to let me out. “Dude,” he’s gasping out. “That feels amazing. That’s a real top’s dick. I knew you were going to be hung. I don’t know why. I just knew when I saw you.” “You feel gooooood,” I drawl, beginning to get into the fuck. I slide in and out, watching my cock thicken and swell with just a single sweet stroke. When he huffs deeply from the bottle of poppers, his hole deepens even more. I feel the warm flesh soften and blossom around my stem. His arms cross his chest. With the poppers in his right hand and the lube in his left, he reminds me of a pharaoh posed and carved onto an ancient Egyptian mastaba. From the waist up, anyway. From the waist down, he’s all slut. His cunt makes soft squelching sounds as I push in and out. He moans in time with my fucking, and raises his hips to push back against me. Forty minutes before we’d been strangers passing on the street. Now we’re tied in copulation like two dogs going at each other, and I’m not pulling out the knot of my dick until I’m done. I fuck him on the sofa for several minutes until he begs to switch positions; with admirable athleticism he flips himself onto his back, raises his butt to the level of my hips, and begs for me to drive it in. He hangs onto his own ankles as I plow deep. A couple of minutes more and he’s oozing lube from the bottle over his cock and balls. Some of it drips down onto my feverish dick and slides into his already-wet ass. Then he starts to jack. I can tell by the way he’s playing with himself that he’s going to shoot quickly, whether he wants to or not. I don’t intend to find out whether he’s one of those bottoms who’ll let me continue fucking after he comes, or whether he’ll start complaining and twisting to get me out of him the minute he’s shot. I intend to get my orgasm, too. And it’s close enough that all I have to do is pick up the pace a little, grind into him a little more aggressively, and let my nuts do the work. Our orgasms are close. He shoots first, loosing a blast of semen that slops across his chest and nipples and forms a rope of pearls across his sternum. I’m there with him, seconds later, painting his guts in a climax so overwhelming that I clench my face in what has to look like pain. I feel his legs swing down; my cock pops out. I’ve barely got my vision back than he’s wiping my dick down with a hand towel and chattering about how he’s got to get to the gym before five. Doesn’t matter. I get the message. We did what we were meant to do, and now it’s done, past tense. I pull up my pants, button my shirt, make sure I look respectable in the mirror, and I’m on my way. He pats my ass on the way out, says we should do it again sometime. Sure thing, boss. Whether or not we will, I don’t really know. Probably not. But that’s okay. I’m not mournful when I leave. I don’t know the guy’s name. I don’t have his number, didn’t ask for his email. I’m looking at it this way: if the universe hadn’t wanted us to meet, it would’ve sent me down 49th instead of 48th. It would’ve distracted me with some kind of fucking Elmo or Statue of Liberty performer in my path closer to Times Square, or held me back at a traffic light so that by the time this guy emerged from the bowels of the B train station, my legs would’ve carried me in another direction. But the universe, or coincidence, let this encounter happen. If it’s meant to happen again, it’ll push this guy in my path at some future point. I don’t care. I’ve had fun. The whole thing was kind of fucking crazy, right? And besides, I’m leaving his place feeling good. I’m feeling incredible, in fact. I’m cock of the walk, the proudest fucking top in the whole damned city. I’m grinning like a god-damned fool. And why? Here’s where I want to write, Because things like amazing-looking studs stopping in the street to check me out just don’t happen to me. But it’d be a lie. Things like that do happen to me, now and again. However, they don’t drop into my lap because of anything I’ve thought, or some magic brain-wave I transmit that stops hot men dead in their tracks. I don’t believe my brain has magical powers. My preferred form of magical thinking is more a way of looking for the magic in the world around me, for noticing opportunities. It takes more than wishing to make magic happen. So I look handsome men in the eye. I stop my legs from walking and turn them in the other direction, on whim. I say hello to strangers. I keep my sails unfurled for adventure, and sometimes let unknown winds steer me where they may. An alchemy of good luck and an openness to taking chances—that’s all real magic often is. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’ve bottomed four times in the last six months. Twice for the Russian, once for Tim the senior, and once in a group encounter I’ve not recorded yet. It’s something of a giant leap for me—the number is four hundred percent more than I had bottomed in more than a half-dozen years prior. I’m not suddenly turning into a big old bottom dad or anything, trust me. That isn’t on my agenda. It has been kind of nice, though to be able to go into an encounter knowing that if some handsome man or sweet boy plays with my hole, I can choose to roll over and present my butt. For years, thanks to my own fears and misgivings, that wasn’t even an option. It’s always nice to have options. After the Russian wrecked my hole in March, though, I limped back to Grand Central feeling as if my intestines had been turned inside out. For days I was sore and tender down there. A pleasant kind of tender, to be sure. The kind of ache accompanied by glowing memories. But at the time, I thought to myself, You know, I’ve really got to do something about acclimating myself to that monster dick. Over the next few days I parsed my memories of the experience of the Russian fucking me to find out the parts I really needed to work on. What it pretty much boiled down to is that my most uncomfortable moments had to do with the initial penetration. I would tense up when the Russian fingered my hole, or jammed lube in with his fingers. Sure, some of the discomfort probably had to do with his passion and impetuous desire to get inside me as quickly as possible, but a lot of it simply arose from the novelty. I might rub the outside of my hole on a daily basis in the shower, to get it clean, but I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d fingered myself. Luckily, that was easily taken care of. A couple of sessions in the shower with a bottle of lube, and I was getting my fingers inside me as easily as I could slip them inside some eager hole. Not that tough at all. I needed to do something more, though. The Russian’s dick is a hell of a lot bigger than a finger. I went online and browsed through some penetrative sex toys, hoping to find something that could help me get more accustomed to the sensations of having something hard and stiff slide inside me. I looked at dildos and considered a couple, but was easily intimidated. I checked out some smaller butt plugs and thought they looked intriguing. And then I saw the Aneros. The Aneros advertises itself as a prostate stimulator. It’s curved to reach the prostate. It has a handle at the base to aid removal, and projecting knobs that stimulate the perineum from the outside. Basically, it looks like a designer door hook you’d buy at Target. And whatever it calls itself, it’s a god damned butt plug. I looked at the product’s web site and rolled my eyes at the over-enthusiastic forums, where people were posting rave comments about how the Aneros had been utterly life-changing, and where a lot of users were comparing notes on things called “P-Waves” and “Super-O’s.” (They’re apparently not breakfast cereal brands.) But I had known a couple of people in the past who’d bought the first iterations of the toy, and they’d loved it, so I tossed out a little cash and thought to myself, What the fuck. The Aneros arrived a few days later. I looked at it, compared its rather diminutive size to some of the dicks I took in my teen years, compared it to the hulking girth of the Russian, and mentally nicknamed it the Wee Willy Winkie. But later that night I hopped in the shower and cleaned myself inside and out, threw a towel onto the bed, got out the lube, and figured I’d pop it in for a minute or two. I greased it up, slid it in, was pleased that I didn’t have much discomfort getting it in there, and then let it sink down to the base. And oh my god. The rest of this entry is going to sound like I’m shilling a product for a paid ad, so let me assure you I’m not. When the head of that Aneros hit my prostate, it immediately started sending stimulation up my spine in a way I’d never before experienced. It was a bit like the good moments during a fuck, all combined and assaulting me at once. It was a lot like the tingle I feel when someone makes me blush furiously—how the rush of sensation and pleasure comes from nowhere and wraps around my neck and midsection like a tight, hot girdle. For years I’d known some of my better fucks claiming to have anal orgasms, and I never quite understood what they were like. No one had ever given them to me, when I’d been a bottom. After the Aneros went in, I was actually pretty sure I understood what those bottoms had meant. I lay there on the bed, gently drawing up one knee and then the other as I rocked my hips back and forth. I spread my legs and and drew up my heels, and gently thrust into the air, just to enjoy the sensations. My cock was rock-hard the entire time, but I wasn’t masturbating myself very often, or with the intent of shooting. I was just enjoying the sensations, and riding on a wave of pleasure. (I don’t know whether I was having P-Waves or Super-O’s. Personally, I think they sound gimmicky.) When finally I took out the Aneros, I felt like a million bucks. I’d intended to leave it in for five minutes. I left it in there for two hours. Two fucking hours. The first time. I’ve used it several solitary times since, and I’ve decided that I most enjoy it when I insert it and simply concentrate on the sensations. I can watch porn, or chat dirty to someone online, grind a bit, and come away feeling tingly and satisfied. I’ve tried having orgasm while it’s in there, but they’re intense—intense to the point that they’re more painful than pleasurable, but they certainly leave you feeling as if your pipes have been cleared. Now, a plastic and silicone toy is no substitute for warm human flesh. Nothing is going to substitute for a good and attentive lover who knows what he’s doing. A toy can’t engage in intimacy with you, or touch your body, or kiss your neck. But you know, to a top guy who has on many occasions been mystified at what bottoms feel when they’re really enjoying a fuck, it has been a great tool. I kind of get it, now. I kind of want to get it, too. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here There’s always something, isn’t it? This week, Facebook decided I wasn’t a real person. That is, for those of you who had added my Facebook account as a friend, I’m no longer visible or able to be contacted on the service, because Facebook has declared that I’m not a real person. (Admittedly, there’s a certain amount of truth behind the accusation. The name I was using for the account is not my own. But I’m certainly real enough.) Unfortunately, the only way I can find to rectify the situation is to participate in a test I’m sure to fail in which I’m challenged to look at photos of my Facebook friends and then to type in their names. This is not a test I’m certain I could pass on my 100% genuine Facebook account under my 100% genuine name, despite the fact I have less than 200 friends on the service. For an account with 1500 friends, few of whom I actually know in real life, it’s nigh on impossible. And my chances of success are severely impeded by the fact that a lot of the photos that are supposed to be my Facebook friends are of various porn stars and celebrities, most of whom I’m pretty sure are not actually following my account there, as well as Hanna-Barbera characters, red equality signs, and plates of burgers and fries. There’s no visible way to appeal to Facebook for reconsideration; the help button at the bottom of the page takes me to help content that’s unrelated to the photo-matching game they want me to play. I attempted to do some Google image reverse-matching, but that was unsuccessful (and you try reverse-matching an Instagrammed shot of a Wendy’s Chicken Sandwich and fries to see which of your fifteen-hundred friends might have posted the damned thing). Anyone else have a suggestion for a solution? I’m open to your ideas. If worse comes to worse, I’ll just start over on Facebook. I primarily use the account for publicizing new blog posts—the rest of the time I spend there is usually ignoring apps like Candy Crush and Wonderful Color Birthday Calender [sic] 2, and then leaving groups to which I’ve been invited without asking like UKRAINE GLORY HOLE LOVERS and Young Gay Bros Wantin’ Abuse. Hmm. Now that I think of it, maybe I could do without a blog Facebook account altogether. Until I figure out what I want to do, I remind you that you’re welcome to follow me on my Twitter account. I tend to post there more often, including notices of new blog posts and occasional sex pics. Let’s get to some questions from formspring.me. When first experimenting with anal what was the first thing you inserted in there? I believe it was a finger, when I was 9 or 10. Later on I experimented with a carrot, and then moved up to a broomstick handle. I finally got dick a couple of years later and didn't play with any toys again until my twenties. Some people ask you the most random non sexuaal questions & others are just plain bloody rude. I enjoy your blog, thanks for sharing, keep it up. I'm actually fine with the non-sexual questions. I'm not banging butt twenty-four hours a day after all (try as I sometimes might). I have other interests as well, and if people are interested enough to ask about them, or about my childhood or earlier experiences, I'm happy to share. The rudeness I get from a very small handful of people is the single most daunting and dispiriting thing not only about Formspring, but about interacting with readers. For some readers the rudeness is inadvertent—I suspect they're so unused to, and so intimidated by, someone who's not frightened of his own sexuality that they manage to project all their own fears and self-hatred on me in the guise of being clever or condescending. Yet I also attract hypocrites who in their questions and comments insist that they're above the low vulgarity in which I wallow, and yet they for some reason follow every dirty sex blog or nasty Twitter user out there. And then I just get the crazies, who suck the life right out of me—as we all saw earlier this year. I'd rather have some weird-ass questions about my favorite childhood cereal over those freaks, anytime. Does having sex outside a private home (cars, public toilets, etc.) thrill you in a way and make the sex feel different then meeting in a private home? I first started having public sex in parks, cars, public washrooms, and alleys in my youth simply because I didn't have a private home to which I could take men. I lived with my parents. They were permissive, but when it came to bringing home a strange adult to bang me in my childhood bed, they weren't that permissive. So it arose as a means to an end—a necessity, rather than a preference. In the era in which I came of age during the late seventies and early eighties, however, public cruising spots were how gay men met each other to have sex. Not every small city or rural outpost had a bar. We didn't have the internet, so we couldn't hook up via Craigslist. Heading to the park to cruise, or catching eyes with a stranger on a city street, or hanging out on the trails by the riverside and taking the action into the bushes was our only means to an end. It was a way of life for many of us who had no better alternatives to meet like-minded men. These days, of course, it's different. But it's still possible to hit a parking lot, or a restroom, or a park, to find some hot guy, and to have sex with him there. For me, the thrill isn't from the locale. I'm not standing there thinking, "Damn, I really like the pee smell in this restroom!" I'm not standing there thinking, "Hey, lookit me having sex behind this vending machine, I'm a bad, bad boy!" I'd infinitely rather be fucking on a bed, any day. What’s sexy about public sex is the thrill of the chase. It's knowing that I took a risk and came up with a hot reward. It's the convenience, or the sheer whim of it that I like. I like knowing that men still stick to the old customs, and that human nature doesn't change. I might not do it as much as I did when I was in my teens and twenties—which was daily—but I still do it from time to time to keep my hand in. What forms of Southern manners do you continue to observe? What an interesting question. In the time and place where I grew up in the South, manners were a big part of the culture. They weren't so much taught as hammered into one's DNA. A lot of those genteel customs have gone by the wayside thanks to a certain lassitude of etiquette in today's modern culture, and because we communicate differently as a texting and emailing society from the days when all we had was the postal service and the telephone at our fingertips. However, I find that I'm unable to hold open the door for a woman in public. I don't care if she looks perfectly capable of swinging it back herself. I am there to hold it for her, dammit. I also have a hard time keeping myself from writing hand-written bread-and-butter notes on stationery with a pen, after someone has had me over for a home-cooked dinner or has let me stay overnight. I realize I could get it done with email so much faster, but it just seems less nice that way. First time reader found your blog while looking for a web site for my family, your runt story made me cry & gave me hope, my gorgeous 17 year old son came out & his father left when i couldn't & wouldn't kick my darling son out. Gloriosky, it's quite something to run across someone's graphic gay sex blog when you're looking for a family web site. It makes me wonder what the hell search terms you used. But I'm glad you found the entry helpful, and not mentally scarring. Thank you for standing by your son. I know he thanks you, too. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One morning last week I was in a terrible mood. Oh, it doesn’t matter why. To be entirely honest, I’m not sure I really remember. But it was only nine in the morning and already I’d boarded the commuter train to Grumpytown and was chugging full-steam ahead to Peevish Junction. There are two ways that a day like this can go. Either I can wallow in my cantankerousness and stay inside my head all day, reliving whatever petty slight has chucked me on the jaw. (And to be honest, sometimes this is the path I choose.) Or else I can get out of that truculent mental space and back on a more normal track. Last week, I decided consciously to attempt the latter. Over the years, I’ve found the most effective way to lift my mood in these situations is simply to do something kind for someone else. It can be something as simple as buying a gift for a loved one, doing an unexpected good turn for a neighbor, or going out of one’s way for a total stranger. I can't claim it's unadulterated altruism, but hey, I’m totally okay with having selfish motivations mixed up in doing something nice for someone. The other person still gets something good and unexpected and kind that they wouldn't have otherwise. And even if I don’t get my bad mood erased, at least I get to think about someone else other than myself for a change. So there I was last week, trying to think of something to do that could benefit someone else. I did a little extra housework at home so that my other half wouldn’t have to. I called up a friend I know who doesn’t have a car and asked if there were anywhere he needed to go that morning. Then I sat down in front of the computer, logged onto my Facebook account, and a perfect opportunity dropped into my lap. I thought I’d written about this long-past encounter at some point in my blog, but I can’t find a record of it. Years ago in college, there was a cruisy men’s room in the campus center. The library used to get a lot more traffic from men and boys looking for quick sex, but the campus center had a large restroom with a creaky door and a convoluted layout that was perfect for cruisers. Even better, next door to the restroom was the television room—which back in the early nineteen-eighties was only ever tuned to MTV. In those days, the network only played music videos. Many were the happy afternoons that I’d spend in that room watching Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the Thompson Twins and listening for the creak of the restroom door to tell me that a potential cock to suck had arrived. There was one summer in which I was working in Williamsburg and living in an apartment with two other students. I didn’t like either of my roommates. It was the year in which another former roommate had spread false rumors that I’d raped him (which I've written about before, here and here), so I’d had a fucking miserable two semesters and spent most of that summer feeling friendless and alone. I spent a lot of solitary time in that MTV room, over those hot months. One day another student strolled by the open doorway of the TV room and stared in at me. I recognized him from around campus. He was one of those guys known as a total jock, the sort of dark-haired, dark-eyed prep who strolled around campus perpetually wearing sweatpants and a well-worn rugby short with fraternity letters over the nipple. Not only was he a frat boy, but he was the president of his chapter. And he had a rockin’ porn stache that approached the magnificence of that worn by John Oates during his heyday. Considering that we Southern boys were all clean-shaven and baby-faced in those days and only had about three people in the entire undergraduate population who had grown any sort of facial hair, this guy was an exotic. I stared back at him. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, then disappeared. I heard the creak of the door, and seconds later, I followed. I met him in the toilets. He stood up and stroked his cock for me and checked me out over the top of the marble partition. I opened his stall door, got on my knees, and sucked his fat cock for him. He grunted in appreciation, and riffled his fingers through my hair. All I could think at the time was Damn, a frat president likes me being his cocksucker! So when the guy yanked my face off of his dick, tilted my head back, and asked if I wanted to take a drive with him, of course I said yes. He took me out to his truck and drove me down Jamestown Road in the direction of the lake that lay at the back of the campus. Decades before, the drama department had put on a historical pageant for tourists every summer at an amphitheater by the lakeside. Goldie Hawn had been in it—Linda Lavin, too. The pageant was long-gone, but the amphitheater was still there, overgrown and disused. The guy stopped his truck, led me to one of the old dressing rooms, yanked down my pants, and bent me over. Then he used spit to lube up his cock and he shoved himself in me. The fuck was hot. I had a lot of fucking in college and I remember this one better than just about any of the others. It wasn’t romantic, or particularly passionate, but in sheer animalistic sex it was tops. The frat boy grabbed my hips and let me fucking have it. There were dressing room mirrors on the floor that reflected our copulation twice, four times, eight times, dozens of times over. As I braced myself against an old dressing table and let my head hang while he banged me like I was a bitch in heat, I could see our images over and over, in every direction. After he shot his load in me, he knelt down and helped me draw up my pants. Then he indicated I should follow him back to the truck, so he could drive me back to the campus center. He didn’t say a word to me on the drive back, but as we drove, he steered with his left hand and put his right on my knee, and held it there the entire time. I think it was this part of the encounter that made me remember it so vividly in the years after. I’d spent months feeling shunned and ignored and shunted to the margins by just about everyone, but here was a total (and handsome) stranger who not only found me suitable to fuck, but who made me feel human again simply by putting his hand on my leg. I never saw him again. But I never forgot it. Back to last week, and my bad mood. I turned on my computer and was looking through my college’s gay and lesbian alumni page, only to see the frat boy’s name there. He’d just joined the group. And I thought to myself, You know, one of the nicest things I could do today is to let this guy know he made a difference to me, one hot summer afternoon. It seemed as if the universe was wanting me to make that right, to settle that debt with thanks. So I did. I wrote him and explained that we hadn’t been social in college, but that I’d been an admirer of his and that he’d given me one of the best afternoons of my life, and that even if he didn’t remember me, I owed him a great deal of thanks. I didn’t go into detail. I was surprised when he wrote back. I’d expected the thanks to be another that went floating into a great unacknowledged void. I was a little surprised, though, when he instantly suggested that we’d perhaps met in the campus center restroom. I don’t think he recalled the incident at all, or me, when I described it to him in a follow-up note. But I was able to let him know that no matter what he thought about himself back in those college days, or no matter what had happened to him since, I remembered him with fondness and gratitude, and immeasurable affection. God damn, he wrote back. You were worried I wouldn’t respond. But you made my day. He told me that I humbled him with how deeply our simple encounter affected me. Then he wondered how many people he and I—and everyone, really—affected without really ever knowing about it. And you know, after that, my bad mood evaporated. How could it not? I know so many people who never speak of their affection for someone; we should be telling them when they’re in our lives. We should cherish people and mark the moments of grace they provide with thanks and praise and gratitude. Instead, we let these important moments pass and vanish unremarked. Sometimes the universe drops opportunities in our path to rectify the situation months, years, or even decades later. You need to repay this debt, it tells us, and provides us the means and the happenstance to bring it to fruition. We hang back and balk, though. Sometimes it’s from fear. Sometimes it’s from stupid pride. But our time on this earth is limited; we none of us have unlimited chances. Sometimes, without knowing, we have remarkably few left. I don’t care what your mood is today. Tell someone—someone other than myself—what a tangible difference he or she has made in your life. Let someone from your past know how much he meant to you, and how glowingly you honor his memory. Apologize to the person you’ve forgiven and never let know; forgive the person who needs it. Reach out to someone who hasn’t heard from you in a long time, if ever. Let people know they’ve made a difference. Make your time here worthwhile. More...

Thanks, Anon!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “I’m worried,” he tells me. His blue eyes are guileless. When he makes the admission, he sucks on his lower lip. I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot. I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?” “I don’t want to turn you off,” he says. “You’re not going to turn me off.” “What if I do something wrong?” “What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.” I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?” “Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?” He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us. We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.” He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?” Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod. “Do you want your first time to be with me, still?” His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?” I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.” When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?” “All right,” he says. When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried. “If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask. “Okay,” he says, very softly. Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.” He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before. At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure. “You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.” “Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear. “Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?” The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in. He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself. I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.” My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out. “Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.” He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world. Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?” “Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too. After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering. Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here All over his body, his skin is taut. When I drop the ball of a finger on the flat planes of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, I expect to hear a hollow resounding, like a drum. What sparse hair there is around his cock is fluffy and untrimmed. It’s as fair as the messy curls on his head. A narrow trail of it leads to his navel, where it vanishes. When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole. His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly. “Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone. I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.” I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home. Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me. He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper. About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name. Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy? He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage. But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking. And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’ His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw. This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked. There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it. He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can. “You all right?” I ask him. When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.” “You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?” He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy. His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask. Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.” His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate. “Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers. Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life. I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .” He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order. “All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?” “You know I do, boy,” I tell him. “Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs. He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more. When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside. “I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.” He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.” “Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear. We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks. “You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.” “It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.” He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?” I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.” “How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?” I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.” “So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?” Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.” And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it. More...

That's a lot of presuming you're doing there. People make a lot of presumptions about me, too. They're very rarely correct. I stick by my answer. He can make the choice not to tell his wife, but he's going to have to deal with the consequences if, as you suggest, he exposes her to an STD. Or he can make a more difficult, but ultimately more honest decision. You can state what you think he should do, and I can state his options—but it's still his relationship, and his choice to make.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I took my unannounced hiatus a couple of months ago, in large part it was because of a sense of being betrayed personally. I’d had someone cull information about my personal life and attempt to use it against me. The immediate result was to not only to cause me to shut down writing about myself for a while, but to be wary about sharing anything more than I really had to. That’s why I’ve not done any Sunday Morning Question answering for a while. I’ve had a lot of readers write to tell me they’ve missed the feature—and to be honest, I’ve missed having the opportunity to answer questions that lie outside the scope of what I normally write about for my entries. So starting today I’m trying to ease back into the old routine. I can’t promise it’ll be weekly at the start, but at the very least it should signal that I’m feeling less beleaguered. Of course, you can help by submitting some of your own questions to my formspring.me page. The service is still up and running; there was some noise that it was shutting down, but it’s now under new management. Just follow the link above to my page there and ask your question, anonymously or un-. I’ll answer anything that hasn’t been asked about a dozen times before, or that doesn’t invade what personal space I have left. Let’s get to the questions! As a top with experience, what advice would you give to someone who wants to get fisted? As a top with over 25 years of fisting experience, I can recommend a couple of things. Some of my other readers (with more experience on the receiving end) could probably chime in, too. 1. Choose your fisting top carefully. I'm not saying he should be me—though that would be fun!—but make sure it's someone who's going to respect the fact you're a novice and who isn't going to expecting to be punching his fist deep into your gut the moment he's Criscoed up. Being fisted can be an intimate and even loving experience, but it can also being extremely invasive and scary if you don't pick someone who's sensitive to your needs. At the same time, you want to choose someone who's not going to so over-sensitive that he doesn't give you what you ultimately want. Finding someone who'll back off a little when you need, and yet who will keep pushing your boundaries may be a challenge, but it'll be worth the effort. 2. Manage your own expectations and preconceptions about fisting. You are very likely not going to walk into a guy's play space as a first-timer and end up with his arm inside you all the way to the elbow. You might have seen it happen in a porn video, but you are probably not a porn actor. (A couple of you are.) You might not even get fisted completely (and by completely, I mean at least past the knuckles and down to the wrist) the first time, or the second time, or the third time. When I've worked with fisting novices, we've usually had the best success when we've taken it slowly and in multiple sessions. But we did have success. 3. Clean out. Make sure you clean yourself out thoroughly. Then clean yourself out some more. Even if your top is using rubber gloves, nothing is stinkier than pulling a hand out of a man and having it covered with poop. Just sayin'. Since I've started hooking up with guys, it's opened the sexual floodgates and sex with the wife is back to being as good as when we were newlyweds. Q1: Does your mansex enhance sex at home? Q2: Do I have to "come out" to her about my extracurriculars? I'm not surprised that you find your sex life has blossomed at home now that you've been hooking up outside of the relationship. Good sex has a tendency to beget more good sex. You're probably feeling more desirable, and you're less tense and more happy. The wife is picking up on those things. It's a positive feedback loop. Keep it up. Now, for your questions. 1. Focusing on being a good lover helps me bring the best experiences to all my partners—at home or elsewhere. 2. This is a question that I can't really answer for you, since I don't know your situation, and I don't know you. No, you don't have to tell your wife you're fucking elsewhere. If you choose not to, however, you're going to have to live with that decision for a long time to come, and it could have extremely negative consequences if you're not good at covering up your tracks, or wrestling with your conscience. There are relationships, however, that are strong enough that the partners can be open with each other. That is, they can be as honest with each other about wanting and having extra-marital relationships. Honest and open relationships do exist. They take work and talk and kindness and extra effort to pull off. If you want one of these relationships with your wife, you’ll have to address it with her and work out the ground rules first. She may want to know about your affairs, and may even take pride in them and share in your happiness for having them. Or she may be all right with you having your fun in the theoretical sense, while not wanting to hear the details. Only you two can determine which of those options—or some other compromise—it will be. I think the thing to take away is that your relationship is your relationship. It is whatever you and your wife make it. You don't have to follow a marriage template that you've seen in other couples, or in your parents, or on television. Your marriage is not on a fixed set of tracks beyond your control, like a roller-coaster. It is your marriage. You are helping to steer it. You are half of it, and it is something you can assist in controlling and directing. So you decide what kind of marriage it's going to be. As a kid did you ever run away from home & if you did for how long & how long before your parents became worried? No, I never did, but I fantasized about it often enough. My rebellion during the teenaged years came in my sexual misdeeds. A lot of the stuff that teenaged kids do to rebel wouldn't have phased my folks in the least. Loud rock music? They listened to that themselves, thanks. Swearing? My sibling's first word was 'shit,' because my parents said it so much. Smoking? My mom did that. Drinking? I tried alcohol and didn't like the taste. So I fucked around like crazy, and at every opportunity, and inappropriately, and went home with a smile and sweetly did my homework and kept up the appearance of being a perfect child—because when you're a perfect child, you can get away with just about anything you want by flying under the radar. I didn't need to run away from home. I was getting all the adventure and attention I needed at the end of strange men's dicks. Have you been to the NYC bathhouses yet? I have not. Unless i'm mistaken, NYC has the West Side Club and the East Side Club, and I've heard mixed reviews about both. Someone specifically told me that I'd find them grungy—and while I expect that in a bathhouse to a certain extent, the implication was that I'd find it grungy in a way I'd be actively icked out the entire time I was there. So I've not been. If someone wants to go along with me to either and show me otherwise, I'm open to invitations. I don't mean this question in any offensive way, especially given how hot I find your sexual escapades, but aren't you in the slightest worried that your dangerous sexual behavior could lead you to contract AIDS/HIV and what that might mean for your kids? Look. When you ask the question the way you did—that is, using inflammatory words like 'dangerous' and bringing up the specter of wailing children deprived of their daddy—let's not prevaricate. You're trying to go for the maximum amount of offense possible. There are two explanations for why you'd frame the question this way. 1) You're butt-ignorant about the transmission of HIV, its treatment, and how it is by no means a swift and certain death sentence, or 2) You're using a 'think of the children!' approach not as persuasive argument—which it isn't—but as what you conceive as an emotional trump card that should reduce all counter-arguments to ash. As rhetoric, it's overblown and transparent. The risks I take are my risks; I only take the risks with which I've made my peace. I do not advocate or suggest that you or anyone else follow in my footsteps. I have always told my readers that they should only take risks with which they are comfortable and on which they have educated themselves. I've said this many times in this forum before as well: merely because one of the risks to which I expose myself is sexual in nature does not make it any worse, any more horrifying, or any more 'sinful' than the risks you take to your life on a daily basis—whether that is alcohol, drugs, exceeding the speed limit, living near an electrical sub-station, smoking, high-stress environments, or carrying extra pounds around your waist. It's quite easy for you to shriek "think of the children!" about a sexually-transmitted virus, but all you're doing is perpetuating an unfortunate stigma that does a grave disservice to many men and women who are HIV-positive. You probably wouldn't whine it out to someone who was crossing the street while texting on his phone—though that behavior can be more immediately and equally deadly than any virus. In the future I advise examining your own prejudices before asking such a question. You probably think you're well-meaning, but you're really what you profess not to be: offensive. More...

Thank you, Sir!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here One of the things I love about the area where I live is that no matter what the night, no matter what the hour, there’s always weird shit to do. Weird is a relative term, of course. I’m not talking about dressing up in rubber and rolling around in butterscotch pudding with someone weird (though I probably could find it with a little hunting), or getting into a hot ’n’ nasty session of popping helium balloons in the nude weird (ditto). But at any given moment, there’s always something entertaining to do that I would never have found in the Midwest, or god knows the South. This calendar year alone I’ve stumbled into odd art gallery openings, movie and TV shoots, impromptu zombie appearances, a kimono fashion show, strange street theater, and a pair of Elmos going at each other with fists flying in Times Square. Compared to all that, a night at something called Porno Bingo sounds pretty tame. And it actually was. I’ve been to many a Drag Queen Bingo night at some bar or another, all of them of varying quality. Porno Bingo is something of an institution here, though; it’s run by porn actor Will Clark, a handsome grizzly of a guy who keeps things moving through three games. The porno, in case you’re wondering, is the prize for each winner. Porn is not actually playing during the game itself. And porno not something that takes place when Clark calls O-69. Although it does get a little porny when he starts flirting with me, which is something he’s done the couple of times I’ve been. (Did one of you guys show him a pic of my dick?) Anyway. A couple of weeks ago I was at Porno Bingo with a handful of friends. It was between games, and during the break a Boylesque performer was sauntering around the bar wearing an awful lot of makeup and an outfit that looked like one of the Kit Kat Club dancers from the Alan Cumming Cabaret. And I mean the female Kit Kat Club dancers. I knew two of the other guys fairly well; the others crowding around our table were more mere acquaintances than anything else. We were drinking and commiserating over not winning any man-on-man DVDs at that point, and watching the Boylesque performer use a very sharp pair of hair shears to cut the elastic bands holding together his skimpy little outfit, when a fellow named Philip walked up. I’d met Philip once before. Much as I dislike the word, I find it appropriate here—he’s a little bit of a hipster. Scruffy face, bad complexion, hair that looks like it just rolled out of bed independently of the head to which it was attached. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf of Doctor Who proportions in Kelly green and dirty white, a pair of too-tight jeans, and a ironic T-shirt of some late-nineteen-eighties band. He was slightly sleazy looking, to be honest—not a bad look for someone who admires a little sleaze, like I do, but it wasn’t quite the well-groomed fashion of most of the guys in the bar. Philip had come not to play bingo, and not to see the Boylesque performer who was down to nothing but his lederhosen and some spangles on his nipples, but to drop off a book to one of the other guys at my table. He was on his way to a party, he explained—and the party had a name, which I now can’t recall. It was something like Splashdown! or Hothouse! or Jetstream!—it definitely had an exclamation mark at the end, and I remember thinking during the moment that the party name sounded like some kind of porn distributor. But he wanted to stop in and drop off the book he’d promised his friend—and then, with a round of handshakes and hugs as appropriate, he was on his way. “Splashdown!?” I asked (or Hothouse!, or Jetstream!, or whatever it was), once he was out of earshot. “Is that a party at a bar? Or like, a sex party?” Not an unreasonable question, as this city has a lot of regular, weekly sex parties, most of which have their own names for easy publicity. One fellow that I didn’t know well leaned over and hissed, “I’m sure it’s an orgy, because that one is such a MANWHORE!” I stared at the guy, blinked, and thought to myself, Man, you really don’t know whom you’re talking to, do you? I have no idea whether Philip is a manwhore or not. If he is, more power to him, from one manwhore to another. Solidarity, manwhorebro! But I did have my suspicions about why someone else was accusing him of marwhoreialism. “A bigger manwhore than me? Why do you say that?” I asked. “Oh please. You, a manwhore? As for him, trust me on this one,” said the gossipy queen. “All you have to do is look at him.” I left it alone after that, and thought to myself how dispiriting it was that someone would assume the guy was the town tramp, just because of looking at him. When I was much younger, I considered myself afflicted by a wholesome demeanor. I had a sweet, innocent baby face that totally belied the depraved things I was doing for men in parks and restrooms city-side. I learned fairly quickly that no one wanted to corrupt what they assumed was my unsullied innocence until they actually saw me whip out my dick or unzip my pantsand get on my hands and knees. Then they were game. The experience taught me to be a sexual instigator, rather than someone who sits and waits. To this day I’ve used that wholesome, innocent look to get what I want. It’s tough for many guys to imagine that someone with my sweet smile can be as lowdown and dirty. Until they see the X-rated photos, that is. In other words, I get away with so much simply because I look so innocent. It’s a quality I’ve learned to work to my advantage. I suspect a good four-fifths of what appeal I have is because on the surface I don’t really look like the kind of guy who’d do incredibly dirty stuff. But if I’d been born with hair that was more unruly, or eyes that were beadier, or a complexion that wasn’t as good, if my facial hair grew out in a way that was seedier or if I put myself together differently, maybe people I know would be (rightly) hissing the word manwhore about me, too. Okay, perhaps I should assume that the people I know who know me well are already using that word to describe me. Maybe the people who’ve just seen me a few times would be hissing it, too. It applies to sexual roles, too. I’ve known guys who’ve gone far in their sexual adventuring because they look like the strapping, take-charge tops that they really are, and I’ve known bottoms who exude a certain come-hither appeal that lets others know exactly what they want. At the same time, I’ve known quite a few bottoms who become frustrated because the looks with which they were born seem to give off a toppish, butch, or dominant message—they can’t hook up without the other guy trying to go ass-up for them. And I’ve known a couple of tops whom no one takes seriously because they seem so damned bottomy, even before they take off their clothes. It’s not a new observation that we tend to project our own expectations and desires on others based on how they look. What I’m curious about, in today’s Open Forum, is how my readers have found their own looks affect the snap judgments others make of you. Have you gotten away with debauched escapades all your life because of your rosy cheeks and winsome dimples? Are your friends whispering things about your sluttiness behind your back because of your louche appearance? Are they dismissing you because you look like the type of person who would never do anything extreme? Are you characterized as one thing when you’re really another? If so, is it something you’ve resented all your life, or have you learned how to capitalize on it? Post your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s learn something from each other. More...

Maybe I've found him for you, Bicycledude.

Affection and attraction are amazing things too, when they're recognized and honored!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In early March, the Russian wanted to know why it was taking me so long to see him again. We’d traded fucks one passionate night right before Christmas, but for about two months I’d avoided making a follow-up date. With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape. I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull. Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that. One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe. I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?) So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud. I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook. “Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.” Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything. He fuckin’ knows it, too. We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming. He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust. Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers. “I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear. “I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .” What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.” It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification. “It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.” He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?” I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no. He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure. And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper. He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me. When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed. It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him. The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to. I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself. He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do. By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again. I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week. But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy. I think I’m ready for more now, though. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway. Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot. But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant. This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car. I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says. “Hi,” I smile back. He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture. “God, so are you,” he whispers back. I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action. The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask. He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring. “Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more. It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait. Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me. He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say. He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me. “Fuck,” is my only reply. He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big. His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper. He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.” I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.” “Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?” “What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious. He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.” “Yes sir,” I whisper. “Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.” “I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips. “Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises. I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.” “I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.” “I’d give it up for you, sir.” “Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?” “I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise. “You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?” “Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice. “Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand. I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I go all the way down and come all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to tighten around his rod. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat. When he comes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off. I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home?” I nod. “Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger. “Yes sir,” I promise. He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there. But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?” “I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end. “You see me?” “No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says. The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?” “I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.” The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks. “He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband. “You’re cute,” I say, genuinely. “He flirty, too,” she wisecracks. The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing. Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.” Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands. He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick. “Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!” Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it. “I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.” He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it. “Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.” “I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now. “You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.” “Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?” “You better make him yell,” she says. “You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand. She grunts approval. “You way bigger.” The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?” “I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.” “A cunt for me to cum in, huh?” “If he worth it. If he earn it.” I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs. “You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.” I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.” I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.” So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic. I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles. “Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me. Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick. And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game. Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain. After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care. I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?” “Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.” More...

You might consider buying some sexy underwear just so they can be destroyed! Trust me, the top loves that.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Rock Star. He’s told me that’s what they call him in his line of work. It’s what I call him in my head. He’s got the long hair of a rock star—an impeccably-conditioned mane that hangs down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Sometimes he ties it into a knot at the top of his head, transforming him into a character from an anime; one moment he looks as if he should be balancing a Stratocaster on the sharp bones of his hip, and the next he looks as if he’s going to transform into a magic-wielding shaman spouting mysterious wisdom and lightning from his fingertips. He needs his own theme song. Up close, when we’re kissing, his features are almost too large. His eyes are dark and the size of saucers. I could julienne vegetables with his large, keen-edged nose. His chin is as pointy as the Wicked Witch’s, his cheeks as sharp and dangerous as rocks along the New England coast. Singly, his features might be off-putting. But together, they cohere into near-perfection. I’m afraid to look at him sometimes, when we’re together. He’s almost too beautiful for mortal eyes. Mine start to water when I stare for too long, as if I’ve been gazing directly into the sun. He’s as alluring as he is dangerous. Rock Star. It describes him perfectly. His house is old and grand and sits atop one of the rocky hills near my home. To reach his bedroom, I have to work my way through four rooms, four doorways, two hallways, and a twisting old servant’s stair. Morning light streams in through the eastern windows when I turn the knob of his bedroom door. I’m expecting to find him beneath the sheets, sprawled naked and waiting, his hair cascading down his shoulders like a raven waterfall. My expectations are too low. I see him on the bed—it’s hard to miss the twin highways of his calves running a course to the vanishing point between his wide-spread thighs. But he’s not beneath the covers. His head is hidden beneath a mountain of pillows; his enormous hands are stretched to the mattress’ furthest corners. And he’s not naked. His round bubble butt is encased in a pair of gray designer briefs. There’s a rip in them, strategically placed over the hole. I can see the fur beneath licking out, tempting me. He’s taken a pen and written on the briefs. OPEN HERE, they read. One word above the hole, the other beneath. The message isn’t very hard to decipher. I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him for a long half-minute, afraid to end the perfection of the moment. I haven’t taken a breath. When I open my mouth to inhale, the room’s cool air pierces my lungs painfully. Again, so often as I feel when I’m in the Rock Star’s presence, I feel tears prickle behind the corners of my eyes. Some part of me, deep within, is convinced I don’t deserve this. Earlier this year I’d been convinced that life was crapping on me endlessly. I’d had a lousy January and an even worse February when someone I trusted turned out to be unstable, even dangerous. I’d withdrawn from everything and was licking my wounds when the Rock Star walked into my life. It only goes to show—just when I was convinced that nothing could ever be good again, the wheel of fortune turned and dropped a little sheer perfection into my life. I’m astonished at the intensity with which this man desires me. I boggle when he texts me photos of himself—some nude, some dressed in my underwear that he keeps and obsessively wears. I melt when he whispers how handsome he finds me. I’m constantly astonished how good the universe is to me, when I’m with this guy. I’m not much of a believer in traditional denominations, but brought up against this evidence of the universe’s bounty, and confronted by such effortless, unpracticed beauty . . . I’m suddenly the most devout of religious men. So I kneel. On bended knee I approach the edge of the mattress. My hands scoop beneath his strong, hard thigh. I pull the Rock Star back until his ass meets my face. My left cheek rests on the OP; my hands caress the EN while I breath warm air through the hole, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He smells fresh from the shower. I tickle through the hole with a fingertip. He stirs beneath the pillows, letting out a muffled sigh. He’s perfection. This situation is perfection; he’s planned it solely for the purpose of arousing me. Of pleasing me. And I’m about to ruin the solemn stillness, this frozen purity. Because my cock demands it. I grab the sides of the opening with hooked index and middle fingers. And I rip the fabric. The words disappear. I don’t give a shit. All I want is access to that hole. My fingers pull apart the round globes of his cheeks. My tongue strains for his hole. When the wetness of its surface meets the half-sweet, half-metallic tang he’s hiding deep between those muscles, I close my eyes and relax into him. He groans, and shoves back against my face. I bite his ass. I want to dig in my teeth, to rip into the flesh like a hungry wolf. He inspires my carnivore instincts. I content my urge by chewing on his hole, though. I nip, and rake my teeth against the tender flesh. I suck, and grind my incisors when it puckers out. I mash my beard against the pink flesh just inside the swelling, and hope that it feels like a thousand sharp knifepricks. He loves the abuse. Over my animal growling I can hear him gasp, and groan. His hips arch. His dick is heavy with blood, and swing down between his legs. His fingers stop clawing at the sheets. They grab his cheeks and pull them apart. Wider, wider, so I can get deep. “Take them off,” I tell him, tugging at the waistband of the ruined shorts. He scrambles to obey. “These are mine,” I tell him. “I’m taking them home.” “Please,” he whispers, once he’s kicked the ruined cotton to the room’s other side. “Please what?” I ask. “Please . . . fuck me. Please. Fuck me, please.” My dick is swollen and angry. He’s like Spencer, this one. All that beauty makes me want to fucking punish him. All that beauty makes me want to punish him, fucking. There’s a bottle of lube on the bed. I squirt some of the clear fluid onto my fingers and slap them on his hole. He gasps and shudders as I finger it it in. “So you want me to fuck you?” I growl, as I massage more of the goo onto my dick. It’s already pumping out precum. Between my spit on the hole and the wet head of my dick, it hardly needs the lube. He starts to answer, but I don’t give him a chance. I ram home my inches. He yells—a long, drawn-out cry of resistance and surprise, but it’s tempered by relief. Joy, even. When I first started to fuck the Rock Star, he was tight. So tight I had to sweet-talk my way in. Now though, after weeks of my cock, he’s primed for me. There’s not even any resistance as I sink in to the hilt. I grunt, and feel his prostate nudge my cock head as I hit home. He’s feeling it too. Again he’s pulling at his butt cheeks, opening them as wide as possible for me. I start fucking him hard. No preliminaries. No buildup. No sweet grinding, no gentle lovemaking. This is a fuck. It’s as close to savage punishment as it gets. Relentless pounding. He’s yelling like a little boy taking a walloping from his daddy after a misdeed. He’s flinching with every stroke, shuddering and trembling like his body’s in shock from the abuse. The difference between this and assault is that he loves it. “I want you in me,” he pleads, between thrusts. “I want you in me. All of you. All of you in me.” He doesn’t mean just my cock. He means me, my body, everything. My essence, inside him. I’m about to give him just that. His head is hitting the wall above the bed. He’s going to get more loads from me that morning, but this one’s the one I’m pounding in the deepest. He coerces it from me by thrusting back. His pelvis hits my hipbones so hard that I’m sure I’ll bruise. “Take it,” I tell him, as I push his chest into the mattress. “Fucking take it.” “Please,” he says. It’s his last coherency. He starts to growl obscenities as I make animal noises. We’re both brutes in heat, beasts with only the goal of mating. When I shoot, it’s at the bottom of a thrust. He knows the noises I make well enough by now to tell when I’m at climax. Greedily his butt clutches at my cock, coaxing the seed into him. He waggles his ass, shaking my dick to grab the last drops. Then he rolls over onto our sides—while I stay inside him—until he’s sprawled over my lap. His hand grabs his dick. One stroke. Two. Three. He shoots a geyser of semen across his chest. It lands on his right shoulder. Another spurt hits his nipple. The third lands on his belly. Panting, we sink into each other, limbs tangled, chests heaving, his hair covering me like a blanket. We lie there until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. And then his head turns. He looks me in the face, and opens his eyes. I’m overwhelmed once again by his good looks. I’ve known many handsome men in my life, but this kind of sheer beauty is rare. “Don’t forget your shorts,” he murmurs to me, as he leans in for a kiss. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So I’m sitting there on cam late one night, last week. My dick’s hard, and I’m double-fisting it for the benefit of guys who are watching. My legs are spread wide. Anyone watching can see me clearly from the nose down to the dark shadow between my butt cheeks. I’m not the only guy in this chat room showing off on cam. Not by a long shot. There are four, maybe five of us, and a good thirty or forty men watching. I’m getting a lion’s share of the compliments in the public chat room, though. Men are asking giving me the kind of compliments that my voracious ego eats up—telling me they love the look of my dick, telling me my body type strikes their fancy, that my beard and smile are sexy. And of course, my pleasure at the compliments just makes me smile more broadly. Everybody’s happy and horny and sailing briskly on a sexual buzz. And oh, the private messages. A lot of them were coming my way, that night. Most of them were of the Hot cock!! variety, to which I’d reply thank you!! Conversations as fleeting and short-lived as soap bubbles, for the most part. A few men have turned on their own cams in the private message window for me, so that I can watch and listen to them pleasuring themselves as they stare at me. I’ve got whispered compliments from these men coming from my laptop’s speakers. They overlap each other and form a sexy sound as I edge myself closer and closer to orgasm. Then I got a private message request from a guy I didn’t know. I checked out his profile. He was a handsome older gentleman, fit and firm, well-groomed, from an expensive suburb of Chicago. I accepted the request and was rewarded with a message that read, You have the most beautiful dick on here. Well. My ego lapped that one up. Thanks, I typed back, and then moved the head of it closer to my cam for him. I’m glad you like it. Like it! I love it! said the guy. I remember when my penis used to look like that. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he was saying something about how he used to get so hard in his younger days. Maybe he had erectile dysfunction, now. I didn’t say anything for a while. Then he typed another message. Then I got penile cancer, he said. Oh, I’m sorry. The sympathy in my message was intended to be genuine, but there’s really only so much I can type when my brain is on sexual overdrive and my fingers are covered with my precum. I was diagnosed when I was fifty-four, he wrote, and I went through four years of radiation and chemo, but there wasn’t much they could do. So now I’m left with a two-inch stump. Gentlemen and ladies, I’m here to attest to the fact that nothing will kill a boner more quickly than someone telling you about his two-inch amputated stump. Absolutely, positively nothing. I’m one of those people who, when someone regales me in person with a jolly story about how they broke a finger in a slammed car door, will have to cover his ears and shout “LA LA LA LA LA!” at top volume to avoid fainting outright. Want to tell me about some YouTube video you saw in which a football player splintered his tibia ? You will watch me turn gray and slither into a puddle of moaning near-consciousness beneath my chair. I am a wimp when it comes to hearing about other people’s accidents and medical procedures and vaccinations. So when this gentleman started going into what I thought was unbecoming detail about his amputation, my dick withered in my hand. All I could do was shudder, minimize his window, and put my softening toys away for the night. Sexy time postponed, at least for that night. But then it happened again two days later. Same site, same kind of situation. I was stroking off on video and holding an outrageous flirtation with another camming top on the site in the public chat room when I got a private message from a sexy bottom guy who started out with some outrageous flattery along the lines of, OMG, I would pay to fly you out here to fuck me if I thought you’d do it. I’d consider it, I told him. That dick is so hot, I’ve got to have it, he told me. I’m serious about flying you out here. And I was serious when I told him I’d consider it, I told him back. All we’d have to do is wait until my swelling goes down, he said. I was just in for prostate surgery two weeks ago. Wincing and already regretting the words as I typed them, I told him I was sorry to hear that. Oh that’s okay, he said. I’m just lucky to be alive still! Then he proceeded in exquisite detail that wouldn’t have been amiss on an episode of one of the CSI procedurals to outline how he’d been diagnosed as having early onset prostate surgery. I started to go woozy when he began outlining for me the cocktail his anesthetist used to knock him out; by the time he was discussing exactly how much the surgeons carved away, I was so unaroused that my dick had actually retracted eight inches into my pelvis. Then it happened a third time that same week, when I turned on my cam on another site and some guy immediately said, Wow, that’s a hot hard-on. I hope you know to use it or you’ll lose it, because after I came down with high blood pressure, I was never able to get an erection ever again. And now that I have testicular cancer. . . . Well. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a fucking conspiracy. I was seriously beginning to wonder if I had a secret archenemy who was enlisting minions to deflate my dick and my puffed-up ego with salvos of medical chat that would attack me directly at boner ground zero. Because it surely was working. My modest suggestion to viewers of cam shows is to keep the chat light. You know. Focus on sexy talk. Instead of talking about scalpels cutting into soft, diseased flesh, keep your focus on dicks shoving into tight holes. Instead of talking about how miserable are your bandages, talk about how hot you look in bondage. Don’t chat about hospital gowns. Talk about your fucking jockstraps. As for the use of the word stump? I’m place a moratorium on it. Nobody wants to see me pass out on cam. More...