TheBreeder

To see Breeder's original blog post click here It’s Jockstrap Night at a downtown bar. Most guys are still in their street clothes. There are a few guys who’ve left their clothes in the coat check cage on the floor below. One skinny thirty-year-old is hanging around the pool table, wearing nothing but a team jersey, an worn old white Bike jock, and a pair of beat-up athletic shoes. A beard hangs down to his nipples that’s thicker and fuller than his skinny white body. The jock’s elastic is so stretched out that the straps and back are hanging loose. When he bends over to take a shot, his ass cheeks part and I can see the hair cleft they conceal. All in all, from my spot on the bench behind the pool table, it’s a pretty good view. My friends are dispersed around the joint. One of them is up on the rooftop, having a smoke in the cold outdoors. Another is being manhandled by a pug-faced drunk near the boot-black chair. The drunken birthday boy disappeared a half hour before into the bathroom with a seventy-year-old leather guy wearing a harness and shiny black pants. (Later he’d deny it, but I saw it happen.) So I’m by myself, feeling overdressed in my jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket and boots, clutching a water bottle, and just watching the pool players. Then a guy sidles along the opposite wall and stands in the corner. Not just any corner. The dark corner. Every room has corners, and this bar has many rooms, but when someone here refers to the corner, you never assume that they’re talking about the nearest junction of two walls. You know they’re talking about The Corner, an alcove on the second floor where the walls are black, the lights are low, and where no one sits merely to rest his tuckus. The corner exists for one reason only. So of course I’m eyeing this guy when he heads to the corner. There are only a handful of us in this area of the bar, and this guy is hot. I might be overdressed a little compared to the jockstrapped pool player, but at least I fit in with the establishment’s theme. This guy looks sorely out of place. He’s wearing a striped dress shirt and a pair of dress pants. His shoes are dark and shiny—and not from the bar’s bootblack. He looks like he’s wandered in from Wall Street and left his suit jacket downstairs. What is he? Israeli? Middle Eastern? His skin is olive-complected and he’s got a giant club of a nose. I find it hugely attractive. I watch as he backs into the corner. His hands fold in front of his crotch. His head turns. He stares at me. At least, I hope it’s at me. It’s dim enough in the corner, and there’s a relatively brightly-lit pool table between him and myself, that I’m not quite able to tell. What I can see, though, are his hands as they fumble for his fly, and then the length of already-erect meat that comes flopping out. Against my will, my mouth forms the word fuck. For the moment I’m just enjoying the sight of this buttoned-down suit lounging against the corner’s dirty wall, of the curve of his arms as he cups his balls and cock. He waves it around, still staring at me. He’s enjoying showing it off, and I’m enjoying watching. The pug-faced shirtless guy ambles back into the pool table area, sees prey in the corner, and veers toward the guy. Instantly the suit folds his hands over his cock, turns his back to the guy, and ostentatiously ignores him. Like a rebounding eight ball, the shirtless dude wanders over to me. I laugh tolerantly as the drunk attempts to find my nipples beneath my shirt, and push him caroming in another direction. Once peace has returned to our side of the room, the guy looks over at me again. Even in the gloom I can see his dark eyes glittering in my direction. I stand up, and prepare to slide over to the corner to join him. I’m barely on my feet, though, when another interloper intrudes between us. It’s a guy holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and he walks right up to the guy in the striped shirt and attempts to grab his crotch. My guy reacts like he’s been branded. Still clutching his crotch, he strides away from the corner with the brisk steps of a man accustomed to striding down Manhattan’s windy streets on winter days, and disappears. For a moment or two I seriously consider decking the cigarette guy. It’s not necessary, though. Not even a minute passes before he’s back. I don’t hesitate this time; I don’t want to be interrupted again. I walk over to the benches in the corner, sit my ass down, spread my legs, and look up at him as he rounds the corner. He unzips. Out comes eight inches of cut cock. I can smell the slight musk of it, feel the warmth from several inches away. That doesn’t content me, though. I want it down my throat. It’s a goal of his, too; he rests one hand on my forehead and tips it back so that I can see him staring down that impossibly long nose into my face. His other hand pries open my jaw, and pulls it down all the way. I grunt with gratitude as he slides the length of his meat into my mouth. Clutching my head like a sex toy, he pulls me down and down until I’m nearly choking on the entire length. He holds me there firmly so that my chin scrapes against his balls and my nose is abraded by thick pubes like wire bristles. He holds me there until I’m gasping for air, then releases me. When I look up at him again, tears sting my eyes. My expression is of sheer gratitude. Encounters in the corner don’t last long. There’s a guy who comes around and breaks things up on a periodic basis. This guy isn’t looking for an all-night affair, though. He doesn’t want to kiss, he doesn’t want romance. He wants someone to choke on his dick, and tonight I’m the lucky cocksucker. He stands back and watches as I slobber up and down the length of his dark meat. I encircle the girth of it with my thumb and forefinger, and draw the tight circle up and down the length as my lips travel back and forth. The extra stimulation draws from him an appreciative grunt. He starts to grind his hips as I continue to suck. I’m confident enough in my cocksucking skills to know that with most guys, if I’m determined, I don’t need more than a couple of minutes to bring them off. I know exactly how to pick up on a man’s body cues and up the tempo, or increase the stimulation. I’ve got a great mouth. It’s had a lot of practice over the years. It’s not long before I can taste the pre-cum oozing from the tip of his cock and making my mouth even more slippery. He’s close, and he knows it. When he’s about to unload, he tries to pull out. I’m having none of it. I worked for the load. It’s mine. He owes it to me. I grab him by the nuts and yank him savagely back into the deepest recesses of my throat as he starts to spurt. And now that he’s shooting, it’s a huge, huge load. It’s seems like a week’s reserves of sperm have built up in his nuts, and he’s juicing my mouth with a half-cup of the stuff. I swallow mouthful after mouthful of it and wonder if christ, it’s ever going to end. But then, too soon, he’s done. Without a word he nods at me, folds that spongy dick back into his pants, and retreats. Something of a small crowd has assembled behind him while I was busy there, watching us go at it. Like a popping soap bubble, they expand and scatter in every direction as I wipe my mouth and stumble back to my chair. My two friends and the birthday boy join me a few minutes later. “Anything going on?” they ask, when they see I’m back by the pool table. They’re assuming I haven’t moved from that spot during the half-hour they were gone, of course. I don’t disabuse them of the notion. “Nope,” I say, chugging down my water. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” I let them interpret that as they will. More...

I'd like to collect those BreedingZone trading cards, personally.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Want to know the quickest and most sure-fire way to get drunk in New York City? I’ll tell you exactly how. You meet three of your friends there for dinner, one of whom is celebrating turning another year older. Then, when you walk into a certain Mexican restaurant on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen, you call out to the bartender standing just inside, “Hey, how are your margaritas? We have a birthday boy here.” Because what will happen is that the bartender will decide you’ve thrown down the gauntlet. When you and your buddies order four margaritas to go with dinner, he will mix up four goldfish-bowl sized drinks that are actually nothing more than a salt-crusted glass filled with straight, lethal tequila, in the general vicinity of which the bartender has vaguely waved a lime that may or may not have been sliced at the time. And then, after dinner, both the bartender and the restaurant’s owner will come over to your table brandishing a bottle of tequila apiece, which they’ll pour directly into the birthday boy’s mouth until he’s choking and burbling like a fountain of Jose Cuervo. No, I was not the birthday boy. However, I was the most inebriated I’ve ever been that night, which admittedly isn’t saying much. At the meal’s conclusion, when I excused myself from the table to pee, I walked for several steps under the confused belief that one of my legs was suddenly shorter than the other. Then I figured out that it would help if I walked on the sole of my right foot, rather than its side. And how do you follow up that kind of start to a celebration? Why, by walking a couple of blocks south to another gay bar, a saloon on the avenue’s east side. For the birthday boy it was a chance to continue the festivities. For me, it was a peaceful few minutes to chug down a bottle or two of water and hope that the world might stop spinning around me. As I moaned slightly to myself and clutched the bar from my stool, my friends were having a friendly argument about power pop bands of the nineteen-seventies over by the jukebox. Then a fellow sat down next to me, ordered a drink, and pulled out his phone. He proceeded to doodle around on it with his fingertips. I looked him over for a moment. He was in his early thirties. Handsome. Jet-black hair that had been groomed into a swoop over his forehead. Dark eyebrows that formed natural commas at the brow. I’d gone back to quietly praying that the floor would stop moving in ocean waves when suddenly the birthday boy loomed between me and the guy who’d just sat down. “HI!” he said, in the loud and confident way shared by both the inebriated and the developmentally challenged. “What’s YOUR name?” “Steven,” stammered the guy, putting down his phone. “HI STEVEN!” said the birthday boy. “You’re CUTE. Do you want to see MY ASS?” For a moment I thought he was going to drop trou, right there in the saloon. But no, he thrust his iPhone into Steven’s face. On it was a picture of himself spread-eagle on a bed, naked ass up, knees digging into the mattress. “Oh, good god,” I said. Then I put my hand on the birthday boy’s wrist. “Put your ass away.” “He SAID he wanted to see it!” said the birthday boy, all belligerence. “Actually, he didn’t,” I said. Very persuasively, I got him to put away the phone. “Go back to the jukebox,” I suggested. I shooed him along. Steven and I looked at each other for a moment, the broke out into genuine laughter. I’ll tell you—and those of you with considerate wingmen, take note—there’s no better ice breaker than if your buddy shows his ass photos to a perfect stranger. “It’s his birthday,” I told him. “He’s pretty wasted.” “Ya think?” said Steven. We talked casually for a little bit. He was an out-of-towner who was doing business in Hoboken for a couple of days, and he’d thought to take the train into the city to check out the bar scene. I told him about the bars I’d visited in the Hell’s Kitchen area. Nothing deep. I wished him a good time. We were about to sink back into our anonymity once again when the birthday boy loomed between us. He put a hand on each of our backs. “Steven, you’re CUTE,” he boomed. People around us turned at the sound of his over-loud voice. “Did my buddy show you his COCK PICTURES?” I gave the birthday boy a look that was intended to say, What the fuckety fuck? He ignored me and thundered, “He has ALL HIS COCK PICTURES on his PHONE. Did he show you HIS COCK PICTURES?” Steven sat up straight in his chair. “No, he did not,” he said, humoring my drunk buddy. “I don’t have all my cock pictures on my phone,” I told him. His eyebrows shot up. “But you have some of them?” That I couldn’t deny. “You should get him to SHOW YOU HIS COCK PICTURES,” said the birthday boy with the general command usually given to the Voice of God in Technicolor extravaganzas. “Yeah,” said Steven, smiling pleasantly at me. “You should show me your cock pictures.” “SHOW! YOUR! COCK! PICTURES!” shouted my buddy, like some kind of horny male cheerleader. “Cock pictures!” agreed Steven. I sighed. I pulled my wallet out of my jacket. I keep my phone in a leather portfolio that doubles as a wallet. I opened the cover, pulled up my photos, and chose one of the shots. “Fine,” I said, acting like I didn’t flash my dick at strangers on a regular basis. Steven jumped in his seat as if he’d been electrified. “Holy shit,” he said, genuinely shocked. Then he grabbed my phone out of my hands and cupped it in his own so he could study it. “That’s my wallet,” I stammered. “I TOLD YOU!” said the birthday boy. “My credit cards. . . .” I said weakly. “Is that really you?” Steven wanted to know. I nodded. “Holy shit,” Steven repeated. He looked at me, then looked at the photo, then looked at me again. “My cash. . . .” The birthday boy took my wallet from Steven’s hands. “That’s not even the one I like BEST,” he said, flipping backwards and forwards through the album. “HERE WE GO.” He put the wallet back into Steven’s hands. I could see he’d found one of my fuck shots, in which I’m pointing the length of my cock, angry, red, and already covered in lube, at a boy’s ass. “Holy shit,” Steven said for a third time. Then a fourth. “Ho . . . ly . . . shit!” He began flipping through the album himself, looking at several of my self pics, a shot of me sucking dick, then lingering on a couple of shots I’d taken for friends: me grinning at the camera while I had my hand wrapped around my meat. I could tell they’d been taken very late at night, because the light was dim and I was wearing my glasses instead of my contact lenses. “Yeah, that’s you all right!” he said. “HEY,” said the birthday boy to one of the other friends who’d been at dinner with us. “Have you seen his COCK PICTURES BEFORE?” “No, I certainly have not!” said my other buddy. I shrugged and gave up as Steven handed over the phone to him. My other buddy looked at the late night shot, looked at me, looked at the late night shot, then raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Just wow,” he said. “Wow what?” I asked. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t enjoying the attention. I just liked pretending annoyance. “Wow. I didn’t know you wore glasses!” he commented dryly. I gave him the middle finger. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “So. I was talking to the bartender. And he told me all about you.” The guy sidled into the bar stool next to mine without as much as a hello. I think anyone can back me up on this—there are some strangers you don’t mind sitting next to you in a bar. And then there was this guy. A little overweight. Badly dressed, in clothes that managed to make him look twenty years older than myself, despite being no more than thirty-three or thirty-four. Balding in George Costanza way, so that what hair remained formed a little saddle over the top of his head. None of those things usually puts me off. I like big guys, hair isn’t what attracts me to a man, and clothes don’t really matter when they’re in a pile on the floor. I just didn’t find this guy all that attractive, though, and I couldn’t really put my finger on why. I didn’t even want to look him directly in the eyes. There were two bartenders working that night. I knew them both. One of them is a pretty boy who’s dumb as a paper bag full of gravel; the other is a skinny former twink for whom someone should throw an intervention because of his addiction to too-small tank tops. I cast a look at them where they stood at the bar’s far end, lounging and cleaning glasses. “Oh yeah?” I asked. “And what did your buddy tell you?” I’ll be the first to admit it takes me a while to be comfortable with someone I’ve just met. I have to get used to his physical presence; I have to have a while to size a person up, to get to know what kind of person he is. I’m on guard until I decide someone’s not cruel, or racist, or one of those guys who mistakes being a Mean Girl as wit. This guy did nothing to make me comfortable. He sat sideways on the stool and leaned in to violate what personal space I tend to protect; he addressed me as if we’d known each other for years. I wasn’t expecting a personal letter of recommendation from a mutual acquaintance, like some grand old dowager out of Downton Abbey, mind you. But my instincts told me this guy was too familiar, too fast. “My buddy the bartender said you had a little bit of an attitude,” he said. “Did he, now.” On winter mornings, I have to get up and turn up the thermostat to get the heat going. His information flipped a switch in me that felt like the furnace in my basement, roaring with heat and anger. I began wondering which of those assholes would have said such a thing. “I have another buddy from Manhunt that you fucked a while back,” he continued on, while my eyes shot daggers away from him. “He said you kind of have a Midwest attitude about us East Coast boys and think we come up short.” The information stoked the flames even higher. The problem was, I couldn’t really deny that I’d probably said something to that effect to someone, sometime in the last two years, from Manhunt. “I told him was probably exaggerating, or misread you, or something.” He licked his lips. “He said the sex was hot, though.” For the first time, I looked at the guy full on. He was still a little too close, hovering a little too eagerly. He was too expectant, too anxious. If I possessed some kind of Geiger meter for neediness, he would have been clicking off the charts. And I realized in a flash: I was being played. A few years back I had to read and review a book by Neil Strauss called The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It was a dreadful volume on an alleged sure-fire pickup technique written by some raging dick in L.A. who’d transformed himself from an ordinary raging dick into a super-cocky raging dick who claimed he could pick up any hot chick he damned well pleased. At least, that’s what I remember, eight years on. To accentuate the message of being a dick, the guy had someone draw up line drawings of himself as a bald-headed ladykiller superhero who, in cartoon form, looked uncannily like a penis with a cheesy goatee. The whole package was bound in faux leather and embossed with gold lettering on the cover. Like a Bible. Get it? The guy’s technique for picking up chicks—I’ll give it to you for free—is basically a combination of grandstanding for attention, ignoring the chick you desire, and then finally getting her attention by insulting her to her face—taking her down a notch or two, effectively. Attractive women are so used to compliments, he decided, that outright rudeness gets attention. So a guy using Strauss’ bible would approach a woman, tell her she had nice hair, and then ask who did her extensions. Or tell her she has a nice dress, and then comment that he’s seen it on three or four other women that night. Or just go all in, and tell her that he bets she’s really high-maintenance. One of my big objections to The Game was that I really didn’t believe that so many women out there were so desperate for a little validation from a total fucking stranger that they would leap into bed with any schmo who walked up to them and said, “I guess vertical stripes aren’t as slimming as they say,” or “Do you need some advice on getting rid of that zit?” Maybe I just grew up with strong women who would deck a guy who came at them with such a lame approach. Maybe my female friends now are too confident and intelligent to be manipulated with such lame zingers. Whatever it was, the realization that I was being negged by a total stranger in a bar situation was like a bucketful of cold water on the flames that had been roaring a moment before. I could practically smell the smoke from the dead embers. I looked down at the bartenders again and realized that both of them, if anything, thought more the big tips I gave them on a weekly basis than they did about their ‘buddy’ sitting next to me. As for the Manhunt guy, if he’s a local and I haven’t been back to fuck him again, I probably didn’t enjoy him all that much. So what did I care about his opinion of me? As for this guy—well, when this happened, I’d just had the most rotten couple of weeks in some years. I just didn’t give a shit. “So basically what you’re telling me,” I said very slowly and loudly over the bar’s background music, “is that you’ve heard I’m a total raging asshole, but you’re willing to let me prove otherwise. That's charming.” He started to stammer. “I never said you were an asshole.” “Oh, that’s right. Your buddies did,” I said. Then I asked, “Does this pickup technique usually work for you? Because it’s really not doing a thing for me.” “I didn’t say. . . .” I’d taken out my phone by then, and was poking at the screen to check my mail. He leaned in again. “Men say I can suck the chrome off a bumper.” I’ve always disliked it when guys used that phrase to sell themselves to me. It doesn’t sound remotely sexy at all. I’d like my bumper slobbered over, but I’d like the chrome to remain intact, thank you. (Do they even make chrome bumpers any more? Isn’t the analogy as timely as I’m as long-lasting as a 33 1/3 phonograph record, baby?) I managed to find my phone more absorbing than that come-on. He sat there for what felt like the longest time while I studiously ignored him. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally slid off the stool. “Well, I guess if you’re not interested. . . .” he said. “Nope,” I said to my mobile web browser. I was relieved when I felt him scurry away and vacate the space next to me. “You doon’ all right down here?” asked the dumber and beefier bartender, slamming his hands down on the bar in front of me. For a moment I thought about asking him if he’d been the ‘buddy’ of the pickup artist, but I decided that it really didn’t matter. The quickest way to make me assume an attitude is to tell me I have an attitude, and we’d already managed to run that flag up the pole. I assured him I was dandy, and set my phone back down on the bar now that the coast was clear. I felt a rush of air beside me, and then the pickup artist materialized beside me again, as if from thin air. “I’m really a hell of a bottom,” he pleaded. It was kind of a shame he hadn't led off with that. I looked him in the eye. “No,” I said. For the final time, he slunk off. If that’s ‘tude, so be it. I’d like to stress that it’s Southern-by-way-of-the-Midwest ‘tude, though. I’ve got some regional pride. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here When I moved to the city of Detroit back in the mid-nineteen-eighties, I was twenty-one and didn’t know a soul. I’d moved to attend graduate school, though, and from long experience I knew the easiest way to make new friends in a university setting was to hang out in the graduate library restrooms with my pants around my ankles and my mouth ready to suck cock beneath the stalls. And that’s exactly how I got my first ‘boyfriend’ in the city that would prove to be my home for the next quarter-century. I’m using quotes around the word because it was a one-sided relationship. The guy wanted me to be his boyfriend. I just wanted him to fuck me. I know, I know, that sounds callous, but the fact is that the guy already had a long-term boyfriend at the time. He owned a home with a guy that he’d been involved with for several years. They had two dogs. He was unhappy in the relationship and said he wanted out, but I suspected, and I think he knew in his heart that it would take several more years for that to happen. In the meantime, I wasn’t willing to be called a boyfriend by someone who was already attached, and especially to someone with whom I had lousy sex. Oh yeah. The sex was lousy. I met Tom in the second-floor library men’s room near the periodicals. For a couple of years this out-of-the-way restroom was the hottest place on campus to get dick. The stairwell was quiet, so that you could hear from quite a distance anyone who happened to be approaching. Though the restroom was only a two-seater, it was U-shaped in layout, so that anyone walking in wouldn’t immediately be granted a view of everything going on there. There was a strategically-placed mirror above the sink so that someone sitting in the first stall could see quite plainly the faces and build of anyone walking in. And best of all, there was a huge, inch-and-a-half-wide gap in the first toilet on the side where the partition met the brick wall, right at about the spot where one’s knees would be when sitting down, so that anyone walking in could look through and see if the guy inside the stall was masturbating. I liked the gap because when I occupied the stall (and I often occupied that stall for hours at a time) if the guy walking in was an ugly troll, I could just close my legs and lean forward and obscure any sign of my goodies. If he was hot—and the men who knew of that restroom usually were—I could just sit back and stroke and see if the guy showed any interest at the flash of big hard young dick that he couldn’t miss as he passed by. And Tom was hot. He was a tall black man with a muscular build who not only craned his head as he walked by me stroking, but stopped to put his eye to the partition gap and check me out. Given that encouragement, I didn’t even bother to wait until he was in the other stall. I didn’t need to toe-tapping to confirm his interest. I opened the stall door, stood up, and let him look me over. He made me turn around and show him my ass—which excited me, since I was still mostly bottom then. He ran his hands over my skinny white boy ass, made sounds of appreciation, and then suggested that we go to a quiet spot he knew where he could, and I quote, “fuck the shit out of me.” This is pretty much where things went off the rails with Tom and me. If I’d just sucked him off or bent over for him right there and then, I’d probably have a hot memory of a one-time thing with a good looking dude. But no, he convinced me to follow him to his car, where he drove us both to Henry Ford Hospital, less than a mile away. Tom was in his final year of residency there at the time, it transpired. Somehow he managed to get me into the area of the hospital where the male residents slept, changed, and bathed, where we drew the curtains to a shower stall and got naked together. I know that the setup sounds hot as hell. It really wasn’t. The library restroom was at least quiet. We could’ve fucked there uninterrupted. Trying to fuck in the resident’s changing rooms was like trying to fuck on Sixth Avenue during the Macy’s parade. Guys kept coming in and out. Someone was snoring from a cot at the end of the hallway. Two residents had a lengthy conversation about their girlfriends over the tops of two other showers. A janitor came in to mop out the area. Anyone and everyone in the hospital trooped through that shower room during the hour we were trapped in that shower. The only thing missing was a Volkswagen full of clowns. Finally we reclaimed our clothing and tried to take it to a toilet stall. I’d long before lost the urgency and lust that had made me attracted to Doctor Tom in the library, and by the time he bent me over the toilet and worked his dick into me, what I was feeling was more along the lines of impatience and shame. The fact, racial stereotypes aside, that he had one of the world’s tiniest dicks didn’t help. Nor the fact that his idea of fucking the shit out of me was to insert himself, wiggle around for two or three minutes, then pull out his dick and cum a quarter-teaspoon of semen into his palm. Doctor Tom was friendly, though, and for two or three weeks I let him take me out. He introduced me to the food phenomenon that is the Detroit Coney Island—basically a hot dog on a bun covered with chili and onions. He toured me around some landmarks I’d never before seen. And he introduced me to the hobby of salvaging. But one of the other reasons I didn’t want to be his boyfriend was that I found him sexually controlling, and not in the fun way. When I’d show up to meet him, he would reach down my pants and squeeze my testicles, hard. It wasn’t a show of dominance, or anything, but a masturbation check. It was a scientific fact, he told me, that it was possible to tell by the density of a man’s testicles if he’d masturbated in the previous twenty-four hours. If they were hard and tough, they hadn’t shot sperm. If they were softer and larger, the subject had shot a load. I kind of resented the fact that this (already committed) man was trying to control the frequency of my masturbation—which was really none of his fucking business. I also had a sense that if he was this controlling so early in the relationship, it certainly was unlike to get any better as it went on. Salvaging, though. I’d never heard about it before, but there were plenty of people in the Detroit area who indulged in it. The city was a nasty mess when I moved there. (And not much better when I left.) Blocks upon blocks of neighborhoods were nothing but empty and abandoned houses, lying in ruin. A lot of these homes had been crap to begin with, but in the older sections of Detroit were some formerly very grand estates that had gone to ruin. Many of them had the austere and haunted quality of old castles, gutted and left exposed for decades. Doctor Tom always carried a toolbox and crowbar in the back of his car. Late at night, he and I would drive through neighborhoods where vagrant fires smoldered unchecked, under freeway bridges where the homeless slept behind shopping carts, through neighborhoods where the weeds in every direct grew shoulder-high. He’d select a home, park his car a distance away, and then the two of us would creep toward it. Brandishing crowbars and flashlights, we’d walk through these deserted stretches of inner city blight, disappear through the weeds onto the appointed property, and then carefully, very slowly, work our way through the house. This was totally illegal, of course. If we’d been caught, we would’ve been fined for trespassing, or charged with burglary, or worse. At the time, the city was the murder capital of the world. Dead bodies were found in these houses all the time. The floors were rotted, the staircases dangerous. But oh, the riches one could find in these old houses, if one knew how to look. I knew one salvager years later who’d managed to pry out an entire Pewabic ceramic fireplace from a ruined home. I knew a couple of others who had gotten gorgeous leaded glass windows, or elaborate plaster fixtures. Doctor Tom had never found anything so grand or so intact, but he did have most of a chandelier he’d salvaged before meeting me in his garage. On the three or four occasions he took me with him, the most he found were a few antique light switch covers and a glass doorknob. After creeping through these abandoned spaces, I would stand by and hold the flashlight steady as I watched him pry off his desired prize. Then we’d run back to his car, giddy, scared, and pulses racing. It was my last salvaging trip with Doctor Tom of which I was reminded recently, though. It was the next-to-last date I had with him at all, because after that, I simply told him I couldn’t see him any more. We were in a terrible neighborhood east of downtown on a night that was so radiant with moonlight that we didn’t need our flashlights, even inside the gothic revival house to which Doctor Tom had led us. The upper floor of the house had suffered a fire at some point. On that dark and moonlit night, the faint tickle of rancid old smoke made our progress across the litter-strewn first floor an even more foreboding affair. The place had been more or less picked clean. Some enterprising salvager had removed a good deal of the hardwood flooring from the dining room, so that when we looked through where double doors had once been, we could see straight into the dirt-floor basement. The fireplace was brick, so that was no good. Even the copper wiring had been pulled from the walls. The stairs were fairly sturdy, though, so we went up to the second floor very carefully, to see what might be up there. And that’s when we stumbled into the room. A corner of it was open to the elements, burned away by fire and worn by weather and winters. There was moonlight enough, though, to show us what a grand parlor it must once have been; the wallpaper remaining was elaborately printed and gave the impression of flocking. There was no furniture left. Nothing on the wall save a thick and almost phosphorescent accumulation of bird poop in the corner that was open to the sky. It was a crisp December evening and I remember being able to see my breath curl in lazy whorls in front of me. When I followed their journey upward, I saw the cages hanging from the ceiling. Bird cages. Large ones. At least seven or eight of them. They’d been suspended from hooks in the tall ceiling, and were high enough that only the most determined salvager would ever attempt to claim them. Doctor Tom took a look at them and wrinkled his nose; they were no good anyway, he declared. All the cages had their doors open; one of them had either decayed in a strange manner or gotten tangled in its chain and hung at a distinct angle. None of them were entirely intact. They all had absences where bars had once been before they’d turned to dust. On the floor, in the exposed corner, I could see the remnants of a rusted cage mouldering away in pieces. I turned. Doctor Tom stood inches away from me. “Drop your pants,” he whispered. I obeyed. He’d done this before when we’d gone salvaging. His dick seemed to get harder—and shoot even faster—when we were in a potentially dangerous situation like this, when we could be discovered by cops or the homeless or other enterprising Detroiters armed with a crowbar. His hands slid down the outsides of my thighs, and squeezed my balls. I resented his touch when he yanked at my testicles, testing them. But I bent over, and felt wetness against my hole, and then his cock inside me. I reached out to brace myself against the wall. The whole house seemed to shift slightly when I did, and then the room was suddenly alight with motion and the heart-stopping noise of flapping wings. Neither of us had realized that the room was occupied by birds. In my crouching, bent-over position I looked up above me to see them stirring in the decaying cages. A few woke up enough to flap with annoyance through the large gaps in their bars, or out the open cage doors to the exposed corner through which moonlight streamed. They were ghostly pale. Pigeons, probably. Doctor Tom didn’t seem to notice or care. He was too busy banging away, bringing himself to orgasm, paying no attention to me or the motion around him. I looked up at the flurry, though, and listened to the birds’ subdued scolding. I turned my head as one returned from a perch on the ruined exterior and fluttered into a cage, then watched as it pulled its wings to itself and disappeared into sleep. I remember thinking to myself with sudden clarity, When it has the freedom to fly anywhere, what kind of bird chooses a cage? In large part, that moment is why I broke up with Doctor Tom, the next time I saw him. Now that I’m older, I see we all choose our own cages. We cage ourselves in homes we can’t afford, in relationships we think hold us back. We cage ourselves in misery, and built bars of self-doubt around ourselves. We look for situations with walls to surround us, and a dome to keep us from flying, where we alight and pull the door to—and then we complain of our captivity. But like the rusted contraptions I saw that night, hanging overhead like shadows in the moonlight, those cages are rarely fully intact. The doors are never tightly shut. We’ve merely forgotten that these coops are what we chose for ourselves because they’re familiar, they’re small, they’re contained. What we need to remember is that just because something has the vague shape of a container never means that it is completely restricting. We need to remember how and when to fly. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here We’re two feet apart. Maybe three. I’m close enough to catch his scent, at any rate. Sharp. Sweet. Masculine. He’s dabbed on one of those high-end colognes that tickles the attention without theatrics. It makes me turn my head, to check him out. He’s a handsome devil, a mature guy with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed into a short, precision cut. A dark gray suit jacket hangs from his broad shoulders. Two buttons lie open on his slate-blue shirt; where one lapel overlaps the other, dark chest hair springs in abundance. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and shiny black shoes. Everything he’s wearing—the coat, the shirt, the denim—all looks freshly-pressed. It’s eight-thirty at night, and we’re standing in one of the busiest intersections of the MTA’s system of underground tunnels, and yet he looks like he’s just stepped out of a catalog. The wait for the subway shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central separates real New Yorkers from the tourists. There are four tracks on the S line. The tourists stand along the length of Track 1, crowding between the pillars while they wait for the train to arrive from the other end of its short run. They watch the dancers who, even long past the peak rush hour, still caper and hold out their hats closer to the stairs by the downtown trains. The locals, and those of us with a lot of experience with this particular route, stand above where the track ends. If the shuttle rattles in on Track 1, fine. We’re right by the first door. But if the subway cars round the curve on either of the far tracks, we’re in a position to take mere few steps around to the appropriate boarding place, while the tourists who’ve taken those attractive spots further away have to make a lengthy jog. This guy knows the score. His eyes meet mine. Steel gray, they are. They match his hair. He looks me over, in my silly video game T-shirt, my leather jacket, my jeans and my sneakers. And he doesn’t dismiss me. We measure each other. Judge each other. Acknowledge each other for a fraction of a second, with lifted chins. Then we look away. The breakdancers have attracted a crowd with their gyrations and their boombox. The man in the suit jacket stares across the station, pretending interest. While his sharp beak of a nose points in their direction, his athletic body is angled toward me. His hand drops to his waist; a thumb hooks into a belt so glossy it rivals the shine of his shoes. Then his fingers drop to the sizable bulge on his left side. It’s thick, that bulge. I try to resist licking my chops when I see it, though I do suck in my lips and moisten them a little, unconsciously. His fingers casually rest along its side so that I can clearly see the length and thickness of it. Fuck, even soft I can almost make out the head, a soft flare beneath the dark blue denim where the tips of his well-kept nails run along the ridge. He stops studying the dancers. My eyes flick up to his. Our glances lock with the finality of a deadbolt meeting its latch. He knows I’m watching. I know he wants me to watch. A few seasoned shuttle catchers hover near us at the track’s end. No one so much as meets an eye. Only he and I glance at each other, sharing our secret connection It’s a strange city, Manhattan—where people are packed into small spaces, but pretend they’re not on top of each other. In any other American city, the space between this man and myself would be odd—too close, too intimate. Here, it’s what passes for normal. Practical I could reach out and touch him right now. My hand could easily swing out. The back of it could brush against that fat lump protruding next to his fly. In the blink of an eye I could lay my palm on his chest, atop that crisp cotton, and feel his heart beating beneath. No one would stop me. But I just look, and watch his fingers scrape back and forth over the denim, and watch the lump swell and grow. The next train will be departing from . . . Track 3, says a man’s jolly automated voice over the loudspeaker. Even before the tourists groan, those of us at the track’s end have already begun walking briskly to to the metal pillars in the station’s center. Further down and much farther away, the out-of-towners groan and begin to jog to catch up. The man moves first, looking sidelong at me before he departs. I’m on his heels, keeping him in my sights as the stream of departing shuttle riders push their way out of the train doors and scurry to their destinations. He and I slide into the first car. He stands in the closed door opposite. I lounge against the pole. And we wait while the train fills. One of his hands casually holds the bar overhead. The other is back at his crotch. I make no shy pretense of looking away. I stare at it. I let my eyes caress that thick lump, where the flare is clearly defined now against the tight fabric. When he sees me staring, it fattens beneath his fingertips. He’s pointing at it, playing with it. Rubbing it. Letting me know it’s there. And he loves that I’m looking. I turn my head, let it hang. I’m not even pretending to be discreet. No one around me notices. They’re too drawn into the shells they’re erecting as the train grows more and more crowded. They’re staring up at the ads along the rooftop, or out at the breakdancers beyond the vanishing crowd. I’m staring straight at the hardening cock of a man who looks like he’d be a mean fuck, once I stripped him out of those clothes. The shuttle jolts to a start. It’s not a long ride between Times Square and Grand Central. I could probably have walked it in less time. We jostle back and forth, staring at each other. Halfway there, his own head drops. He tilts it sideways. Looks to my side, where my leather bag hangs. He’s checking out my ass. My own cock stiffens at the realization. I turn slightly. Show it to him. He recognizes what I’m doing. Nods. We don’t smile. Over the loudspeaker, the conductor pronounces words that are intended to be Grand Central. They’re as indistinct as a teacher’s voice on a Charlie Brown special. The doors haven’t even hissed open before the crowd inside rushes for the doors, sweeping the both of us along. Even though I’m the tallest person in the crowd by a full head, and should be able to find him without problems, he’s short enough that for a moment, I lose sight of him. A moment is all it takes. There’s too much humanity surrounding the two of us, and even though I’m slowing down, trying not to separate myself too far from him—though what will I do? Share my phone number? Give him my name? Follow him?—he’s impossibly obscured. I’m sure he’s behind me. I slow myself down even more. But no, there he is up ahead, his hands stuffed in his jeans as he turns around and cranes his neck to look at me. My feet automatically head toward the stairs up to Grand Central, where I can catch my commuter train to the suburbs. He’s obviously headed for the long corridor beneath the terminal that leads to the 6 train. For a moment—just a moment—we both hesitate in our predetermined steps. We stop our feet on those everyday paths they’re used to treading. He looks at me from atop the ramp leading to the tunnel. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my hand on the railing. It’s a juncture in which we both measure the possibilities, weigh the options. For one split second in our two worlds, anything could happen. Heat could happen. Magic, even. All the commotion around me is muffled; I see nothing but him. The universe seems to catch its breath, and waits to see what the two of us might do. Then someone jostles against him, pushing him forward. We’re flotsam in a river of men and women. In a rush of babble that seemed to have vanished only moments before, we let the currents carry us away from each other. Our feet stumble forward to reclaim their familiar routes. But I smile at him before he disappears. I nod quickly, in thanks. He nods back, and beneath that beak of a nose, his lips curl and soften. What a moment, indeed. Now, weeks later, I wonder if he also thinks back to that night beneath Times Square, and meditates on me, or on those prolonged seconds when the world hushed and came to a crawl as it waited for our decisions. I’ve certainly thought about him. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The third anniversary of my online blog has come and gone. It’s been more than a month since I last wrote about my life. I’ve been licking my wounds during those weeks. I won’t go into the details of why, exactly—but I will say that betrayal has left a very bad taste in my mouth. Even now, it’s difficult for me to muster up any enthusiasm to write. When I started this blog, it was from a combination of lofty intentions and basic braggadocio. It seemed to me that remarkably few people were talking frankly and unabashedly about real sexual lives. There were a lot of blogs out there tallying loads collected at the bookstores, or that combined unlikely scenarios with cheap porn-movie dialogue. There were a lot of blogs that were simply collections of porn clips, or unerotic erotica based on some black-and-white photo of a shirtless stud. But thoughtful pieces of actual writing about real sex, with its joys and pitfalls and its awkwardnesses and its humorous moments were few and very far between. I think that’s a pity. Cultures develop narratives about the acceptable lives that individuals can live within its confines, and it’s easy to play out our existences against prefabricated stage sets that have little to do with what our stories actually are at any given moment. Little straight boys and girls grow up with the notion that they’ll maybe lose their virginity at the age of eighteen when it’s perfectly legal and aboveboard, that they’ll have a couple of—but not too many—sexual encounters in their twenties within the context of steady dating, and that they’ll then meet the great love of their lives, with whom they’ll settle down forever in bliss and sexual exclusivity for the rest of their lives. We all know it doesn’t happen like this. We come from families that are broken, that have divorces and affairs. We have parents who’ve cheated on each other, and brothers and sisters who are total whores before they settle down. We know of marriages with swingers, and couples who are open, or who’ve made their own arrangements that have little to do with antiquated notions of sexual fidelity. We know marriages that don’t last forever, or that dry up sexually, or that just should never have been attempted to begin with. We all know, on some level, that this standardized domestic narrative doesn’t always work. Maybe it doesn’t even often work. And yet, when it doesn’t work for us, we torture ourselves because we’ve been carefully taught that they ought to. When they don’t, too many people don’t blame the unrealistic expectations of the narrative. We blame ourselves, and our own lacks. For years gay men and women had to invent their own narratives; we weren’t discussed in the mainstream culture except as monsters, or as invisible creatures dwelling on the margins on society. But look at what’s happening to us now: there’s an expectation (formed just over the last ten years, but now accepted as cultural gospel) that all the gay boys want to settle down forever with a nice boy and adopt a pretty baby to dress up, and that all the gay girls want to find a nice lesbian to move in with after the second date. We’re expected to hold our breaths for every marriage equality debate. On television we used to be silly, sexless fairies. Now we’re silly, sexless married couples with infants. We’re being accommodated into the mainstream—even if it’s a mainstream narrative that doesn’t ring true for so many of us. What happens to those of us with stories and experiences that in no way conform to the mainstream narrative we tell ourselves as a society is that we’re regarded at best as oddities. We’re exceptions. Freaks. At worst, we’re demons and monsters, trying to tear apart the fabric of polite society. Never mind, mind you, that if a heavenly apocalypse befell the earth and our souls and thoughts and deeds were laid bare by some godly archangel, the number of those who failed to deviate from the mainstream would be vanishingly small, and would consist only of the timid and the unimaginative. Face it. We’re all freaks. We want to do things with our privates that our parents told us we shouldn’t. We fuck in the dark and pretend we didn’t by daylight. We keep our sex lives—our real sex lives, not the ones we pretend to have for the sake of our families and our reputations—mum. All because we’re too frightened to let anyone think we’re one of those people. A deviant. A freak. Over the course of the years of my public blogging, I’ve had no problems talking about all kinds of things I’d never seen anywhere else. I’ve discussed my pubescent sexuality, my sexual assault, my love affairs—the ones genuinely involving love, that is. I’ve celebrated my strengths, like my ability to read men and their needs even better than they can sometimes read themselves. Like the sexual fearlessness that’s made my life a great adventure. Like my ability to put men at ease, and to give them not only what they think they want, but what they secretly crave and can’t bring themselves to express. But among the sexy confidence I sometimes exude, I’ve also been remarkably forthright about my own faults and shortcomings. I’ve discussed incidents in which I flatly fell short of both my own expectations and those of my partners. I’ve talked about times I’ve let down friends, or failed to do the right thing. I’ve explored the times I was a disappointment. Rather than disguise these blemishes with paint or to leave them in the shadows, I’ve put my own imperfections squarely center stage and shone upon them harsh spotlights for my audience of millions—I regularly expose my own arrogance, my competitiveness, my short temper, my selfishness. I don’t pretend to be virtuous, by any means. I know, without need for readers to inform me via emails to my Manhunt or Adam4Adam accounts, that my ‘looks are not all that.’ I’ve never pretended I wasn’t susceptible to flattery, or that my vanity wasn’t the Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, always demanding to be fed. I know these things. Because I present them to you, you know these things. In return for rolling over and exposing my white, soft, lard-like underbelly, however, I’ve always assumed there was an implied contract with my readers. I’m offering this to you as a gift, I thought I was telling them. I’m revealing you so much of myself, good and bad, ugly and hot. And all I ask in return is that you treat these offerings, and the men involved, with a little respect, and not to trample upon them. I never expected reverence, or to be showered with compliments and gifts (though I’m craven enough to enjoy that when it happens). I don’t get fortune for it. I don’t get fame. Over the three years I’ve kept this blog, I’ve found that I’ve gotten repaid sweetly and amply by the friendships I’ve made. There’ve been men I’ve met in person who are dear friends of mine. There are readers whose friendships were like summer wildflowers—blossoming for a time and then fading and blowing away at the end of a season. I’ve had beautiful boys and handsome men and wonderful women reach out to me with their stories and their photos, to let me know that they’re glad to have me in their lives. That is wonderful. I love that every one of these remarkable people who recognize that everything I present to them is a gift not only from my loins, but from my heart. Thank you all, very deeply and sincerely. There’s another brand of person, however, for whom everything is never enough. I serve them so much of myself, and they don’t respond with thanks. They don’t push their plate away when I’m done and declare they’re full. Instead, they sit there with knife and fork in hand, napkin tucked in their shirt collar, pounding their fists on the table and demanding more, more, more. It’s not enough to know my sexual secrets, my history, my disappointments and joys. The abundance I give doesn’t satisfy them. They demand more. They pry. They snoop. They break open doors I’ve locked and root through closets I thought were sealed. And really, it’s not as if they use what they find in order to understand me better. They grub around so that they can find things that give them what they imagine is control over me. Dirty secrets of which they think I’m ashamed. (I’m probably not.) Inconsistencies that they imagine will bring my house of cards a-tumbling. (When basically, I’m just inconsistent.) I am totally aware that I am displaying the typical grandiose paranoia associated with most of the songs on sophomore albums released by former boy band members, but damn, bitch, when you’re all famous ’n’ shit, everybody want a piece of you, yo. But seriously. When I encounter situations in which these people to get out of control, I find them draining. They suck my attention, and my energy. For the last month, one situation in particular has just left a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to my blog. I want to enjoy writing again. I’ve got no bombastic delusions that what I do here is akin to Proust, or alternately is the Lord’s work. But in a landscape in which the frigid gyrations of Fifty Shades of Grey is what passes for wildly erotic, or real bloggers are trying to pass off awkward fantasies as anyone’s actual sex life, I think there’s a need for real voices talking about real sex lives—about real feelings. If I’ve had a mission statement all along, it’s been to get down to the core of my encounters, past and present, and isolate those elements that make them important. I’ve wanted to preserve those sweet moments, the memories of which make life worth living during dark, cold days. The absurdities, the funny quirks that make an encounter more than just another load. Everything that elevates animal copulation into human intimacy—those are the things that are important to me. Not caring enough to write about them—which is the pit in which I’ve been nursing my bruises for the last month—has just about killed me. To those of you who were concerned enough over the last few weeks to reach out and ask if I’m okay, I offer my thanks. I’ll try to respond to those emails personally in the coming days. (Okay, let’s be honest. It’ll be weeks.) I’m tiptoeing back into the waters, here. I can’t guarantee I’ll have the stomach to resume at the same vigor or frequency as before, but I think that as touch-and-go as it was for a while there, I’ve managed to convince myself that writing here is something I find worthwhile. Convincing myself, I’ve found, is usually the biggest hurdle. More...

The forties are fantastic, Ryan. You'll see. My only wish is that someone had warned me before I hit my forties that my temper would become a lot shorter during that decade. Someone explained to me it was a hormonal thing and that they call it the 'Furious Forties' for a reason.

Do you think anyone else lied about his age that night? And here I was thinking that the story was going to end with you adding ten years to your age so you could be one of the dads. :-)

Good for you, Hotload. I think it's a happier way to live, ultimately.

Hil-AR-ious. I love it, sir.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I had one of those birthdays last week. It wasn’t a milestone birthday in the traditional sense—that is, the year didn’t end with a zero. But it was one of those birthdays that’s ominous to gay men in general, because it’s a number at which time suddenly stands still and past which, mysteriously no gay man ever ages. No, not 25. I can see your confusion, though. That’s the age that gay men ape in their dress habits, especially the fifty-somethings who stuff themselves into a Hollister T-shirt under the hope that the brand name will do a David Copperfield on their age and shave off twenty-five years before everyone’s marveling eyes. So no, not 25. The other number. No, not 29. Yes, I know that’s the age that all women over 30 claim to be. That’s more of a female thing, though. Men over thirty claim they’re 32, all the way up until they’re my age. It doesn’t matter if they’re 39, or 42, or 46. If you look at their profile, or ask them in a bar late at night when the lights are low, they’re going to tell you they’re 32. But not either of those numbers. And no, it’s not 43. Where’d that come from? Look, I’ll just tell you. I turned 49. For-ty-niiiiine. It’s the last number to which gay men will admit. Men born in the year I was born—1964—are 49. Men born in the nineteen-fifties are 49. Guys who popped out of a Great Gatsby-era flapper wearing a shingled skirt and shouting twenty-three skiddoo! claim to be 49. Gay men hit 49 and then remain there until their deaths, thirty-five years later. It doesn’t matter that they’re hunched over and clutching a cane and looking like Young Mr. Grace on Are You Being Served?, who doddered around barely able to say his one line of the entire show. He’s 49, dammit, and 49 he’ll stay. FOREVER. I had an argument with my own brother about the age of 49 a couple of years ago. My brother has been 49 for almost a dozen years now, both in his online profiles and with new guys he meets. It made me more and more anxious about approaching the age myself—not because I feared the number itself. I don’t give a rip. It’s because I had this vision of my age matching his, then surpassing him. Then I’d be the older brother. And that’s a crime against nature. I’m too foxy to be the older brother. So I nagged. And I pleaded. Finally he changed his age to 99, which in online profile land is basically a big fuck you to anyone who wants to get a general idea of how old someone is. But it’s still older than 49. I’d like to proclaim up front that my age will continue to change from year to year. Next February I will be 50. In 2015, I will be 51. Just you wait and see. Check in with in a decade and I’ll be 59. Still foxy, and 59. I don’t like to let a number dictate how I feel about myself, see. I spent way too much of my early life doing that. It started the week I lost my virginity at 12, in my earliest encounter getting cruised in a men’s room toilet. The guy next to me, after peering through a gloryhole and looking at my smooth and hairless body, passed me a note written on toilet paper and wrapped around a Bic pen that read, How old are you??? Right away, I lied. 14, I wrote back. Because in my naive mind, there was a vast world of experiential difference between a callow youth of 12 and a seasoned sexual professional of 14, and I didn’t want to seem like a young newbie. God, was I dumb. Not that the guy cared. He had his dick in me less than thirty seconds later. I was always lying about my age to men in my teens. I added on three, four, five years to make men comfortable about fucking me. In college, because I’d skipped a year of high school and entered early, I added on a couple of years so that my classmates didn’t think I was contemptibly young. I had a baby face in grad school, where I the only 20-year-old surrounded by students in their late twenties, thirties, and forties—so I told everyone I was 25. I added on years until I reached 30, when I decided I’d had enough about apologizing for something as silly as how old I was. And yes, at 49 I’ve had my share of rejection based on my age. Or more accurately, I’ve run across the guys to whom I’m invisible because I’m not 25 (or wearing that Hollister T to pretend I am). I’ve seen plenty of profiles of guys who absolutely positively will never ever meet anyone over 45 ever! You know what? Screw that. It’s easy to see the scores of those profiles and feel slighted. I don’t intend to waste my time bemoaning them. It seems to me the men who are missing out are those who sit on the sidelines and simply don’t try, because they’re too sensitive to rejection. In the end, I’d rather be rejected arbitrarily so that I know someone’s a close-minded asshole, than magically accepted because I gave out a fictional number as my age. And that’s, as Edith Ann used to say (see, I’m dating myself), the truth. So in this Monday’s open forum, I’m curious. Who out there has lied about his or her age in order to land a guy? For what reasons? Are you fibbing about your age now? Are you going older or, more likely, younger? How young do you dare to go—that is, how many years is it safe to shave off in the service of preserving one’s youth? And is there life after 49? I’d love to hear from you guys. More...

I've known several bottoms into being footed ( foot-fucked? fist-footed? foosted?). I've never been in past the ankle, though. If you don't get the appeal of it, it's just likely to be one of the things you shrug at and never get into, and that's perfectly okay. It's kind of easy for guys equally to say they don't get the appeal of fisting ("It's weird! Makes the bottom look like a ventriloquist's dummy!"). Shouldn't stop anyone other than the guys not into it from trying it, though.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I know my faults. I’m competitive. Too competitive. Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are. To fuck. He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him. “I love it,” he gasps out. “You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow. “I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches. “Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?” He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow. That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?” “Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.” I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?” “Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.” Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me. I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask. “No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it. “And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“ “I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.” I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .” “Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.” “In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .” “Fuck.” “Say it.” “When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .” “. . . All I think about is you.” He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.” “And how you fill me up.” “I love how you fill me up,” he breathes. “And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.” “Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him. “Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to. “He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.” I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.” He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.” I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.” “Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.” “But you need it.” “I need it.” “And he doesn’t give it to you.” “No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.” “He never could.” “Please.” This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say. “Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.” “Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?” “It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.” “So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question. “You win.” “Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three. Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am. But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here The thing of it is: whenever I think about the guy, I remember the burst of excitement I got from the initial impression his photos made. Never mind what happened afterwards. When he pops into my head, I remember that curly short hair, the dazzling smile, the skin the color of teak. And I remember my instinctive reaction of Wow, that guy wants me? Okay then! Let's do it! He was Brazilian. That’s even how he refers to himself when he texts me. Hi, this is Phillip the Brazilian. Come fuck me? I found it charming. And I wasn’t really betrayed by false photos, either. He lived in a flat over the New York border, at the top of a three-story house that had been subdivided into private apartments. It was snowing out that morning, and when he padded around the house’s side to meet me and lead me upstairs, I was surprised at how handsome he was in person, too. He wore a pair of soccer shorts. made of that sleazy, drape-y fabric that shows every contour of a man’s cock if he’s not wearing underwear. Which he wasn’t. His dark and hairy legs were stuffed into a much-worn pair of gray sweatsocks, and his feet were girdled by sandals that slapped the wet pavement as he approached. He flashed me a smile—god damn, what a smile this fucker had—and asked if I’d found the address okay. Then he put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the house and up the stairwell to the top. Once we were alone, and upstairs beneath the much-repaired plaster ceiling of his bedroom, he gave me another broad, toothy smile. I melted. “You are very, very handsome,” he told me. His words were warm and sweet, his voice like summer honey fresh from the comb. He pulled me down to his sofa and planted a kiss on my lips. His mouth was hot, and moist, and eager; when his tongue slipped between my lips and into my own mouth, I groaned and let him push me down on the cushions. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he told me, as he grapples with the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve kept looking at your profile and hoping you’d notice.” “I wish I had,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He was making me feel so good. “Oh fuck,” he breathed, when I reached out and started stroking the lump in his sleazy shorts. It was hard to miss that protrusion, that enormous mound of hardened flesh. He’s big, this guy. I wrestled with his waist band and yanked it down below his hips. His dick fell onto me like a tree branch. “You like it?” “I sure as hell do,” I said. I pulled myself out from under him. I knelt down on the rag carpet and helped him to spread his legs. It was a beautiful dick. A solid eight inches. Thicker than my own. Cut. Juicy. He drooled precum onto my tongue as he slid himself in. I sucked the upper few inches for a while, then engulfed the whole shaft to the base. He groaned as his head hit the back of my throat. “Don’t make me cum,” he begged. Then, after a moment more, he grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face off his meat. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need your big dick inside me.” I had no problem with that. We took ourselves into the bedroom, where he pushed me down onto the mattress, pulled down my pants so they hung around my ankles, and then slathered my dick with lube. “I’m gonna sit on it,” he promised, staring at me with those intense eyes of his. “I’m gonna sit on it and ride it all day.” His head lolled back when he lowered himself onto my shaft. He was tight, but he kept a hold on my cock until half of it was in, and then pushed himself onto the remaining inches. We both groaned at the same time. It felt good. “I want to ride this all afternoon,” he promised. “Can we fuck all afternoon?” “I’ve got nowhere to go,” I grinned at him. “Good, because I want to make you my captive,” he said. “I’m gonna tie you up and keep you as my toy top. Just ride you all afternoon, baby. Take that big white dick up my hole all afternoon until—!” And this is the point he painted my face with cum. Seriously. I didn’t see it coming. There was no announcement of it, no forewarning. No groaning or panting, no sudden rush of activity. I was just lying there, propping myself up on my elbows and egging him on, listening to him talk in a normal conversational sex voice, when suddenly my face was wet and dripping. I was vaguely aware that my shoulders were sopping, as well. Then he hopped up, hopped off, and scampered into the bathroom across the hallway as quickly as he could. Now, I’m not exactly the slowest-witted of people, even when most of my body’s blood is concentrated below the waist in my engorged dick. But it really wasn’t until I heard him running the water that I realized what had just happened. My brain was stuck back in the Can we fuck all afternoon? part of the conversation to fully comprehend that I’d just had my face splattered with jism. Then he came back, smiled at me in his Brazilian way, and tossed me my shirt. “That was great!” he enthused. And inwardly, I was lying there thinking . . . Wait. That’s it? Whenever I write of these disappointing encounters, there’s always someone who says, “You should’ve just grabbed him and fucked him until you got your satisfaction, stud.” And in some circumstances, that’s pretty much exactly what I would’ve done. However, when your trick is studiously keeping himself out of arm’s length of you, it’s not all that easy. So I gathered my clothes, stuffed myself back in them, and let myself out. I looked at my watch when I got down to the bottom of the stairs. I’d been there all of seven minutes. More than a little ticked off, I took myself to lunch at a sandwich shop not a mile away. I’d barely gotten there and parked—it hadn’t been more than ten minutes since I’d exited—when Phillip the Brazilian started texting me again. Can you come back and fuck me again? he wanted to know. I’m horny. And, Can you come over this afternoon? Or maybe tonight? You could spend the night. I had a vision of myself arriving at eight in the evening and spending the night until eight-o’-seven. I shook my head, thanked the attendant for delivering my sandwich, and just set down the phone. More...

I was thinking that!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Anyone who reads my blog knows I’m a big ol’ show-off, particularly when it comes to my dick. I like whipping it out, getting it hard, and displaying it for others to stare at. And when I’m not on public transportation (kidding!), I like getting on a chat channel cam and stroking for strangers. It’s just the exhibitionist in me. He needs an airing, once in a while. Besides, my dick likes the compliments, and once it starts getting its way, there’s really no controlling it. So I play along. Anyway, last night I was indulging myself on cam—I know a couple of my regular readers saw me—in a site where I often go. Let it remain nameless. I like the site because it’s free, attracts a number of decently hot folk, and because I’ve met several guys from it in the past. I can also predict, though, from past experience that’s been sore and hard-won, the arc in which my natural zest for performing will wane, and leave me a grumpy, teeth-gnashing misanthrope who ends up yelling the sex cam equivalent of You kids get off my god-damned front lawn! at everyone watching. Oh, it starts off innocently enough. For five or ten minutes I’ll only have a couple of viewers. Iluvsexydads will make compliments about my dick, and I’ll say, “Thank you, Iluvsexydads!” and carry on a conversation with the guy. I’ll have the leisure to watch a camera or two, and check my email on other sites. It’s dull, really. Then about fifteen minutes in, I start getting a trickle of viewers. Ten. Fifteen. I’ll be thanking fluffystud602 and sexynuddistman and NYHotJockDud for their compliments, and answering their every question. Twenty-five minutes in, I’ll have about fifty viewers. By now when NCSexxxxy and LilThug32022 and NastyAssFukka tell me I have a nice dick, I’m shortening their names and saying, “Thanks NC. Thanks Lil. Thanks Fukka.” I’m spending more time typing out No, I won’t show my feet. No, I’m not putting a dildo in my ass. No, I won’t get a pair of panties and put them in my mouth than I am touching myself. Thirty-five minutes. I’m on the site’s front page. I have a hundred and twenty-five viewers. The chat in my broadcast room is whizzing by. I’m saying Thanks guys! generically to the compliments, every so often. Viewers are starting to get frustrated when I don’t answer their every question immediately, so they’ll type in all caps, over and over again: SO HAS UR WIFE EVER COME HOME AND CAUGHT U JACKING????? I’ll be getting a barrage of private messages, most of them urging me to cam2cam with them. I’m not even bothering to turn down the multiple requests to show my feet and masturbate with my son’s dirty jock that I stole from his gym bag after he was out all night with the football team watching sexy MILF porn and drinking Gatorade. (Some of their fantasies are very specific.) Forty-five minutes. There will be close to two hundred people watching. Most of them are arguing about whether or not I’m even paying attention to the conversation in my chat room. I’ll have PrinceAmir202 announcing, IF U WANT 2 SEE A CAM OF A GUY WHO IS YUNG + HOT INSTEAD OF OLD + UGLY LIKE THIS GUY CUM WATCH ME. I boot PrinceAmir202 from the room. Not all the viewers are shooting compliments my way. A few prefer to come in and say things like, His dick’s not THAT nice, or I’ve seen better. A small contingent of people start yelling in all caps TO DEMAND I SHOW MY FEET!!!!! My ardent defenders will start trying to shout down the rude people. The whole thing very rapidly becomes about as conducive to a boner as watching a History Channel documentary about amputation techniques during the War of the Roses. So I’ll flip off my camera and whack off alone. And people wonder why I don’t shoot on cam for them. Let’s get to some questions from readers, courtesy of formspring.me. What is one thing that you’d be happy if you never had to experience again for the rest of your life? A kidney stone. Sweet Jesus. Have you ever had phone sex or would you? If by phone sex you mean feigning excitement over the phone line while pretending that a sexual encounter is happening between the two people talking, yes. I've done it a couple of times. I found it so fake and unerotic that I've never done it again, and refuse to. If I'm talking to a friend or an acquaintance on the phone about sexual encounters we've had, that's an entirely different beast. I like someone telling me who he's fucked that week and how it went down, or I like sharing with someone some of my past experiences. Having a dialogue about likes and dislikes can also be very intimate and erotic. Faking sex, though? It bores me. Seeing as how a blog is a diary are you surprised at how many people myself included are so voyueristic? Having been a lifelong exhibitionist, I'm not surprised in the least by how many people like to watch, or get a vicarious thrill out of someone else's sexual experience. What does surprise me is how many people obsessively return to blogs on a regular basis, but do so solely in order to abuse the people who write them. If one doesn't respect the author of a blog or like the things they do, it's time for one to move on to something else. Coming back day after day to leave abusive comments on a sex blog or to sneer doesn't make a reader superior, or virginal, or more virtuous; it just means that he has an unhealthy fixation. What actor should play you in the story of your life? My first choice would be James McAvoy. His hair is darker than mine, and we're not twins or anything, but I think there's something about his face that's reminiscent of mine. Plus he's Scottish, and I'm of Scottish heritage. I have no doubt he could pull off my bland American accent, though. Probably even better than I. But if he’s not available, go for Bradley Cooper. Why, he’s practically my twin. What race/class is your main toon in WoW? Do you still play it or other games often, and have you ever used an online game as a means to hookup? It's been a while since anyone asked me about my gaming habits. My WoW main for a half-dozen years was a feral night elf druid. My current main is a worgen balance druid. I have been playing WoW again in the last couple of months. I originally started playing about five or six months after the game was originally released, and raided all the way through Burning Crusade and WotLK. I then took a year-and-a-half hiatus when Cataclysm came out. There were a number of reasons I disliked that expansion, and I essentially quit because people were rude to my healers in random dungeons. MoP has addressed and corrected most of my issues—though I haven't had the stomach to run randoms or to heal yet again. Still, I've been having a lot of fun! One of the things i've figured out about my WoW time is that I need to be able to approach it without feeling like it's enforced labor. I like taking my time and pursuing the stuff in the game that I really love, like fishing (no, really) and archaeology (no, really!) and making money. If I feel like I'm being pressured to run raids and dungeons and to churn through reputation grinds on a hundred alts, I start to resent it. In this expansion there's been enough variety to keep me engaged and happy puttering around and doing the stuff I like to do. And I love pet battling. I've never hooked up off of WoW; I think when I'm playing, I'm too much focused on the game and my next little goal to think about that. Unlike a blog, or Instagram, or a sex site, all of which are passively engaging (you post something, then you wait for responses), WoW and other online games are usually demanding your attention and focus in the present tense. There's also enough disconnect between a real-life person and his online presence as a gnome warlock in WoW that I don't find myself lusting after anyone I've met through it. I don't mind sharing my BattleTag with others—if anyone wants to add me to his or her friends list, email me. When you're feeling under the weather, is there one thing that seems to make you feel better? if so, what is it? Matzoh ball soup. I love it. Even when I'm not sick. More...

There's a lot of food for thought in your comment, Ryan. I'm grateful for your studied response. I can't say that money ever acted as a bandage for my self-esteem, though—at best the notion that anyone would pay me because they thought I was good-looking would just make me roll my eyes a little. But that's pretty much the way I slough off all such tokens like that. I wish more people would talk openly about their experiences in taboo areas like this. We could stand to learn a lot about real human behavior from it.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here After nearly three years of blogging about my sex life, I’ve developed a keen eye for the subjects that tend to be contentious. I know which topics are going to bring out the hateful comments and the howls of those who have a point to prove at someone else’s expense. I’ve learned the hard way which types of entries are going to elicit those little acid pools left by the dripping fangs of someone who only feels big when he’s anonymously venomous. I almost wish I hadn’t figured it out. Because sometimes I’ll think about a topic, consider it for an entry, think about all the negative shit-storm that’ll follow, and just delete it from the list. And that’s no good, because it clearly causes me to write less. But today I’m not so much here to write about the Negative Nancies and their desire to squelch anyone who thinks or lives differently from themselves, as I am to discuss a topic that inevitably raises their hackles. Because nothing brings out the irate and disparaging commenters as much as when I discuss the fact that sometimes I accept money for my sexual services. It’s a taboo area of discussion or even contemplation for a lot of people. We have an cultivated knee-jerk reaction, as ‘nice people,’ automatically to assume a number of things about the people who get paid for sex. At best they think they’re hardened mercenaries who have no better way to earn money. They’re predators, out to make an easy buck. They can’t get a real job. They’re simply unfortunate. At the other end of the spectrum, they see sex workers as wicked, and evil. Diseased. Untouchables. They’re taught to think these things from an early age and taught so strictly not to deviate from a single way of thinking about people who are sex workers that it almost prevents any serious and critical thought about it. Hell, those in the sex trade aren’t even people to most folk. They become in many minds an awful, dreaded other, a subhuman species that’s disposable and forgettable and which should be ignored. For the life of me I can’t figure out why my selling sex enrages and disgusts a small handful of (vocal) readers. It’s not like I’m telling them to fork over a twenty to read my sexual encounters. I don’t post on my profiles phrases like, LQQKing 4 generou$ men. I don’t hot men up and then suggest they make it worth my while with cold cash. In my youth and adulthood both, I never demanded cash for cock; I just accepted it when it was given me. I don’t claim to be an escort. (Hardly. Escorts are much better looking and have way better bodies than I.) I never suggest anyone pay me, I never demand it. I don’t have only an eye for the bottom line, and choose sex for cash over just good old-fashioned fucking. To be totally honest, when my libido’s running on overdrive and my dick is hard and my pants barely holding onto my waist, exchanging sperm for cash is about the last thing on my mind. Yet earlier this week, when I was contemplating my 2012 reported annual income for my tax returns, one thing that kind of leapt out at me was that when I compared the amount I made last year from pushing my artistic work to the amount I made from selling my body . . . well, it kind of made me half-wonder for a moment or two if I was in the wrong business. If we look at the amount of income I’ve generated over the years from sex work, my life would look like a reverse bell curve. The graph would be high in my teens, start declining in my mid-twenties, bottom out to nothing during my thirties, and then swing back up to a new peak in my forties. It’s not something I think is an awesome accomplishment of my life. But I’m not ashamed of selling sex, either; I’ll talk about my experiences pretty openly. Mostly I just think it’s kind of a hoot that I’m racing up a half-century and still rake in pretty good bucks for my body. Yet when some butthole of a reader decides to be snide and to write in a comment saying something like Aren’t you ashamed of having been a prostitute when you were a teen?, it makes me sigh, swat the irritation off my shoulders like a bull would a swarm of flies, and ask right back, Are you ashamed of having been a babysitter when you were younger? Because frankly, if one removes the stigma of the sexual component from the equation, the economic transactions are about the same. And there’s less puke to clean. Though frankly I don’t know many people who would rather babysit brats for three or four hours when they could make four times the money in a fraction of the time getting a blow job. Nor do I know many people who made their first house downpayment with their babysitting or lawn-mowing money. Just sayin’. As as bad as the misconceptions I think we have about sex workers, however, are those we have about those who buy it. I get those in my comments as well—the sneering implications that anyone who would pay for my time must be ancient, decrepit, blind, desperate, or some combination of the above. And probably leprous. People believe that anyone who would pay for sex must be unattractive, past his prime, and unable to get it any other way than preying on young victims. (Or me, if he’s really desperate.) These people would be dead wrong. Over the years I’ve found that men who offer to pay for sex fall into three broad types. 1. The Fetishists: These men get off on the little extra kick that the exchange of money lends to a sexual situation. Whether they’ve bought into the notion that adding a financial component to something they already consider sordid and dirty makes it doubly so, or whether they get off on the notion of being controlled through the wallet in the same way that some men like to be controlled with blindfolds, or restraints, or verbal domination, the exchange of money is vital to their enjoyment. The cash slaves I’ve had fall into this category—that is the men who give me money to degrade and control them, whether or not we’ve actually met or not. So does the Latin boy I wrote about in my last entry, who empties his billfold into my pocket to prove how thoroughly I control him before I skull-fuck him and pound his little hole. So do the married men who fork over folded bills for my time and then breathlessly get off on a dick that other men have paid for. 2. The Justifiers: Some men, like the Landscaper, can only settle their consciences by rationalizing what they do in what is—let’s face it—a self-deluding way. They approach their sex not as a physical act, but as a financial transaction. To them, sex is best when it’s drained of all its implications of desire and need, and reduced to an entry in their Quicken ledger or the writing of a check. Everyone buys stuff. To these guys, paying a couple of hundred dollars to suck a dick is about as free of guilt and shame as a trip for groceries to Trader Joe’s. (In my opinion, the two are already equally shameless, but not everyone is as sexually liberal as I.) 3. The Businessmen: Some of these guys actually do have careers in business, but I use the phrase loosely. These are guys who feel their time is valuable; they’d rather pay someone to give them exactly what they want, than have to waste time hunting fruitlessly for it. They’re willing to pay a guy who has the look they want, or the dick size they want, or who can perform the specific act they crave. The money’s not a sticking point. Nor do they get off on paying a professional for his services any more than they might get off on hiring a guy to clean out the gutters on their houses in the autumn after the leaves have fallen. It’s simply a matter of expediency and guaranteed performance, for them. They get what they want, for a guaranteed period of time, with a minimum of fuss and complication. I’d venture to say that the vast majority of men who’ve paid me for sex fall into this last category. The Texas department store magnate who forks over hundreds of dollars for three hours of my time in his hotel whenever he’s in the city is a handsome, virile, and surprisingly young man—but he’d rather have me come back time after time because I give him what he wants, and then some. The college professor in New Haven who could easily have just about any man he wanted, but who reads my blog and enjoys talking to me after the sex, pays me because I understand what makes him tick in bed and he’d rather not have to answer Craigslist ads for hours. The out-of-towners who contact me before their visits, pay ask me to reserve nights for them weeks in advance, pay me for the courtesy of arranging my calendar for them (and for the fucking). Whatever it is, I have something all these men want. They consider it worth their money. So I pocket it, keep in mind the reasons they pay for sex, and attempt to exceed their expectations. They get what they need, and I have a little extra spending money for books and music and household expenses. Are they men unattractive? Lord, no. Not by a long shot. A handful of them are pictures of physical perfection. Are they old and senile? Most are mature enough to be earning a comfortable living, but some are young and barely scraping by, but need the thrill that saving up for a really good fuck can give them. Are they desperate? Desperate for my dick, surely. But not desperate in the general sense of the word. I know that many of my readers—probably more than most would suspect— have had experience with the sex trade. I’m curious to hear from those who have, in today’s open forum. If you’ve bought sex before, in what category would you consider yourself to be—or would you create a new category for yourself? If you’d sold it, how have you experiences compared to mine, with the types of men who pay for yourself? I just ask that your comments be thoughtful and nonjudgmental. It’s not necessary automatically to preface your comments with a phrase like I’ve never paid for sex and never would, but. . . . I’ll probably delete comments like those. That kind of phrasing isn’t thoughtful. It’s just a way to to establish guiltlessness—which implies guilt for those who have paid, or received money, for sexual acts. But insightful dialogue about money for sex? Bring it on, people. And enjoy your weekends. More...

Amen to that, onlyraw! And thanks very much.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “Do I look like a stupid faggot, sir?” he asks. The boy is looking up at me from waist level. My cock is distending his left cheek. He’s got his yap wide open, his lips wrapped around my shaft. When he speaks around the inches, his syllables come out thick, slurred, and heavy, like he’s slow. Drool is trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, dark as the night sky, stare up at me. They’re imploring me for an honest answer. He’s been on my dick for a half-hour at this point, sucking it. He’s been curled up in a fetal position, lying on his side, nursing at it as deeply as he can get it into his throat. I lift my foot and kick him back so that he rolls over so heavily that the mattress shivers. “What the hell do you think?” I snarl at him. “Yeah, you look like a stupid faggot. Because you are a stupid faggot.” “Yes sir,” he whimpers, looking at me adoringly. “What are you?” “A stupid faggot, sir,” he whispers. “What the fuck was that?” I ask, irritated. “I didn’t hear that.” “A stupid faggot, sir,” he says. This time it’s louder. More aggressive. “I’m a stupid faggot.” “Yeah? And what are stupid faggots like you made for?” “For superior dick,” he tells me. His fingers instinctively clutch for his own dick. It’s triangular in shape, wider at the base, short, and narrowing toward the tip. I use my foot to kick away his arm. “For superior white dick like yours.” “That’s right,” I tell him. “Now go get me a glass of water.” I scarcely let a second pass before I roll my head with impatience. “Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do I have to tell you twice?” The boy hops up. His skin is the color of manila paper. He has a long ponytail pulled back into a rope that hangs to the small of his back. It ends just above his butt, which is small and muscular. He is a beautiful, beautiful young man. If I’d seen him in a bar, or supermarket, or walking along the street in his everyday work clothes, I would have stared at him in frank admiration. In fact, I do that now, as his egress sets those miniature globes of his ass revolving around an invisible axis. I hear water splashing in the sink of his miniature kitchen. A moment later he’s back, his naked body strolling toward me, then dipping as he approaches his bedside. He kneels on the floor and, holding the glass out with both hands, offers it to me. I take the cheap tumbler and swig down the water. I need it, after all the talking I’ve been doing. The water’s cold and delicious. I let it cool the ache in my throat. But I have a point to make. “What the fuck?” I ask as I stare at him and then the drink in disbelief. “Don’t they teach you people what the fuck ice is, in Puerto Rico?” “Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it, sir,” he says, grabbing back the glass. He can’t take his eyes off me. He wears the grateful expression of a man who has gotten exactly what he’s wanted, and then some. “Don’t you worry, papi. I’ll fix it for you, just the way you like it.” *** Men don’t like to talk about this particular ghetto of sex, this shadowy neighborhood where so many dwell or wish they could play tourist. We don’t talk about it because of our aspirations to middle-class respectability, and this isn’t a nice place to visit. These racial and sexual extremes not how we like to think of ourselves by light of day. Humiliation is a very real part of many people’s sex lives and fantasies, however. Pretending it’s not—just because it doesn’t fit in with a narrow and homogenized vision of the tame activities to which gay men should constrict themselves—does everyone a disservice. To do so propounds a limited vision of what we are, as sexual creatures. Banishing humiliation to the shadows makes it only more mysterious, though. More desirable. If it’s something that only dirty men do, it’s where men will scuttle like roaches when they need to feel dirty. Most people don’t realize how many men need to be treated like dirt, when the apartment doors are closed and the clothes come off. Upstanding businessmen can crawl on cold concrete for the privilege of being splattered with piss and called faggot. Black men can gasp and sink into ecstasy when a white man snarls the word nigger at them. Latin boys like this one can become submissive when vilified as a spic. There’s a certain subset of so-called good people that becomes outraged by this sort of play, though. They clutch their pearls and declare they’ve never heard the like. It’s not the sort of thing respectable folk do. The people involved must be full of self-loathing. Or they’re mentally ill. They’re certainly not normal. Never mind that there are conservative forces out there who’d be happy to outlaw any kind of man-on-man sex—even the tamest—in the name of purging it from the earth. We’re all too happy to tell each other what kinds of sex we can’t have, too. Fuck that shit. Men come to me with these fantasies because they know I’m not going to be one of the stick-in-the-ass naysayers. They know they’re safe with me. What’s more, they know that this kind of sex is play—and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. These men craving my foot planted on their foreheads aren’t freaks. They’re not sick, or crazy. They’re our brothers. *** “You know you’re just a hole to me,” I tell him, after I’ve sprayed my load in his ass. “Just a fucking hole. And what is a hole, baby?” I’m eight deep in him, and his cunt is stretched to capacity. I fucked him on all fours—like the animal he is, I told him. He’s on his back now, his hands on his dick, tugging himself to a climax. I’m twisted behind him, my hips glued to his, as my meat gently slides in and out of his slick wet hole. He’s resting on me like a comfortable sofa; his head lolls back against my face, so I can whisper in his ear. “I am, sir. I’m a hole.” “That’s not what I asked, you dumb piece of shit.” He groans. I can see the tip of his penis glisten with a new dime-sized glob of pre-cum. “I said what is a hole. What. Qué. You understand that, right? Qué?” We’re both sweaty from the long afternoon of sex. His Harlem apartment is a tiny little hotbox. The radiator’s been hissing with steam the entire time I’ve been there. He’s gasping for air. His eyes are slits, behind which glisten obsidian. “I understand,” he gasps. “I don’t know. What is a hole, sir?” “A hole’s an absence. It’s nothing.” “I’m nothing,” he says, in an almost-echo. “Good boy. That’s right,” I say, sounding almost proud of him. “You’re nothing. A hole only becomes something when it’s filled, baby. It’s only worth something when it’s filled. Just like you,” I say into his ear. My beard is brushing against his lobe. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. “You get it now?” “Oh god,” he’s saying softly, over and over. Beneath the thin layer of fur on his chest, his nipples are hard and pointed. “I’m a hole, sir. A hole. A fucking hole.” “A nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” I tell him in a normal voice. “Say it.” “I’m a nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” he repeats obediently. “I’m a nasty faggot hole, sir.” He’s beating himself off furiously. His hand is flying over his dick so hard that his balls are flying in the air. “Shoot that pathetic thing you call a dick, you cheap little piece of shit,” I order. “Oh god,” he says, as he melts back into my arms. His dick erupts and spews his load all they way up to his chin. He shudders against me, becoming heavier with every spasm. My mouth is full of his hair. His hands drift away from his cock and down to my thighs, where they rest lightly. His eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls, each breath almost imperceptibly slower than the one before. “Oh, papi,” he breathes in barely a whisper. “Thank you.” And then he relaxes completely into me, like I’m a feather bed. *** The world’s a scary place. People say and do ugly things. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. I understand why people hear the words involved in humiliation play and recoil—it’s because they’ve been taught from childhood how bad they are, how hurtful. What aren’t ripe old Anglo-Saxonisms are derogatory, even taboo. What kind of sane person would ask to have those flung at them? Brave men, I tell you. They’re men who choose to confront invective, to hear those derogatory phrases and refuse to run. Fuck, they don’t hear the words and slink away—they invite the slurs into their bedrooms. They face them down. They denature the ugliness and the abuse into something powerful and sexual, something pleasurable—what’s coarse and disgusting becomes, through their grace, something beautiful. Something transformative. Moreover, they’re doing so in a context that’s entirely different from where they might ordinarily hear those phrases. There’s a world of difference between being the skinny kid who walks down the hall of his high school and is forced to pass by a crowd of jocks snickering fucking faggot among themselves, and the adult who spreads his legs and looks lovingly into another man’s eyes as the top whispers the same words into his ear. Hearing stupid spic under the breath of a man who signs the paychecks is a world apart from choosing the man who’ll say it when you’re skin to skin with your limbs tangled among sweat-soaked sheets. Someone who invites these powerful incivilities into his life is brave. He’s facing down those slurs on his own terms. He’s choosing when and how he hears them, who will say them to him. Not only is he saying I am what and who I am, but he’s adding a defiant cry of And even these supposed worst of words will only bring me joy. How can anyone say that’s not courageous? That it’s not beautiful? Because it is. When someone wants to share that side of himself with me, it’s a gift of unimaginable magnitude. I treat such gifts with the respect they deserve. As for the nay-sayers, the clutch-my-pearls, those who turn up their nose and sneer: the names they call those men—crazy, self-loathing, sick—are as bad as any of the epithets. The urge to squelch everyone into their vision of correctness makes them condescending; it makes them as hurtful as anyone casually spewing a deliberate taunt. They reduce men of complexity into objects of derision. It’s fear that makes them do it—but when the result is the same as slapping them with invective, to what end? There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing that any of us experience, or for which we dream, is truly unimaginable to anyone else. We’re all brothers, beneath the skin. *** All men are equal in their slumber. We nap together for the better part of an hour. I’m grateful for the steam from that radiator as our bodies cool. We’re glued together by sweat and spit and semen. My arms are curled around his shoulders and chest, my legs wrapped around his knees. In his sleep, he lifts his hand and lets his fingertips rest against the back of my wrist. From time to time they pulse, as if in his doze he’s typing, or playing piano. He’s beautiful, this boy. The thin beard on his jaw grazes my own as he sighs and shifts and painfully peels apart a few inches of our flesh. There’s a smile on his face that makes him glow. When I look at it, I yearn to be the one of whom he’s dreaming. Perhaps I am. My own eyelids droop. I pull this boy closer in, holding him to keep the world at bay. It’s my unspoken promise to him. He’s known it from the start. Down, down into the gentle rise and fall of our breathing I drift, until I, too, am sleeping once again. More...

Seems to me like 52% of the non-barebackers lied.

1021, since 2007.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here (This entry is a continuation of M.J., Part Three.) After that trip in the early spring of 1983 which his car broke down outside a historic Virginia plantation, it didn’t take me long to figure out what made M. J. tick. The economics professor I’d been dating for most of one semester and the better part of another really only came to life sexually when I showed him contempt. Unfortunately, we were at a stage of our relationship when that was all too easy for me to do. For months we’d had a quiet, respectful, and timid relationship in which he’d given me gifts, taken me out to places where the menus hadn’t seen a refreshing since the nineteen-fifties, and subjected me to silent, boring sex under the covers of his bed with the lights off. When his car had ground to a stop and I’d had to handle matters because he was too preoccupied with fretting and fuming and stomping around his econo-box, I’d snapped at him. I’d stomped off to call a tow truck without consulting him. I’d mocked him in front of the tow truck driver. Probably most damning of all, I’d eaten his share of the sympathy cookies the nice lady with the telephone had given me. Right in front of his face. Without even a pretend offer to share. The result? When we got back to his apartment, M. J. had practically assaulted me in the hallway, he was so overcome with desire and need. When I was easy and pliant, he’s been reserved and a bit clammy. The minute I showed him exactly how little I thought of him, he couldn’t get enough of me. The following weekend he showed up with a box from the small department store in Merchant’s Square. He gave it to me with an air of expectation, as we sat in the parking lot of the gymnasium at the back of campus. I opened up the green cardboard lid, pulled back the tissue paper, and found myself staring at about three pounds of some of the ugliest wool ever knitted into a sweater. It was of a hue so grape-purple that if I ever pulled it over my head—and there was no way in hell I ever planned to—I would’ve been greeted with cries of Hey! Kool-Aid! “What is this?” I asked him, appalled. “It’s a sweater,” he said. “I thought you’d like it.” “I’m not wearing this,” I told him. “Sorry.” “Why not?” he asked. “Because it’s hideous.” He stared at me, then lunged. We ended up having sex in the back seat, right there in the parking lot. For a couple more weeks we followed a similar pattern. I finally balked at going to the cafeteria for senior citizens on Richmond Road where all the food was boiled to within an inch of its life before being slopped into the steam trays, and we ended up banging like beasts parked behind the dumpster in back. I told him that if I had to listen to him talk about Reaganomics one more time, I’d fucking blow a gasket, and I ended up getting skull-fucked in a restroom along the Colonial Turnpike at eleven at night. There was just some twisted part of M. J. that flared to life when I was nasty to him. That incident with the tow truck, though, had tipped him far enough out of my favor that really all I could see were his faults—the tasteful yet ridiculous and unwearable presents he gave me, the old lady kisses he gave me under normal circumstances, the clammy-fish touch of his skin against mine, the weird mole on his penis. The more I focused on those faults, the less I wanted to see of him, and the meaner I was. Eventually I just stopped seeing him altogether. That was the idea, anyway. He called one Friday night to tell me he’d be picking me up at our usual time, and I told him that I had something else to do. I didn’t feel compelled to make up a bullshit excuse. I didn’t feel I had to soften the blow that way. I just had something else to do, I said, and thanked him and hung up. The weekend after, I did the same thing. He didn’t even call the third week. I felt secure he’d got the message. My big problem in my youth was an inability to conceive of confrontation. I’d do anything to avoid it. But here’s the thing: if I’d sat M. J. down and told him that I wasn’t interested in seeing him any more, there would’ve been an argument and then a couple of days of hurt feelings, but very likely it would’ve been over and I could’ve moved on. My method of breaking-up-by-avoidance dragged out for the rest of the semester, and caused months of pain and annoyance and outright anger. Because what M. J. started doing was to stalk me around campus. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he’d decided that me ignoring him was my attempt to fan the flames of his desire for me; the more he was denied and rebuffed, the more desperately he had to have me. So when I would turn around and see him following me across the campus, I would roll my eyes and go back to my walking and pretend he wasn’t there—though it was hard to miss him following behind me like a sad, whipped puppy with a loyalty complex. I hoped he’d just ‘get the message.’ He seemed to interpret my scorn as a promise the most explosive sex of his entire life if he’d persist and stalk me harder. Which he did, relentlessly. He followed me to classrooms at night where I was studying with friends, who would see his bearded face peeking in the door and announce that some weirdo kept looking in. He would follow me to the library on weekends, and stand in the stacks to stare at me mournfully until one of my study buddies would point him out to me. When I was working at the ice cream store where I earned my income, he’d sit in his car, parked in a space outside the big plate glass windows, staring holes through me while I pretended he wasn’t there. I passed him off for a while as a friend of my parents—but it became pretty obvious, even to my oblivious companions, that no college kid really talked to his parents’ friend that much. They wanted to know why he was following me so much, all the time, all around the clock. They wondered if he was that way about me, a thought they’d usually accompany with titters and embarrassed glances. It had to end. Eventually it did, in a hissing match outside the door of a classroom in the business building where I was studying right before final exam time. My friends had noted that ‘that weird guy’ was outside again, which caused me to slam shut my books and stomp outside to have it out with M. J. once and for all. I didn’t want to see him again, I told him. He had to stop following me. He was embarrassing me. My friends all called him ‘that creepy old guy.’ My supervisor at work was on the verge of calling the cops because she thought he was a flasher. All the frustration of several weeks of stalking came spilling out of my lips. M. J. looked up at me—he was a short man—and said in a plaintive voice, “But I love you!” And I just shook my head at him, turned on my heel, and stomped away. That was the end of it, for real this time. I never spoke to him again, never saw him. I don’t know what happened to him, other than that his year-long position ended and he moved on to some other university. When I look back on my life, there are plenty of incidents of which I’m not proud. That encounter nears the top of the list. Rather than hurt someone just a little, in a straight-forward way, I dragged out the pain and the suffering for weeks, and then topped it off as spectacularly as possible by packing in as much hurtfulness into a couple of minutes as I could muster. I still hear that cry of astonishment—But I love you!—in my nightmares. It haunts me. M. J. didn’t love me. He might have convinced himself that he did, simply because it justified all the relentless pursuit in which he indulged when I started spurning him. Even when we had been dating and engaging in zestless sex, he’d never mentioned love, or any emotion stronger than a hunger for cafeteria fare or peanut soup. I didn’t love him, either. Toward the end, I didn’t even like him. He still deserved better, though. If we learn more from the ways we err than the ways we succeed, my time with M. J. was an education. If I could, I’d tell him I was sorry. Sorry for being a know-it-all of eighteen; sorry for being so untaught about the ways people communicated outside of the bedroom. Sorry for being a total dick, certainly. Neither of us were particularly what the other was looking for. We could have found some common ground, however, if I’d been a little less inept at meeting a challenge head-on. I wish I’d been man enough then to try it. More...

Men into bondage aren't evil by default. There are lots of fun men who enjoy play with restraints. Me included. If everyone involved spells out his expectations, limits, and needs, there's a lot of enjoyment to be had. Men who use bondage as a weapon against someone, however, without the guy's consent or advance knowledge, are sad and contemptible creatures.