TheBreeder

Thanks Jim!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Two days before Christmas. I still have shopping left to do, and I’ve had a cold on burn for a week. I’m past the sore throat stage, past the worst of the stuffiness. But I’m drained, and tired, and even though I have the place to myself for an evening, all I really want to do is lie in bed in the dark, listen to some music, and work my slow way through the pounding in my head. Runt texts me. thought we were getting 2gether 2nite, he says. I text back to tell him I’m not at a hundred percent, and that I couldn’t be as aggressive as I usually am with him. u r always making everything perfect 4 me, he writes back. now it should be my turn. even if its just me rubbin u feet. please? In a moment of weakness I find myself tempted. Then he texts again. i am walking 2 the train and comin over, he says. Then a moment later, he sends me a smiley face. He lives four blocks from the train station. I’m one stop and two blocks away from him. I’ve never made him take the train before, but it’s a quick and viable option. I’ll leave the front door unlocked, is the last thing I send him. Then I put my phone away, turn down the music, and wait. The Runt is like a ghost when at last he slips into the room—a pale shadow, silent and luminescent in what little reflected light shines through the blinds. I remember too late that his dog collar is in the glove compartment of my car; he’s never gone without it since we bought it together. I’m too tired to get up, get dressed, and walk the block to where I’m currently parked, however. Nor does he seem to need it. He’s obedient without it. I feel a touch of a hand on my foot. The warmth of a set of fingertips on my right calf. He uses my leg to balance himself as he removes his hoodie, his pullover. I hear his jeans hit the floor. There’s a soft, shushed rush when he frees himself from his underpants. My mattress quivers when he puts a knee on it. I didn’t think I’d have the strength to muster an erection, but there it is, raging from nothing to full tumescence. It’s the scent of him, I think to myself. That careful, soaped, lightly perfumed odor he always wears. It’s sweet, like candy. Like candy, he’s easy to devour. My hands reach up to hold him. I’m ready to grasp him around the waist and to shove him roughly into the mattress as I roll on top of him. I want to cover his mouth with mine, to rake his face with my beard. My cock wants to punish him, to make him pay for arousing me. But “No,” is what he says. It’s just a whisper. If I’d been sniffling, or clearing my throat, I would’ve missed it. “No,” he orders. “Don’t do anything.” It’s cute. His hands are wrapped around my wrists. He holds my arms out to the side, pinning them into L-shapes onto the bed. I could break the hold easily if I wanted; his hands aren’t large. He’s not strong. I’m much bigger than he. I’m curious, though. I want to see what he’s going to do. So I don’t resist. I lay there, and let him hold me still. I see the pale arc of his head as it moves down. I feel the warmth of his lips against my chest. They move to the side, to my left nipple. I gasp as his mouth wraps around it. His teeth close onto the tiny pyramid, fasten on. My dick becomes more rigid; I catch my breath. He chews on my nipple the way I’ve taught him, the way I like it. Not too soft, but not hard enough to draw blood. His knees draw in on either side of my hip. I can feel his little ass just out of my cock’s reach. I thrust up and forward, trying to make contact, but he presses down on my wrists and doesn’t let go. My right nipple, now. The waves of pleasure he creates there radiate out over my body. I thrash a little, beneath his weight. I’d been content to lie still for a few moments, but as his mouth travels down, kissing and licking beneath my rib cage, across my belly, down my navel, across the hardness of my pelvic bone, I find I can’t stop moving. My legs writhe and kick; my back arches. I grind my dick into the dark air. But not for long. Soon I feel his mouth, warm and shallow, trying to take my length. I had to teach Runt how to suck when we met. His efforts, when he met me, were amateurish at best. Too much teeth. Not enough moisture. He’s learned eagerly, though, and we’ve had plenty of practice. He’s scarcely got his mouth on me when I feel globs of his spit slipping from those pretty lips down onto my balls. I want to push his head down, to test the limits of his throat this week. But I respect his wishes, and leave my hands at my side. No, I pull them up and put them behind my head, so I won’t be tempted. He’s not trying to get me off. Not with his mouth. That’s not how he’d want it. He’s just attempting to give me pleasure. I feel his hands on my nuts. His fingers trace a timid circle around my hole. He kisses and licks my shaft, going down on it as far as he can without choking—maybe just a little to the choking point, even. For long minutes I allow myself this pleasure, the enjoyment of this boy on my dick, sucking and slobbering over me in the dark room. I hope he has more in store, though. When he backs off my dick and adjusts his position so that his face hovers over mine, I try to look him in the eye as best I can. Mostly I feel his hair hanging down on either side of his face, as it touches mine. His lips brush across my own. I kiss him back, slipping him tongue. But no. He backs off at that. I’m too aggressive, again. His hand closes around my dick. I feel the pressure of his body’s weight as he tries to connect the spike of my meat to his hole. We pause for a moment so he can find the lube on my shelf, and then start again. This time, my cock head reacts instantly to the slickness around his entrance. I don’t need to lunge my hips to get into him. He’s greedy enough for it, sliding down and forcing himself to the base. He doesn’t shoot, though. I’m used to him ejaculating violently when I enter him. This time, he merely gasps, and shivers, and sits there as his body sorted through the various pains and sensations accumulated during the opening. Once processed, he starts rising and falling on my dick. It’s pleasant, this. His ass is warm, and super-tight. I enjoy the sensations of his quivering legs, like a fledgling foal’s, as he pushes himself up and down on my shaft. It’s sweet. It’s lovely. But it’s not especially erotic. Not like the sex we usually have. He senses it, too. After a few minutes, he says in frustration, “What am I not doing?” “Let me,” I tell him. He protests. It isn’t what he had in mine. “But—“ “No,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Don’t do anything.” I know what he needs. What we both need. I lift him off me, and gently lay him onto the mattress. I put the pillow beneath his head. I kiss him roughly, until he responds by giving in. I can’t grab him beneath the collar like usually, but I keep his mouth fastened against mine by cupping the back of his head and pulling him against me until he’s short of breath. “You need me to fuck you,” I tell him. “You need a man to fuck you. You need a real man to fuck you.” “Yes,” he breathes. “You want my big dick?” I ask him. “Is that what you want?” “Please.” He’s whimpering now. “Yeah? Then take the fuck, son. Take the fuck.” He’s already slick; his hole’s been opened by the minutes of sex we’ve already had. But when I spread his legs and drive into him in a single, savage thrust, it’s as if we hadn’t fucked at all. He’s tight as hell. His resistance gives way. He cries out into the dark with a long, piercing howl. Then he starts to shudder. I feel his cock against my stomach, leaping and spewing sticky fluid. He’s still crying out in hushed sobs and genuine tears. This is what he needed, that sense of being taken, of being used. Sweet as his impulse was to take care of me, he can’t help the way he’s wired. He’ll never be the kind of boy who’ll get off from gentle, kind, lovemaking. Lowering himself onto a dick and sliding up and down might satisfy a basic need, but it won’t get to his core. Not ever. He needs the force of a man bigger than himself, the roughness—the invasion. There can be a sweetness and romance of its own kind in that kind of fuck. There’s an intimacy to it of its own quality. But the heat between us now is roaring; since I took over, it’s a furnace compared to the mere lit candle of a few minutes before. I let him finish his orgasm before I start pounding him. I hold his legs out to the sides, and take him, the way he was meant to be taken. My cock punishes his hole, stretches it. If there were more light, I know I could watch his hole turn from pink to scarlet. My own pleasure is swift. The intensity of his reactions always brings me to climax very quickly. My own howl matches the one he let out earlier, when I shoot deep inside him. He’s just as anxious for my load. I feel his hands on my ass, pulling me in, then refusing to let me go once my motions cease. The bedroom is suddenly hot, and full of the sound of heavy breathing. For a long moment we remain in that position. “Don’t pull out,” he begs me. I listen to him. I roll us both onto our sides. We’re face to face on the mattress. I’m lying on one of his legs; the other is atop my hip. We rest like that for a moment, and then he moves in close to hold me around my middle. And it’s in this position that I end my last fuck of 2012. The Runt and I. Connected by flesh, glued together by my semen, as he holds onto me as if hoping I’ll never pull out of him. More...

You're next.

I think really wanting it is the key, Hotload. And it sure helps if the guy is determined to get it any way he can.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here “When you touch me,” he says, pronouncing the verb as if it rhymed with botch, “you are making the music. Piano, piano, piano, fortissimo.” His lips are against my ears; his hard cock is pressing into my pelvis as if it’s trying to make a new hole for itself. My hands roam over the slop of this back, the hills of his ass, the valley between his thighs. The room echoes with his soft sighs. “Soft, soft, soft, then—“ He puffs out his cheeks. His big eyes grow wide, as he lets out a big poof of air. “The explosion that makes me rattle to the bone.” This is the way he talks to me. All the time. The romance of it makes me shiver. He makes me want to do things to him, just so I can have the private pleasure of listening to him recount them back to me afterward with his limited English. “You really are one of the sweetest men I know,” I tell him. I wonder if, beneath the curve of his hand on my face, he can feel the heat from my blush. He makes me blush. A lot. “Everything you say is poetry.” “Is because I am Russian,” he says. He draws himself up and props himself on his forearms, so he can look down at me. He’s a handsome man, the Russian. He’s much shorter than I, and narrower. Whenever he greets me at the door of his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, he’s always wearing blue jeans and some kind of oversized shirt that manages to make him look like a twelve-year-old boy. Naked, though, he’s got a firm body and a cock that’s bigger than mine, made even larger in aspect by the contrast of his small frame. There’s nothing boy-like about that dick. “Eastern Europeans, we are the most passion-like of souls. Romantic, like Tolstoy. Dramatic, like Pushkin.” I love the way his lips breathe out Poooooosh-kin, like they were wrapping themselves around something wickedly erotic. “The heart of Chopin. And the lover, like Rasputin.” I’m carried away by his litany of names. He makes my brain feel like it’s cuddled in bed under blankets, warm and sleepy. It only protests a little bit at the last comparison with a half-hearted wait, what? at the mention of the ugliest, scraggliest Russian monk in all of history. But here’s the thing. His accent is so thick and charming that he could be comparing his love-making skills to Joseph Stalin’s and I wouldn’t be objecting too strenuously. “Wow,” I tell him, as I look into his cookie-brown eyes. “I loff your face,” he tells me, kissing it. He moves down to my chin. “I loff your beard.” I’m charmed by the way he pronounces love. “I loff your sexy body. I love your big, big cock.” He’s been fucked twice by that cock this evening already. He knows it well. We’d met for a nooner earlier in the week when he snuck away from work and I took a break between meetings to meet him the first time. Tonight I’ve managed to set aside several hours for the two of us simply to enjoy each other. “I loff your legs.” Gently, but firmly, he rolls me over on the mattress of his king-sized Murphy bed. “And oh, my sweetheart. How I loff your ass.” I’m basking in all these compliments. If the lights were all the way out instead of merely lowered, he’d surely see me glowing. “It’s flat,” I tell him. “It is beautiful,” he counters. I feel his hands on my cheeks. The warmth of his breath. A lick on my crack. Then he’s nibbling on my hole—chewing on it, using his lips and mouth and teeth to stretch and rend it. I feel like I’m slipping down the mattress and onto the floor in a wet, hot puddle. “I loff this ass,” he hisses. “Just do what you want,” I tell him. The words aren’t an empty offer. I know what he wants. Our minds, our desires, our moods are in sync. “I will make you loff it,” I hear him promise, from between my legs. “I will make you loff me in you.” “Okay,” I groan. Part of me feels half-asleep, as if I’m dreaming. But when I feel his fingers prodding at me, and when I’m woken slightly by the cold of the lube he spreads on and in my hole, I know this is no drowsy fantasy. “I will make you want more,” he assures me, as he pulls himself between my thighs. “Okay,” I breath, clutching onto the sheets. “I will make loff to you the way you make loff to me.” There’s something so sincere and simple in this last promise that any fear I’m hanging onto falls away; I believe him. I know he’s telling the truth. “Please,” I beg, smiling to myself. Then I feel the warm, fat head of his dick pushing against my hole. There’s pressure. No pain. Just intense, indescribable pressure. “Am I hurting?” he asks. I shake my head. There’s more pressure as he presses in. “You feel so good, baby,” he tells me. “I loff this ass. I want to be part of it.” “It’s yours,” I tell him. “Take it.” There’s something I’m reaching for, down there. It feels like chasing a butterfly, bright and yellow and beckoning, through a field on a sunny spring day. The butterfly’s just out of grasp, but there’s just such joy in the running and chasing and reaching that my heart lifts. Then there’s a blinding rush of sensation. “Are you in?” I breathe. For response, he takes my hand and pulls it down to where we connect. Not only is he in, but he’s all the fucking way in. Not a centimeter of his nine-incher isn’t surrounded by my hole. “You are so special,” he tells me in my ear. “You are so special to give me this. Bright my day. Bright my every hour, thinking about doing this to you.” “Oh god,” I say aloud. My whole body is trembling. I grab at his hands. “Now our body and soul are tight together,” he murmurs in my ear. I believe every word he says, without question. His buzz in my ear sounds like the word of God itself, if God had chosen to talk to me like Boris from the Bullwinkle cartoons. “I loff to feel your trembling body. I can tell by your fingers so tight to mine that you want me inside you. Yes? You look so sexy with me inside you. So sexy.” I don’t know whether it’s his accent, or his sweet words, or whether it’s the sensations he’s sending through every inch of my flesh, but I want him. I want him inside me. I want him deep. I want him hard. I press my face into the mattress. My hips elevate into the air as if lifted by invisible strings. I’m determined to get it as hard as possible. “Fuck me,” I tell him. “Just fuck me. Fuck the shit out of me.” “Yes, baby,” he whispers, pleased. All I feel is the intense pleasure of being filled. I don’t know how fast he’s going, or how deep. I don’t care. I just want it. All of it. All of it in me. “Yes. This is what I think of all week.” As he fucks away, he whispers sweet words of encouragement in my ear. I don’t remember any of them. I just remember the need of the moment—the need to open wider for him. To raise up my hole to meet his thrusts. The need to be held down and opened by this small-framed, big-cocked man. When he releases inside of me, it’s with a grunt and a series of whispers: “Yes baby, yes baby, yes baby,” he purrs. “Yes. Yes.” “Don’t pull out,” I beg. Although I’ve spent twice inside him, I know I’m rock-hard again. My whole body feels on fire. I’m not ready for it to end. He holds me. His arms are around me. I feel him rub his chin on his shoulders. Into my ears he pours soft, sexy words of praise and thanks. Of that, and of him, I could take endless refills. More...

I had my one run-in with the cops for having sex in a park restroom when I was fifteen, back in the late nineteen-seventies. After I got my pants pulled up, they marched me to a squad car, drove to my parents' house, and handed me over to my dad after telling him what I'd been doing. You'd think I would've learned, but after a few days of wanking I was back in the parks and restrooms hunting for dick again. That was my only serious encounter with the law when cruising. I've had a couple of too-close-for-comfort encounters in recent years, though. One was when I was parked on the street on a Sunday morning next to a cruisy trail into the woods, waiting to see if anyone interesting showed up. The cops pulled up beside me, surrounded the car, and found me reading a book, eating a doughnut, and drinking a cup of coffee. After making sure I didn't have a naked guy hidden in the back seat, they gravely informed me that they were keeping an eye on the area because men were doing 'dangerous things' in the woods. I think my reply of "Golly, officer! Like with GUNS?!" might've been over the top, but they left me alone. I did have a friend in Michigan when I lived there who seemed to get into trouble every time he went out. He went to a new bathhouse the first month it opened and it happened to be on the day it was raided by police. The one time he went cruising at a local rest stop, he got rounded up from out of his car and searched during a big sting operation. And then the only time he visited a cruisy porn theater, the cops raided that and closed it down permanently. He wasn't arrested any of those times—just quizzed, asked for identification, lined up with other guys, and left to squirm for quite a long time. But his luck was so terrible that I utterly refused to let him go cruising with me, ever.

Thank you, Jim!

To see Breeder's original blog post click here My new year's post about accepting compliments got so many, er, compliments from you people. Thank you very much for every one of them. I was particularly taken aback by the volume of email I received in my personal box, after I published my thoughts. It seems that there are a good number of us—myself included—who often have difficulty accepting compliments. I think it's important to remember, however, that accepting a compliment is not the same thing as believing it—just as accepting a wrapped holiday gift is not the same thing as loving it once you've ripped off the paper and discovered that someone's given you a pair of particularly hideous argyle socks, or that they've regifted you a white elephant from their office party and not bothered to remove the original gift tag. It would really be nice, if someone was impulsive and kind enough to lay a compliment upon you, if you were able to take the kind words, hug them to yourself, and let yourself believe them. The person who complimented you would love it if, when you give him your thank-you, you managed to imply with batted eyelashes that yes, you totally deserved that kind remark because you do have spectacular eyes, thank you very much and goodnight! However, a thank-you is all that's really required. You might not take the compliment seriously. You might think it doesn't suit you, like loud argyle. Don't toss it aside carelessly, though, or fling it back in the giver's face. Just smile. And say thank you. The world's a little better for it. Anyway, after the volume of response to that particular entry of mine, I made a resolution for the rest of the year: I intend to dispense a compliment at a day, minimum, to someone I don't know. It'd be easy enough to accomplish that by hopping onto some cruising site and typing Nice ass! to the first round booty I see. I don't want it to be quite so easy a slam-dunk, though. I've been putting some genuine thought into it. I have complimented a guy online, but it was for his profile's content—which was unusual as well as brave; he obviously put some thought into taking an unpopular stance and defending it ably in his profile, and I thought it was brave of him to do so. So I told him. I told a guy on the commuter train that he had great hair. (He really did.) He seemed a little flustered to get a compliment like that from a stranger, but I could tell he loved hearing it. I told a woman on the Times Square subway shuttle, who was older than I but exquisitely dressed, that she was beautifully put together. I've never seen anyone smile more broadly. Not every compliment is going to land gracefully, or be so well received. Maybe more of them will connect than I suspect, though. And maybe by making them, I'll find I'm paying it forward a little, and some of the universe's bounty will spill into my lap. Who knows? As a resolution, it's definitely more fun to keep than a diet. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. Why are so many tops derogatory about bottoms? There are as many flavors of tops as there are of Baskin-Robbins ice cream, of course, but the perception is (with justification) that most bottoms crave a dominant top. You don't see profile ads from bottoms that say, Looking for milquetoast top to boss around and control. Never. Well, hardly ever. For a lot of top men, the only way they can conceive of providing dominance is to be abusive, rude, cutting, and nasty—not in a good, self-aware, sexy manner. Some of these guys behave this way because they've seen it so often in porn. Others do it because they don't have enough imagination to make something other than brutish behavior their only shortcut to dominance. I've engaged in some name-calling roleplay from time to time, and have pushed faces into pillows and called grown men 'boy' and 'faggot,' but I feel my personal style is better suited to just being comfortable in my own skin and directing the flow of the scene with non-abusive control. I think ultimately I am just as dominant—but I'm not abrasive. Every top (and every bottom, too) needs to find his own personal style. That means relying on strengths, instead of attempting to ape some hyper-masculine monkey one once saw in a hot porn. Was you first sexual experience with Spencer different to your usual hook-ups or was it his personality that made you love him despite knowing the pain you were inviting into your life? It's been well over two years since I made love to Spencer the first time. I expected a simple hook-up; what I got was about six hours of some of the primal and athletic sex I'd had in years. There was more to it than that, though. When he opened up and communicated with me his aspirations and his interests, and when he showed his tender side and his vulnerabilities, it made me want to know him better and to open up to him in kind. Guys might open their holes to me, but they don't always open their lives or their hearts in the way Spencer did. Our connection was unexpected and unplanned, and even though to this day reflecting on it is like jabbing a bruise with a sharp fork, I wouldn't have traded it for the world. Have you ever been in a hot tub outside when it was snowing? Yes, often, and it's one of the most incredible sensations in the world. At my old house we used to have a great hot tub. It went basically unused during the summer months, but on cool nights I was always out there after dark, soaking up the warm water and the bubbles. During icy or snowing conditions it was amazing to bask in the warmth while the ice and snow whipped around me. I preferred to use the hot tub at night, because then we could use it nude without being spied upon by neighbors. Even in the dead of winter—or maybe even especially during—it's more comfortable to emerge naked and steaming from a hot tub than it is to have wet fabric dripping and slopping around and making the rest of you frigid. hallo mrsexy whose side of your family do you take after-your mum or dad Physically I take after my mom's side of the family. The men from her family are tall and lean and lanky, and hung. (At least, I'm assuming that's where I got that part of myself. It certainly wasn't from my dad.) For years I would've said I took after my mother temperamentally as well; like her, I have a strong musical streak, a flair for writing, a love for reading, and tendency to depression (though my blue periods are nothing like hers). However, lately I notice that I'm spookily like my dad. We have the same laugh. I find myself pulling out his hoary old aphorisms and repeating them. We share the same academic rigor and get outraged about the exact same things. It's freaking me out, man! Sir, you are very open about your life & it's a privilege. Do you ever feel others try to trespass into areas of your life you don't or won't talk about? Thanks for phrasing your question as you did. I like to think I'm remarkably open in my blog about quite a number of facets of my life. There's a certain subset of people, however, who seem not to recognize the abundance of what I have given, and who feel entitled to more and more. When I balk, citing my limits as a blogger and semi-public person, they indulge in hissy fits and name-calling. It's frustrating. Particularly when I've received precious little from them in any form. Which decade of life do you think you had the best sexual experience, teens-20s-30s-40s and why? I really like this question. However, it doesn't lend itself to as straightforward an answer as one might expect. I'd nominate two of those decades as having the best sexual experiences. The first would be the decades of my teens; it was a stretch of time in which even the prospect of impending sex with a man made my hands shake and my heart pound so heavily in my chest I thought it would burst out. It was a decade in which everyone chased me—which is always gratifying to the ego—and when I could be assured of walking into a room and getting the attention of gay men, just because of my age and build. It was the only decade in which I didn't get turned down by anyone. The nineteen-seventies were a time when guys fucked and swapped fluids without fear, which was liberating. The first few years of sexual exploration can be scary, but they're also amazing when they're unfolding. I like remembering those years because it seemed as if anything could happen, then. In my twenties and thirties I continued to have good sex—a lot of it. But when one hits thirty in the gay world, one suddenly becomes invisible and irrelevant in a lot of contexts. Coming to terms with that sudden invisibility took a few years of getting used to. I also learned to use it to my advantage. However, when I hit my forties, suddenly I became a daddy in the world of gay sex, and everything got good again. The young guys started crawling out of the woodwork for me. Older ones suddenly began rediscovering me again as well. I was by that time confident in my skin and in my abilities, which made me even better in the sack. Also, my sexual philosophies had matured to the point where I was comfortable with pursuing what I loved doing best. I might've had a ton of sex in my teens when it was all vital and new, but though the quantity has decreased (only slightly!) in my forties, the quality has been overall a vast, vast improvement. I wouldn't trade those gains for youth, under any circumstances. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here They live in the poorest section of the city. In a wealthy community, though, this area of modest income is nothing like the poverty-stricken slums of Detroit. There, every day I drove through areas that looked like they’d been bombed out. Areas so bankrupt that I couldn’t imagine anyone living in the homes without roofs, or windows, or even much more than the rotted and weathered bare timber fingers projecting skeletally to the winter skies. But people did live in those monstrosities. Whole families, or groups of men and women would hole themselves up beneath fallen plaster walls or boarded-up fireplaces, hiding in the shadows and waiting for a change in fortune that never comes. Here, poverty looks a lot like Detroit’s lower middle-class neighborhoods of slightly shabby older homes, tightly spaced to conserve land. None of them have seen updates or coats of paint in years, but none of them are rotted out, or abandoned, or unlivable. If the people in my neighborhood are afraid to drive through here after dark, it’s only because at night there are actual people roaming the street, rather than the deserted sidewalks and empty driveways of suburbia. There are nightclubs in old commercial buildings, and food trucks serving spicy food through their back windows, on the perimeter of the little city park. There’s a bodega bustling with activity on the corner, and a lunchtime rush of cars along Route 1 half a block away. This might not be the pristine and manicured showcase of a street that’s typical of this part of my state, but compared to where I lived for twenty-five years, it’s just a bustling neighborhood of working class people. One of them is waiting in front for me as I park my car. He stubs out a cigarette a nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face—the profile of this couple merely shows a couple of dicks (good-looking dicks, admittedly) and a vague silhouette of two Latin men standing arm-in-arm, muscular shadows without faces against a sunny doorway. But this guy’s quite handsome. He’s a full half-foot shorter than I, and twice as broad in the shoulders and chest. His black hair is full and thick; there’s a trace of a mustache across his upper lip. As I approach, he extends his hand. Nods. Jerks his head. We walk down the house’s driveway and around the back. When he leads me down a half-flight of cellar stairs to an exterior door there, I understand where we’re going. There are a lot of houses like these, in this neighborhood—old large family homes that have been divided into as many possible rentable rooms and apartments as possible. Even some of the most windowless basement enclosures have been laid with linoleum and crudely drywalled and transformed into miniature dwellings. That’s where he leads me—into a two-room basement apartment where the ceiling is so low that I can’t stand up straight. He and his boyfriend are both short enough that neither of them have much problem maneuvering around. As I stalk through to the bedroom, doubled over, I feel like Alice, after ill-advisedly munching the cake that says EAT ME, or Gulliver among the Lilliputians. The other man is less muscular than his boyfriend. He’s softer, slightly more effeminate. Younger, too. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have that rough trade quality the older guy has. He’s sitting at the computer when I enter, prowling through Manhunt profiles. At the sight of me he rises, smiles, shakes my head. They speak to each other in rapid Spanish, then simultaneously gesture me in the direction of their bed. It’s a king-sized bed wedged into a pint-sized room. I’m grateful to lie down simply to give my craned neck relief. The moment my ass hits the mattress, the two of them silently remove their clothes. Then they go to work on removing mine. The older guy lifts up my shoulders and pulls off my sweater and shirt; the younger removes my sneakers and unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off. We’re all wearing nothing but our socks when they’re done. The top lies beside me on the bed. He can’t keep his eyes off my cock. I’m twice his size, easily, but his uncut inches are nothing to sniff at. He lets me take it in my hand, squeeze it. His boyfriend is down between my legs, licking at my balls and sucking my dick to hardness. The top reaches down and shoves on his skull roughly, making his mouth take more of me. Yeah. I can deal with this. This is one of those situations where I’ve come in not really knowing what to expect. I think it’s the top who’s been communicating with me on Manhunt, but the only word of English in his vocabulary seems to be lookin? In person, they talk to each other in Spanish from time to time. The top barks out sharp commands I don’t understand. The bottom grunts and obeys, sucking on my nuts, or spreading my legs to get at my asshole for a lick, at his partner’s voice. Finally the top says something to me that my vanished high school Spanish classes didn’t cover. When the bottom slithers from the mattress and bends over it with his legs spread, head submissively down, and his ass in the air, though, I’m pretty sure I can figure out what he wants. The top takes over my vacated spot in the center of the bed. He throws me a bottle of lube. The bottom guy’s hole is already slick, though. There’s no telling how many guys have been in there already, and I have no way to ask. I rub a little bit of the cheap lubricant on my dick and push in. My head pops through immediately with no resistance, and the rest of me glides inside. He’s warm, and juicy. There’s a load in there already—I can tell by the slick sensation and the faintly chlorine smell coming from his hole. The top is stroking himself as he watches me fuck. Our eyes meet and lock. He lifts up his head a little bit, acknowledging the work I’m doing. He’s enjoying the sight of it. The bottom doesn’t make any noise. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let me know his pleasure. He just stands there with his ass up, taking my dick. The top looks at me, stops stroking for a moment. He turns his hands palm-up to the ceiling, curls them into fists. Clenching hard enough to make veins pop on on the undersides of his forearms, he draws his fists in. He wants me to fuck harder. So I fuck hard. I bang away. I draw up a foot and place it on the foot of the bed so that I can get some leverage going. The bottom lets out a little gasp, then a grunt. If anything, the rough fucking makes him more submissive. His hips relax and push up; his legs spread even farther apart. His hole seems to deepen, to suck me in with every thrust. The boyfriend has his jaw jutted out and his lips pressed together. This is what he likes to watch, apparently. He likes to see his boyfriend roughed up. I slap the bottom’s ass. He sighs and groans. The top starts whacking again. Our gazes are locked. Our focus is not on the hole, but on each other. I start fucking hard enough that the bed’s headboard begins banging against the wall. I don’t care who might be in the house to hear it. The frame’s newel post knock against the drywall over and over again, creating a steady tattoo of noise. Then the top leaps up and stands and my side. Again he draws his clenched fists in and makes a tough face. More, he’s telling me. More. I’m plunging all the way in and out by the time I shoot. The top is whispering obscenities to me in Spanish. I don’t understand the words, but I know exactly what he means. He wants me to use his boyfriend, to slam it into him. When I shoot, it’s balls-deep. The bottom is groaning and clutching the cheap bedspread. I’ve scarcely released my nut when the top is pushing me aside and shoving his own dick into my sticky load. I climb onto the mattress and kneel there, forcing the bottom to clean his juices off my dick. The top fucks even more roughly than I do; the bed is jumping up and down with each of his invasive thrusts. We’ve each got a dick in his boyfriend’s holes. When the top realizes how completely his boyfriend is filled, he grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward. Our mouths lock in a kiss that tastes of coffee and cigarettes. This is how we’re all connected when the boyfriend comes with a loud grunt—our dicks in the front and back of his partner, our mouths and tongues grappling to get in the other even more deeply than they already are. His body spasms. Our mouths drift apart, our cheeks graze. Then we’re left standing and kneeling while we stare at each other, completely spent. They’re anxious for me to leave. I don’t mind. I pull on my clothes, kick back on my shoes, and shake their hands. Then with my head cocked sideways, I make my way out of their makeshift apartment and back out into the busy neighborhood. We haven’t really exchanged a word. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, though, we found a common language. More...

Happy new year to you too, Jim. I might need reminders to post a reminder, though. Just send me nude pics on the first of every month and I'll get it done.

Asses naturally produce a mucus that helps bowel movements slide out. A lot of anal stimulation can produce a lot of mucus, for some. Let's face it. "Ass cum" sounds a lot better than "anal mucus" anyday. I've been with a handful of guys who had very, very strong anal orgasms when fucked the right way. They've shown every sign of orgasm—intense pleasure, flushes on their skin, hardened nipples, increased respiration—just no ejaculate or erection. I always got very turned on when I triggered it for them.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here I’d like to wish all my readers a most happy new year. May it be even better than your last. I’ve got sex to write about—I had quite a few adventures worth recording at the end of the year. But I’d like to take a brief moment today simply because it’s the first of the year, and so many of you out there might still be finalizing your list of resolutions. Some of you might want to add one more item to that list, at my behest. I using one of those location-based GPS cruising apps on my phone, today. It doesn’t matter which. They’re all roughly the same in the way they arrange the men currently using it into a grid of tiny thumbnails for one perusal, from closest to further away. I have only spotty luck on those things. When I’m traveling I get hit on like crazy; when I’m within a fifty-mile radius of my home, I can go for weeks without a shout-out. Anyway, today I fired up the app and during a look at the faces appearing nearby, I saw that a younger man with a great, great smile had taken a look at my profile only a few minutes before. He was in his later twenties, wore a layer of heavy-duty scruff on his handsome face, and his enormous smile made his eyes crinkle. He was offbeat enough that I knew he wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but his photo really took my breath away. So I sent him a compliment. A short and simple compliment. You have a really amazing smile!, it said. I wasn’t intending that he should be so overwhelmed by my eloquence that he’d want to hop into my bed. It wasn’t a marriage proposal. I just wanted to honor an impulse, to let this individual know that for a couple of brief moments, just the sight of his face took me out of my worries and woes and made me feel good. You know? This is what I got back from him: -Thanks I guess, but your profile says you’re in a relationship. -Fuck, why does everyone who thinks I’m cute have to be in a relationship??? -I guess I should put in my profile that I’m SINGLE and only looking for SINGLE guys huh -It’s like I’m cursed or something so that the only people who talk to me are married guys and it fucking sucks. I came back to the app at this point, a little astonished at the negativity my statement had generated. I told him, I didn’t mean to upset you. I only offered a compliment, kindly intended. In reply I got a flurry of messages back. - Yeah whatever it just feels like being on the receiving end of really fucking awful luck. -You’ve got a boyfriend or whatever so you don’t know what it’s like being alone on day like today -One day some single sexy guy is going to message me maybe but I’ll probably be dead by then. - God now I feel fucking miserable. I was about to write back to the guy and try to get him into a more reasonable state of mind. In the end, though, I just put down my phone and backed away with my hands in the air. I can spot a losing battle when I see one. Do you guys know why it’s so rare to receive genuine compliments on the internet, and why it’s so difficult to find friendly guys? Because when at the drop of a hat guys turn compliments into psychodramas in which they’re dead on their living room floors on New Year’s Day, friendly men like me are frightened into keeping our mouths shut. That’s why. Guys, a compliment is a compliment. When you receive one, simply say Thank you. If you’re so moved or attracted, offer one back. But all you really have to give is your simple thanks. A compliment is not intended to imply that the guy wants to pick you up in his car right that afternoon so the two of you can spend the afternoon at Macy’s working on your wedding registry before you drive off together into the sunset at the end of the day. It’s not necessary to look at a man’s profile, when he proffers praise, to establish how well he fits some preconceived template you’ve envisioned for your one true love. It’s definitely not necessarily to castigate a perfect stranger for his relationship status, or his looks, or his age, or his photographs, or however else he doesn’t happen to match your ideal Prince Charming. You are not obligated to meet, sleep with, or marry a guy who tells you on Grindr that you’re cute. He’s simply telling you that you’re cute. Say thank you. When a man offers a compliment, he’s trying very sincerely to say that he finds some aspect of you delightful. You’ve managed to make him feel good in some meaningful way; he’s trying to repay the favor. He’s honestly not intending to send you into depression. If his words send you spiraling into despair, that’s really something for you to address and work on in your own or your therapist’s time; throwing all that self-negativity at him does nothing to honor the simple, sweet intent of a moment’s impulse. Don’t say Oh my eyes are too close together or My body’s not all that. Don’t launch into a monologue about how you’re trying to lose thirty-five pounds so that then you’ll be really cute. Don’t ask if he needs eyeglasses, or if other people have questioned his taste before. Say thank you. Mean it. Don’t qualify it. And then bask in the knowledge that you live in a universe generous enough to send your way a little positive energy—a little bit of its bounty—through another man’s random act of kindness. If you’re going to resolve anything this year, resolve this: to address those shortcomings that are under your own control, and to accept the well-intended goodness that comes your own way. That’s what’s going to make a great 2013. More...

I've found this thread interesting, mostly because one of my common astonishments is how shittily men behave to each other on online sites. I believe in repaying a compliment with a thank-you. (Maybe it's my Southern upbringing as well.) If I see something on the guy's profile that I like, I'll usually remark on it as well. If I find the guy unattractive or unlikely to be into the things I like, I think a polite and sincere message of thanks is enough. I'm talking about a genuine compliment. Not a wink, or a smile, or any one-button poke equivalent that involves no effort or investment of social risk—though to be honest, I'll often thank guys for those as well. At the same time, while I think civility makes the internet an all-around more tolerable place to be (especially in its seedier haunts), I kind of think that guys have the right to be dicks online, if that's how they want to roll. I get stubborn and resentful myself when men online tell me how I should be responding to them if it doesn't match their preconceived notions; I tend to dislike online profiles that have rants in them about how rude or shady guys are on a particular site, or that read more like miniature books of etiquette than anything else. Bitch, you pay for my computer and my internet access, I feel like saying to those guys, and then you can tell me how I have to use it. But probably not even then. But I'm going to keep behaving politely because that's just how I am, and how I was raised. I believe in the notion of sex karma or fuck karma as well, and I'd rather keep on its good side.

You'd be incorrect. A lot of them are excellent lays, and a lot of them are very hot men. Guys offer cash for sex for a number of reasons, and not all of them involve desperation, unattractiveness, or an inability to attract men through other means. Some men imagine that the money gives them power over the one taking it. Others get an illicit thrill out of paying for sex that enhances the experience for them in a way that freely-given sex doesn't. Still others do it because they feel their time is valuable, and the cash is worth shelling out to get exactly what they want without having to spend a lot of time hunting for it. I'm constantly surprised when I'm offered money for sex at my advanced age. What doesn't surprise me is how truly desirable are most of the guys who want to pay for it. To assume they're all slobby trolls is simply incorrect. Any shame or loss of dignity one feels about accepting cash in exchange for sex is sheerly in one's own head. It's just a transaction. Treating someone cruelly or with disrespect, now—that lowers one's dignity.

And hung, cumbro! You left off 'hung'! You're very sweet. Thank you.

Thank you, Bear4. I really appreciated that message.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Attention shoppers! Looking for last-minute gift ideas for your favorite blogger? Okay then, how about for me? (I know, that was subtle, right?) My holidays are going to be fairly low-key this year. A little piano playing, a little caroling, a lot of figgy pudding. I'll be sticking around the house and not really going anywhere. Given the hectic month I've had, though, it'll be nice. But I want to hear about your plans! In the comments, tell me what you guys do for the holidays. If you're going on vacation, let me live vicariously through your plans. If you're doing something elaborate, enlighten me! If you're just staying at home like me and watching a double feature of Meet Me In St. Louis and Love, Actually with a box of Kleenex at your side . . . well, there's no shame in it. I want to hear about what you're going to do! Of course, if you're planning to fuck your brains out on Christmas Day, share photos. Lots of them. Dirty ones. Let's get to some questions from formspring.me. If you knew the pain you'd have because of your feelings for Spencer, would you, if you could turn back the clock, do things differently so you'd never have known him? In other words is it better to have loved & lost or would you prefer to have never loved at all? I knew right from the start how very difficult it would be if I gave my heart to Spencer, knowing full well I'd have to leave him when my house finally sold. I knew that I loved him the moment he left my bed, the first night he came over. I knew that it was folly to have feelings for someone when I could be leaving for the east coast at any time. It was stupid, in fact. Yet I dived in anyway, because I firmly believe it's better to have the experiences that life offers than it is to avoid them just to shun pain. One learns how to cope with pain and disappointment. They become part of the rich mix of memories we have about the people and times we've loved. I'd rather look back on my life and think of all the amazing people with whom I've been close, tinged with regret and sadness even, than live a sterile existence in which I never took a chance with anyone, and no one reached out to touch my life. We know your mum died & you were close to her. If you could say one thing to her what would it be? My mom passed away nearly twenty years ago. She and I were very close on a number of levels, so I really felt her loss at the time. It took nearly a year for me to come out of the depression, after. My mom spent most of her adult life afflicted with chronic illness, and one of the things on which she was truly adamant was that life is sometimes cruelly short, and that we never, ever really know how much time left we have. Therefore, nothing truly important should be tucked away to be unaired and unexpressed. She felt very strongly that it was important to tell the people we love how we feel about them—whether they're friends, family, or romantic interests. As massive a grudge as she could hold, she also believe that rectifying wrong-doing was important, and that apologies for misdeeds should be made quickly and sincerely. I'm glad to be inclined to my mom's philosophy this way. I can honestly say that when she finally passed away after a very long and lingering illness, there was nothing I'd held back. Nothing important I'd left unsaid. No I-wish-I-hads to haunt me. She knew I loved her and admired her accomplishments. I felt very good about our relationship when she passed. There were family members who'd not followed her example and had a very, very rough time afterward. My only real regret—and it's nothing for I could really have done anything—is that all my career success came after my mom's death. Since I only entered my career with her encouragement—and since it was in an area of the arts in which she'd had aspirations when she was young—I'd simply want to thank her for believing in me even when I'd given up on myself. What countries have you had sex in & if not Australia why not? That would be Canada, Mexico, the United States, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and several not-so-Virgin Islands. I haven't had sex in Australia because none of you guys down under have sent me the plane tickets yet. Why do people think of casual sex as a negative thing? I know that you were simply musing on the question. I'm kind of extrapolating that you've had your feelings hurt on the topic, though—or you're open-minded enough that you see casual sex as something recreational and you've found your views are bafflingly too advanced for those around you. My reply to anyone who asked me this question would be, why do you care what people think about something you do in your private life? How do you feel about casual sex? If you're fine with it, then fuck what other people think. You don't have to follow a course in life based on approval from the masses. Behave the way you want other people to behave. Set an example, instead of following the crowd! If you had a perfect day, what three things would you have done? 1. Made love to someone. Not just fucked. Made love. 2. Had a really, really good dinner (preferably one I didn't have to cook, but I'd settle for not having to do the dishes after). 3. Achieved a good balance between creatively working and mindlessly relaxing. I have a lot of near-perfect days. What were your summers like when you were little? Did you camp? hang around, read? work, visit relatives? My parents were great believers in keeping kids busy during summer vacations. We typically didn't travel or go on any vacations during the summer, so instead my mom and dad would sign me up for all kinds of enrichment activities. I was taking immersive Spanish and French classes during the third and fourth grade, and remember having to take a video production class in the fourth grade as well. There were summers I took creative dramatics classes and worked in community theater productions, and other summers where I took courses in crafts. I did Cub Scout camp in the summers when I was young, until my mother and father decided that the Boy Scouts of America were reactionary fascists and pulled me out of the group. (And they were right. Thirty years ahead of their time, my folks.) Starting in middle school, I started having to do all kinds of athletic activities as well. After I learned to swim, I was enlisted in courses on diving, competitive swimming, and eventually lifesaving. My dad was a huge tennis player and somehow got it into his head that I should be on my eventual college's tennis team (I wasn't), so in middle and high school during the summer months he would drag me out of bed at the ungodly hour of five in the morning so that we could hit the courts. A lot of the crap with which I was saddled was supposed to look good on my college resume. I certainly wouldn't have signed up for Model U.N. on my own, or volunteered for the Young Democrats, or sat in a summer school classroom with a bunch of college kids learning introductory Russian or Biblical Greek. (I have a hazy memory of the languages being my idea, maybe. I used to be good at them.) But as structured as these courses sound, they usually were over with by the early afternoon; I really had a hell of a lot of free time during my summers for the rest of the day. I spent a lot of time reading books from the library outdoors, or biking to the tiny locally-owned drugstore for a nickel ice cream or a handful of candy, or for playing with friends. I didn't really have a curfew, so I stayed out late and relished the hot Virginia evenings. When I was in my teens and had discovered sex, I spent most of my free time divided between whoring and reading, my two favorite activities. More...

This is exactly the kind of three-way I avoid, NLbear: the ones where one partner has dragged the other into it, kicking and screaming. Ultimately it's going to do more harm than good to their relationship, and I don't need the Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? drama that usually accompanies the sex.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here Over the course of the years (jeez) that I’ve been keeping this blog online, I’ve written a few entries that I should’ve classified under a single tag—a tag called And Then He Died. They all have basically the same kind of structure. I set up a memory of a time in my life when I was much younger—my childhood in Virginia, for example, or the long and laughing years I spent in college. I describe another man, or another boy, and how we connected and became lovers. Or perhaps I describe how we didn’t become intimate, or understand each other much at all. I mourn the lost innocence, or the bungled connection. And then (if you were reading the first paragraph, this won’t come as much of a shock) the person dies. Not like, right in front of me or anything. Off-stage, discreetly, for me to discover much later, so I can feel badly about what I’d lost. Whether it was a friendship, or something never quite achieved, I’m always keenly aware of what can’t and never will be replaced. I’ve been laying low this week because I haven’t felt like writing a And Then He Died entry. I just can’t do it, this time. So I’ll jump right to the ending of the entry I could’ve written in place of this one and let you know right off: an old lover of mine died recently. I first knew Jan twenty-five years ago, when I was in graduate school. He wasn’t a friend of mine exactly, though we did know each other by sight. Though he was tall and lightly muscular, and although his voice was deep and grave, he always seemed fragile. He wore his hair long, down past his shoulder blades. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper, so that one had to lean in and keep quiet to hear him. His eyes were gentle. When he listened, he cocked his head like a bird, and rested upon the speaker a gaze that I can only recall as pure, as if all his concentration was focused upon that moment. He was a musician, primarily. He used his long and lean fingers to play the guitar. Not loud metal. Soft and sweet music of his own composition, which he would strum into life from the strings of his acoustic guitar. It was rumored for a very long time that he was having an affair with one of our professors. It wasn’t until a few years later, when I joked with the professor about it, that her shock and panic that I’d heard such a thing convinced me the rumor had been true. Yes, a she. I remember being as surprised about that as any of us. As I said, though Jan wasn’t effeminate in any direct sense, his gentleness and shyness gave him what I can only call an air of the feminine. I’d always assumed he was gay. I remember hearing the multiple rumors about his affair with the faculty member, thinking to myself, Good on you, Jan, for defying my preconceived notions about you, and not making any further effort to get to know him. Which was a mistake. A few years later we found ourselves in the same musical ensemble, where we sat side by side. Every week over the course of a couple of years I got to know him better both as a person and as a musician. I grew to look forward to his gentle asides, and the way he’d hug me goodbye at the end of the night. When he confided in a mutual friend that he found me attractive and had a crush on me, she immediately came to me with the news. I was tickled at the news, and flattered, and genuinely touched. Because we were all acting like fourth-graders, she immediately went back to him with the information. Eventually the two of us slowly, shyly, and tentatively agreed to go out on a date together. Which meant we made vague noises after rehearsal about going out to dinner, and then he came over to my place one evening that week, took off his coat, and spent the rest of the evening in my bed. I remember that night well. We stood in my kitchen, leaning against the counters with our arms folded over our own chests. We flirted like mad, and endured awkward silences in which all we could do was grin big-toothed grins at each other. Finally I leaned into him, and took the back of his head in my hand, and pulled him down to me, for a long and lingering first kiss. Yes, he was that tall. We made love in the dark upstairs. Everything we did was gentle, and sweet, and slow. We smiled at each other between kisses, and laughed at the way he would tingle and tickle at my light touch. We relished each other’s little gasps and sighs as we explored each other’s bodies. My dick hardened like cement when he pulled my ear to his lips and whispered that he wanted me inside him. It was probably one of the longest attempts at penetration I’ve ever taken with an adult—I think it took me nearly an hour to get all the way in him, because I was taking it so slowly. I’d grind and push myself in a millimeter at a time, so that he barely knew he was taking a little more with every push. He hadn’t been fucked in years and years, he told me in whispers, and he’d never before enjoyed it. He did with me. I fulfilled that fantasy for him. I made it sweet, and slow, and painless. When I made him reach behind to see how I was buried all the way inside him, he was so overcome with emotion and happiness that he shook. Shortly after he came in my hand, as I held him tightly and told him how truly remarkable he was. He finally went home early the next morning, happy and grateful. And that was it. We never fucked again. He came to rehearsal later that week and handed me a hand-penned note in which he explained that he’d fallen in love with me that night. He knew that I wasn’t in any place to have the relationship he wanted. It would be wiser for him, he explained, not to carry on a physical relationship with me when it would only make him yearn for something he couldn’t have. He watched me read it, and then—characteristic Jan—worriedly asked if he’d hurt my feelings. He hadn’t. And I understood. On some level I knew it was wrong to make him love me, when it was happening. Jan always seemed fragile, as I said; though I coddled him like an egg through that fuck, I should have been more aware that doing so would awaken in him feelings that I wouldn’t return. I did love him. I loved him dearly for his sweet nature and for the tenderness he shared with me that night. But I couldn’t give him the strings he wanted, he knew without having to ask. The pain lasted for only a few weeks. We learned how to negotiate around that elephant in the room between us, and didn’t speak of it again. We became friends. Good friends, even. Not the kind of friends who swap fucks, but the kind of friends who always had a lot to share, whenever we saw each other. He was there for my birthday parties, right up until I moved. He was there the night before I moved, at my going-away party. Still. I knew every time we looked at each other just a little longer than usual, and when our gazes rested upon each other and we’d simply blink our eyes and smile. I knew what he was thinking, and he knew how I felt, too. He didn’t take care of himself, though. Jan suffered greatly from a couple of genetic diseases that ran in his family. He didn’t have health insurance. He lived alone in a decrepit old house he was trying to renovate. He wouldn’t see a doctor unless it was urgent. Apparently by the time he sought care the last time, it was too late. So I’ve been wandering around this last week, a little dazed and confused and reminded of my own mortality. At the holiday time of year, no less. But if there’s anything that any of us need to take away from this sort of thing, it’s this: make your moments sweet. Take the time to lie with someone, to connect with them, to make them the center of your universe for a few minutes, or hours, or days, or years. Create memories of which the both of you will be proud, and of which you’ll be fond for a lifetime. And make those sweet moments last. Not just as they’re happening, but afterward. Write them down so you won’t forget them, as I obsessively do. Share them so that others can benefit. And revisit them yourself, not with regret or with lingering fear or sorrow, but with the freshness of the day on which they were conceived. Honor those memories, and the men and women who helped create them. That’s the best memorial anyone could ask. More...

Jeez, NLBear. It sure sounds like he'd already decided he disliked you before you met. Exactly. Why agree to it if it's already a problem?

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A few of my readers, in this week's entry entitled "The Rule" about the three-way I recently had, wondered about other so-called rules that seem to arise in group sex situations. Frequent contributor Saab, for example, wondered aloud if the first rule of a three-way was Don't do a three-way unless you would do the one you're less into, by himself. And it's a valid point. Walking into a situation in which you find one of the participants incredibly unattractive is simply setting the group dynamic up for failure. It's kinder for everyone if you're able to pay more or less equal attention to both the other players. (I'm assuming here that everyone's all male, or if it's a mixed-sex gathering, everyone's bi. If you've got a three-way with two straight men and a woman, it's perfectly acceptable for the two straight men not to want to bang each other, and for the lucky woman to get all the lovin'.) I replied to Saab that for the encounter with Chase and Art, I broke one of my own three-way rules, which runs a little like, I won't do a three-way or group unless I'm personally acquainted with one of the other men involved. I kind of like the confidence of knowing at least one man in the group who would be able to give me a general indication of whether his buddy is going to find me attractive enough to make the encounter work. Likewise, I hope he'd remember my tastes and be able to assure me I was going to enjoy myself with both of them. The vetting process isn't foolproof, but it works a lot of the time—plus it helps me feel like less of an outsider. With those guys, I just drove on up there without knowing either of them. It worked, and worked well. But that's kind of rare. And finally, another reader wondered what the rules were with groups of more than three. I find that the dynamics there change based on the number of people involved. In a group of four, even if all the men are playing in the same room or even on the same bed, they tend to pair off into two pairs. Those pairs might be changing all the time, but it still feels like you're having several one-on-one sessions in rapid succession. In a group of five, I've noticed there always tends to be a three-way going on, and a couple going at it off to the side. In larger groups still, there's still smaller clusters of people. There are paired-off guys, and smaller groups within the large. Everything's always shifting, and sometimes there are some group circle-jerks or circle-sucks going on, but what I tend to notice is that there will be two men fucking over here, another two over there, and a clump of three having fun in the corner. It's human nature to keep the interactions small and manageable, even within a group of twenty or more. But what about bukkake scenes and gang-bangs? I hear someone asking. Well, I've never seen a bukkake group for real, ever. Maybe it happens, but I just assumed it was one of those porn things that people fantasize about but has little basis in everyday practice. Gang-bangs happen, and I've been to them. But that dynamic is usually clearly established beforehand; the guys know what's happening. The bottom knows what's happening. Anyone who steps outside the boundaries is usually reprimanded. Left to their own devices, people tend to fuck in as small as configurations as possible . . . even when it seems they're crowding a bed or a floor or a playroom together. That's just how it seems to me. If anyone else has any more group 'rules' or tendencies they've noticed, share them in the comments! And in the meantime, let's get to some questions from formspring.me. Did your family play cards at home when you were young? Do they still? My family played bridge every Saturday night for years, starting when I was about ten. My parents were both bridge fiends during their college years. They were so certain that if I became a cut-throat player of contract bridge, my popularity in college would know no bounds. When I got to college, of course, I was indeed a cut-throat bridge player. But absolutely no one in a college dormitory had played bridge since the Kennedy administration, so I had to be content with keeping my initials at the top of the Crystal Castles machine down at the Tinee Giant convenience store across the road from my dorm. In Michigan, no one played any card games save for euchre, which I dislike. I'm adept at a lot of other card games, though, from pinochle to hearts to spades to bridge to my personal favorite, canasta. Do you have a favorite candy bar? Yes. Bit-O-Honey. These are more candy than candy bar, but lately I have become addicted to Chimes Ginger Chews. My god, are those things good. Would you ever bottom again? Do you think men who bottom are less masculine? My first impulse is always going to be to top. However, I never say never—I wish I got more offers to explore my versatile side, but they aren't exactly flooding my inbox. And no, I don't think that men who bottom are less masculine. It takes two guys to fuck; a top is pretty much useless without a bottom to meet his needs. Besides, I know a hell of a lot of masculine bottoms who'd rightfully kick the sorry ass of anyone who'd dare to suggest they were less manly for being on the receiving end. Do you have any food preferences that are identifiably southern? I have a weakness for a good pulled pork sandwich. Also, at Thanksgiving, I have a distinct preference for a Southern cornbread dressing over a traditional stuffing, and for pecan pie or sweet potato pie over pumpkin. (I have excellent recipes for all those.) My mother was a good cook when I was growing up—my father not so much—but I inherited from her a box full of recipe cards that belonged both to her and to her mother, that typify what I think of as Southern Church Cooking. Everything involves cans of soup, boxes of processed food, or tins of un-fresh vegetables. So there'll be a casserole made out of a box of au gratin potatoes, canned meat, and a Campbell's, topped off with crushed potato chips. Or one I remember vividly, a layered casserole of frozen tater tots, frozen onion rings, hamburger, and cream of mushroom soup. A lot of the stuff I cooked when I was in my teens and twenties was of that nature—I could work wonders with a protein and a box of Rice-a-Roni—but as I grew older I realized how fresh foods and simpler preparations were a lot tastier and healthier. So I don't do Southern Church Cooking any more. (Okay. Much.) I do watch shows like Honey Boo Boo, in which they make spaghetti sauce from catsup and hot water, and think, "There but for the grace of god. . . ." How would you react if a kid of yours decided s/he was going to have a sex change operation? I know it's difficult for anyone to come out to his or her family as trans. Harder than coming out as gay or bi, and that's often difficult enough. Even in this day and age we assume that gender identity, particularly of people in our families or whom we know, is an unchanging thing. Having that assumption challenged is always a rattling event. So while I might be initially jolted if something like this were to occur, I hope I'd be supportive; there's more to a person than what clothes he wears and how high or low his voice is. Those kinds of things are mere details. I'd hope that any family member of mine would know that I'd love them no matter what their ultimate gender. Do you have any memories of Jack Wrangler from the '70s or '80s? What do you think of him, in the pantheon of porn stars of that era? I was aware of Jack Wrangler's name in the early eighties, but it wasn't until the middle of that decade that I had my first exposure to porn of any kind and actually saw him. I had a pornographic magazine that had Wrangler in one of its layouts—probably the hottest layout in there, if I remember correctly. The thing I remember most about that magazine, though, was that the text accompanying the story was so lurid and badly written that I could never get a charge from the photos themselves, because the terrible ellipsis-laden text was that distracting. It read something like: "His love shaft . . . his slick stick . . . his penis d'amor . . . stiff . . . turgid . . . was hard as baked Alaska and filled with more cream . . . baby batter . . . hot SPERM . . . ." Pages of that crap. Very distracting! I saw Wrangler: Anatomy of an Icon when it came out a few years back and thought it was a great documentary. I highly recommend it as a look at an era. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here So I’ve got him at home—my home—face down in the pillows. The sheets are everywhere. There’s a blanket slouched down onto the floor. Heat is pouring from the antique radiator beneath the room’s window. But the slow crimson blush that’s creeping across the Runt’s skin isn’t from the boiler in the basement. It’s radiating from his hole. Over the last several minutes it’s blossomed from pink to red to a vivid flush of scarlet. I’ve been gnawing steadily at that pucker, getting my face in his skinny little ass until everything I smell is him. My beard smells like Runt. My mustache, just below my nose, is heavily scented with spit and Runt butt. My nose, my chin, my whole world is Runt-scented. His dick is splayed out at an awkward angle, running parallel to his thigh. From time to time I’ve been yanking back at it, bending it the wrong way, letting my tongue scoop out the nectar puddling at its tip. He’s been twitching and yelping like the small critter he is, unable to fend off the predator feasting on him. And with the Runt, I am a brute animal. There’s no call for anything else. His ass is red. His hole is puckered and loose, gaping from the attention I’ve given it. His cheeks are raw and stinging from the manhandling, the slapping, the squeezing, the nasty brutish treatment he craves. His yells have been filling the pillowcases for nearly an hour. His fists sometimes reach out and beat a tattoo on the mattress. Sometimes they’re clenched onto anything he can grasp—pillows, sheets, the bed frame—or he’s braced against the wall, to keep himself from flying off. My dick is hard. Angry. I’ve been denying what it wants. It refuses to be put off any longer. Like some sinuous Chinese dragon at new year’s I arch up and slide between the boy’s legs. My serpent is red, distended. Raging. I’m roaring inside as it spits and drools, ready to stretch open that begging boy hole. Inwardly, I feel the satisfied glow of the conqueror about to claim his territory. Then, in that split-second before my hips lunge forward, I hear something I don’t expect. He’s crying. At first I convince myself it’s just one of those sobs of breathy anticipation, a caught breath, a sigh captured on the wrong side. Then I hear sniffling, and wetness. He’s actually crying. And I think to myself, Oh, shit. He won’t look at me when I roll him over. His long hair spills in his eyes. He keeps his head turned away from me. He’s like a little boy who thinks, all evidence to the contrary, that if no one looks him in the eye, they won’t be able to intuit his distress. “Hey, did I hurt you?” I ask. Silly question. We meet so that I can hurt him, so that I can make him cry on the end of my dick. But this is different. This is worrisome. “No,” he whispers at last. It’s one of those tired whispers, the kind of susurrus of sound a man makes as he drifts to sleep mid-sentence in the gray of morning, after a long night of lovemaking and talking. “Do you need me to stop?” I ask. He lies there, motionless. Passive. I wait for him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t. “Do you want me to take you home?” He doesn’t say anything. I ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Do you not like this any more? Do you want to stop?” I don’t mean the hole chewing. I know he’s liked that. I mean this whole thing. The collar around his neck. The things I use him for, the stolen moments in the back seats of cars in parking lots, or in slept-in beds when their occupants aren’t around. I mean, us. “No!” Suddenly he’s alive. He sits up and throws his arms around me, squeezing me as hard as a kid frightened of a thunderstorm. “Fuck. No. Please. It’s the only good thing going for me!” He’s rocking against my body. I put my arm around him. My other hand goes to the top of his head. I ruffle and stoke his hair as gently we twist, back and forth, back and forth. He’s so warm. So soft. When I close my eyes and listen to our silence, I want to sing him a lullaby. I press my lips against the crown of his head. “Do you want to talk?” No. He shakes his head. I can feel wetness between us, where tears are still spilling down his cheeks. They glue us together, cheek to chest. My little bird takes shelter beneath my wing, crying silently to himself. I feel helpless. I’m not sure what to do. “Hey,” I tell him at last. He can’t be entirely comfortable, hunched over like that. As if I’m putting him to bed, I lay him down in the hollow of the bed where someone usually sleeps. I’ve manhandled him before in less dignified ways. He lets me manipulate him now, and slide down in the sheets beside him. I pull up the blankets and try to get them back into order. “Come close,” I tell him, pulling him into a spooning position next to me. “Is that okay?” His head nods. His lower lip is still trembling, but at least the tears have stopped. “Talk to me, kiddo,” I tell him. We lay there in silence for a very long time. My arms are around him, making him safe. At first he lies there like a rag doll, limp and squeezed double over a child’s forearm. Then he snuggles back, cuddling into the safe spot I’ve made. “Or not,” I suggest. “You don’t have to say a thing. It’s all right.” He’s having some kind of struggle. I can feel it in his muscles, the way they tense and relax, over and over. He tries to fight through whatever is inhibiting his tongue, and fails. Then he fights again. Half a dozen times I feel him struggle to make the words come out. “You wouldn’t. . . .” he finally says. “I wouldn’t what?” “You wouldn’t call your kid. . . .” His voice is very tiny. “You wouldn’t call him a . . . worthless faggot. Would you.” I picture that word being thrown at him. Used to slap. To punish. I was roaring inside a few moments ago, but the anger I feel now is an entirely different beast. “No,” I say, calmly. “I would not.” He doesn’t seem to want to say more. He doesn’t need to. “Did your mom call you that?” He shakes his head. “Your dad?” A nod, this time. I sigh. I honestly don’t know much about the Runt’s home life. I know he still lives with his folks. I know he’s not independent enough to support himself. When he’s with me, we’re fucking. Not talking. This, though. He needs to get past these ugly words. “Hey,” I say to him, turning him a little so we can look each other in the eye, over his shoulder. “Do you think you’re worthless?” He looks as if he might start to parrot the words and agree with them. “Seriously,” I say. “Do you think you’re worthless?” He shakes his head. It’s a tiny, tiny gesture. “I don’t think you’re worthless,” I tell him. “I think you’re beautiful. And I think you’ve got an amazing future full of amazing things. You’re amazing. Not worthless. Watching someone with all that in front of him—“ I’m talking about him, but I’m thinking about Jon. “—that’s the most breathtaking spectacle in the world. And it’s happening to you.” He’s listening. He’s really listening. “Fuck him,” I tell the Runt. “Fuck that narrow-minded, asinine bastard for using those words against you. You know the best way to get him back?” His head turns from side to side. No. He doesn’t know. But he wants to. “Fuck him. That’s how. If you need to hear someone tell you how un-worthless you are, you call me. I’ll tell you. But don’t listen to that shit. That’s his own worthlessness, trying to feed on you. That’s his problem. Kiddo, dig those feet in, endure and ignore, then get the fuck out when you get the chance. And you know the best way to get back at him?” His eyes are shining. They’re dark stones in water, reflecting the room’s light. “How?” “Prove him wrong. Prove. Him. Wrong,” I say, emphasizing each word. “You will. Just wait.” For one disastrous moment I watch as his eyes puddle with tears. They spill out to the side. He blinks rapidly to clear them, and sniffles. “Yeah,” he finally says. Then he laughs, perhaps embarrassed at what he perceives as his own silliness. “You will,” I promise him. There’s love in his eyes when he looks at me this time. We don’t use that word. But it’s there. It’s that love between two people who care for each other, who’ve reached out and connected hands in the dark and are grateful for the company. “You are amazing,” I tell him. I watch as the words sink in. Maybe he doesn’t trust them yet. We lay close for a long time. He’s scrutinizing my face. Studying my chin, surveying my nose, my forehead. What he’s cataloging in that brain of his I don’t know. His body weight shifts. He draws up his legs, his knees against his chest. Then I feel his hand, gripping my cock. I’m still hard. I’ve been hard all this time. I haven’t been paying a whit of attention to my dick, though. His small hand clutching the horn of my erection reminds me of his physical presence, though. His carnality. He reminds me that I already smell of him, that my face will wear his stink until I wash it. When I feel his hand against my face, my eyes close. His lips meet mine. We kiss, more softly and gently than we’ve ever kissed before. I like it. So does my dick. It roars back to demanding life. He twists his body. Straddles me. My hands lie on the mattress, unmoving. I’m letting him take the lead. My dick swells when I feel him rubbing the head against his hole. He looks into my eyes, still studying my face, as his long skinny legs rise and lower. The head’s in. I feel his warmth bloom around me. He makes a face of pain as he takes another inch, and then another. Now his eyes are closed as he tries to force himself down on the rest. My fat cock is stretching him wide. The length is making him whimper. His long lashes open. He looks into my eyes as he slides down. From the mattress I thrust up, meeting him halfway. I’m inside, and for the first time with him, I’m in no hurry. “You are amazing,” I tell him with conviction. He gasps a little as my meat swells inside him. When he stares down at me, opens his eyes again, and smiles, I know that he’s beginning to believe me. At least, I think he’s willing to consider trying. More...

To see Breeder's original blog post click here In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other. It’s a rule. I met Chase in the driveway of the hotel. I’m about to head up to your room, I was texting him, as I made the cold trek from the car to the warmth of the building. I’m in the parking lot heading in, he texted back almost immediately. I had to go to the drugstore. He caught up with me thirty seconds later. I looked him over in the warm glow of the lobby’s lights as they spilled out onto the portico. A handsome man in his fifties. Silver hair. Short, athletic frame. He licked his lips when he saw me. “Your photos don’t do you justice,” were his gallant opening words. I liked him already. We made small talk in the elevator on the way up to his room. His friend was in the shower when we reached our destination. “Well,” said Chase, shutting the door behind us. “Aren’t you handsome.” He removed my coat, then knelt down on the floor to unlace my boots. I allowed him to slip them from my feet, and was rewarded by the warmth and strength of his hands gripping the undersides of my arches. His fingers snaked beneath my pants cuffs, and deeply rubbed the calves of my legs. “I’m going to enjoy serving you,” he murmured, as he looked right into my eyes. I knew right then he was going to be the one I liked more. We kissed. His touch was gentle on my neck as he held my mouth to his. Then we looked into each other’s eyes again, blue against blue. He pressed with the heel of his hand against my hard dick, splayed sideways in my pants. My fingers sought out the hard nubs of his nipples beneath his shirt. His eyes squinted with pleasure as I squeezed them. They could take abuse, I could tell by their density. I squeezed harder, and made him moan. This was definitely the one. I could tell. The buddy would be an anticlimax. Chase retired into the bathroom to slip into the shower. I heard him talking to his buddy—lover? Boyfriend? Husband? I didn’t know—through the door. A moment later and another man padded out, wearing nothing but a hotel robe. He was tall—as tall as I, perhaps a little more. Handsome, in that way well-heeled urban men often are, when they reach their fifties. Well-groomed, with short silver hair and an Alex Trebek mustache. He was broad and long where Chase was short and athletic, but he was none the less attractive for it. “Hi,” I greeted him, from where I sat on the bed. He stared at me as if hypnotized, but didn’t say a word. I beckoned him over. My hand gently undid the tie of his robe. I watched as it swung and brushed the floor. His hands remained at his side. When his robe fell open, his cock twitched and hardened as if either the room’s air or my gaze made it erect. He was hung. Very hung. He looked larger than I, and thicker, though the general proportions were about the same. I reached out and took his hardening pole in my mouth. While I moved my lips slowly up and down its length, he finally reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, along the back of my neck, under my chin. He ended by cupping my jaw in his palm, removing his cock from my mouth, and tilting my head up so that I was staring in his eyes. “Do you like to kiss?” he asked, in a soft voice. I showed him how much I liked to kiss. I pulled him down to me so that he was kneeling between my legs on the mattress, and joined my mouth to his. He almost collapsed on me, he was so aroused; his hands reached beneath my clothed body and pulled me to him. Our hips connected. He ground into me, hard. “I’m Art,” he growled into my ear. “Hi Art,” I replied in a whisper, sinking deep into the soft hotel pillows as he unfastened my shirt one slow button at a time. I gave him my name. When my shirt was open, he stared at me. There was almost a look of unabashed love in his eyes. “You’re not an asshole after all,” he said. “Thanks?” was my puzzled reply. It was tough to hold anything against him, though, because he scooped me up into another passionate kiss. If this was what he did to people he thought were assholes, I couldn’t wait to see how he treated the guys he liked. “I told Chase when he messaged you online that you wouldn’t agree to come up here,” he finally said, his face only inches from mine. “Then when you did, I told him you wouldn’t show. Then when you showed, I decided you wouldn’t look like your pics. When you looked like your pics, I figured you’d turn out to be an asshole who wouldn’t be into me.” “Why wouldn’t I be into you?” I questioned. The man was handsome. He had a big dick. Anyone with a head screwed on right would be into him. He shrugged. “Because you’re so . . .” His tongue searched for words. “So are you.” My tongue had better things to do, after that simple reassurance. I pushed him down and engulfed his cock, slurping down to the root and pushing whatever he’d been about to say clean out of his head. He gasped, and pushed me down, aggressively spearing my throat with his meat. No, I thought to myself. This was the one. This was going to be the one I ended up more. Chase found us like that when he came out of the bathroom, trailing a cloud of vapor and sweet-smelling steam behind him. “My two beautiful men,” he whispered, watching us. Then he joined us on the mattress. He pulled me off Art’s cock and settled me back into the pillows. I looked up at the two faces hovering over me. Chase was handsome, gentle, smiling at what he saw. Art was no less attractive, aggressive, and his eyes were full of lust. “Suck me,” I pleaded with them. Together they pulled down my pants. Art opened his mouth and took my cock inside; Will pulled my legs into the air, positioned himself down between them, and began very softly and quietly to lick out my hole. Almost immediately I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations they created between them—Will’s insistent, soft tongue and lips nibbling on my ass, and Chase’s rock-solid hold on my meat with his throat muscles and lips, not to mention the relentless raking of his bristle-brush mustache against my shaved nuts. I cried out, and tried to make them stop, but they pushed me back into the pillows and made me take it. Made me endure the treatment they’d decided I needed . . . and deserved. I twitched and jerked and moaned like a madman, lost and overwhelmed as my nerves overloaded with sensation. “Do his nipples,” Chase suggested, when Art came up for air. They eyed each other, then rearranged themselves so that I had one of them on either side, both of them reaching for my nipples with their lips. Art bit down and made me gasp, and made my dick swell even harder; Chase licked out and put his soft lips around the little mound of flesh in such a sweet way that I wanted to cry. “Just relax, son,” Chase told me. “The two of us are in no hurry,” said Art. They both smiled at me and, as if they’d choreographed it, went back to chewing and licking on my nipples at the same moment. Awash in pleasure, I looked from one man to the other, unable to focus clearly on either, and definitely unable to choose a superior. In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other. It’s a rule. But sometimes rules are made to be broken. More...

Hotload, I think all of us notice different things about people. I tend to notice what they're looking at, what they focus on, and where their attention lies—all the things that make up what I think is gaydar. But I honestly couldn't tell you the color of a guy's eyes after a casual conversation, nor could I tell you if he was wearing a wedding ring . . . and those are two things that friends of mine are always astounded that I fail to notice. It's just not what I look for.

To see Breeder's original blog post click here A few weeks back I answered a question about whether or not I enjoyed de-virginizing guys, and my response bent more than a few noses out of shape. I got emails afterward, and notes on Twitter and Facebook, and one ecard (I usually don't open those, but this one came in a simple postcard format) respectfully disagreeing with me on what I said. Which was the following: If the virgin in question is a guy who's never been fucked simply because he's been too scared to get out there and meet guys have have sex with them, and if he's in his thirties or forties or later and is looking for me to give him the experience he's whacked off about and fantasized over and never actually done anything about, I'm not interested. It's not because of his age, and it's not precisely because of his inexperience—it's more because I'm turned off when people waste so much of their lives fantasizing about things easily within their grasps, without ever attempting to make them real. Now, I don't think my position was too extreme, but to some of my readers it sounded a little ungenerous. People have their reasons not to be whores like me, they gently chided. They have perfectly good justifications for living their lives the way they do, and sometimes not having same-sex nookie is just something they can't fit into their lives. To which I reply, that's possibly true. But it still doesn't mean I want to be the one to break them in, in their mid-forties. There are a couple of circumstances under which I would genuinely sympathize and understand a man who hadn't slept with another man until middle age. There are genuinely bisexual guys who might have made a commitment to a woman at a young age and who are happy and satisfied in the relationship and have no need to seek same-sex encounters. I've known guys in that position who've come back onto the market only later in life, and who have precious little experience. Great. Bisexual doesn't mean promiscuous, after all. Where I start to lose respect for men who hide behind this argument, though, is when they're spending all their free time on gay.com or adam4adam or any of the many other hookup sites men use to chat when they're feeling horny. They're not happy in their relationships, especially if they're using secret free time to flirt and send guys like me messages saying they wish I'd take their cherries. That's not commitment, folks. It's not honest, and it's a waste of time if it's not going to result in anything. If a man's cruising other cruisers, flirting with them, and toying around with the idea of losing his virginity for years and years without actually doing anything about it, he's letting fear control his life—fear of being caught, fear of being rejected, fear of disease, fear of being hurt, fear of living. That's not a life. Postponing satisfaction for years and years when one has the remedy for one's unhappiness—no matter what the weak justification—is no kind of life at all. I don't care what it is you're hankering for, whether it's sex, or a better job, or a love who treats you right. Go after it. Demand the universe give you what you want, and learn to recognize it and treat it well while it's within your grasp. That's the way to life a good life. Not fantasy and needless self-denial. As for the forty-year-old virgins, I didn't say they were untouchable, or undesirable, or bad people. I didn't say that no one would want them. I've simply found in most cases that I'm not really what they're looking for. And that's okay. Now, let's get to some questions from formspring.me. OK..here's my first question on formspring,yea! Anyway, breeder, I'm a fan of yours btw...so..in the 80s, were you a fan of Saturday Morning cartoons?, and if so, name 5 that you really liked, also name a few cereals that you ate that were specifically from those. Saturday mornings were the best days of the week, when I was a kid; I would be glued to the television set as soon as the bass fishing shows were over at roughly eight, and would stay there with glazed eyes and a long-empty bowl of cereal in my lap until the sports games started in the afternoon. Most of the shows I remember loving weren't so much animated cartoons, though, but the live-action shows. I loved most of the Sid and Marty Krofft shows like The Bugaloos and Land of the Lost and Sigmund and the Sea Monster, but especially H.R. Pufinstuf. I really, really, really liked Isis, who was like an Egyptian version of Wonder Woman. And I was a fan of a short-lived and really bizarre show called Uncle Croc's Block, which starred Charles Nelson Reilley as a grumpy kid's show host who spoofed other kid's shows. It was very meta, and very very gay. When it came to cartoons I was a fan of Sabrina the Teenaged Witch and Josie and the Pussycats"(until Josie went to outer space, anyway . . . then it was just silly), as well as The New Scooby-Doo Movies, in which Scooby and the gang solved mysteries with fabulous guest stars like Phyillis Diller and Mama Cass and Cher. It was also very gay. Probably my favorite cartoons had to be the Warner Brothers Bugs Bunny shorts. I watched them over and over again for years. The only cereal I remember eating based on a kids' show was the Freakies cereal, which tasted like sugar and was good enough for me. Back when I was a kid I mostly at Cap'n Crunch, or Sugar Pops, until my mother decided they were unhealthy and switched me over to Golden Grahams—which probably had just as much sugar, but at least gave the illusion of being semi-healthy by having graham flour in there somewhere. Do you believe in gaydar? I don't believe that people have some mystical ability to spot other gay men, no. I do believe that there are people who have a heightened observational sense. They are constantly looking at other men and noticing how they hold themselves, what they're wearing, and most importantly, what those other men are observing and where their eyes linger and over whom their eyes skip. The highly observant person who puts together the little cues that every man gives off when he finds someone of sexual interest has a much better sense of who's interested in same-sex encounters and who's oblivious. That's what gaydar is. Have you ever gone to someone's house who had a private glory hole? If so, how was your experience? Many times, yes. In Michigan I had several buddies with their own private glory hole setups. One had carved a pair of holes in the door of his fruit cellar, and he would sit beneath the steps on a bench in there and suck the men who came into his house and down into the basement for sex. The advantage of the scenario was that he didn't really have to do anything except carve two holes in the door; the disadvantage was that he was stuck in what was essentially a locked closet while a strange man entered his otherwise empty house. The other man had a more elaborate setup in which he replaced the door between his kitchen and his mud room with a plywood partition that was equipped with hinges that fit where the old door went, and a couple of braces to lock it firm once it was set. The gloryhole was at the perfect height, and he'd set out pillows on the floor for men who wanted to suck him. The advantage of this set-up was that the guy didn't have anyone coming into his house any further than the mud room; the door was also able to be stashed elsewhere when it wasn't being used. The disadvantage was that it took a lot of carpentry skills to set up. I also occasionally saw a guy whose 'gloryhole' was a bedsheet with a hole cut out of it that he'd hang from hooks in the ceiling. That was lame. I think my favorite regulars with a home glory hole were a couple who lived out in one of the further-away suburbs near my old home. One was in his late thirties; his boyfriend was in his early twenties. They had cut a large glory hole in the drywall at the back of their coat closet, directly across from their front door. It opened into their kitchen. I would stick my dick through and they'd both go at it, taking turns sucking it and backing up their asses on it, while I held onto the closet rod and let them milk load after load. I could always tell which one was which. The younger partner was a way better fuck. Have you ever setup a private glory hole in your house or garage? Nope. But I'd sure consider it if I had a place with the appropriate layout. What are the differences between spencer, scruffy and the runt in looks and personality that led to your differing feelings for each of them? I hope this is not an out of bounds question thnx. I'm glad you asked this question, because it made me consider in what respects these three boys were similar. Most basically, they're all pretty young. I don't deliberately seek out young guys, because age isn't really one of those considerations at the top of my list when I'm looking for a hole to plow. I do get a lot of very young guys hitting on me, though—and all three of these boys were the ones to reach out to me first. Spencer and Scruffy were roughly the same age, though, and Runt is younger. All three are of a vaguely similar physical type—lean. Spencer is muscular, however, where Scruffy was merely skinny. And both those young men are quite tall, while Runt is quite the opposite. Spencer and Scruffy both had scruffy faces. Runt's is very smooth. Spencer has a lot over the other two in talent and smarts, though. He knows everything about everything, and is at the start of a very promising artistic career. Scruffy was sexual, but he wasn't social, and definitely wasn't intellectual; the Runt doesn't talk. He's just there for the dick. Sexually I've got strong ties to all of them. Intellectually and emotionally, though, Spencer and I were by far the closest. Did you ever own a deck of tarot cards? I own one deck of tarot cards—not because I necessarily believe in them as a tool of divination. There's a (lengthy) story behind why I have them. A very long time ago—I think it was in 1989—I had a friend from work who was very much an avid reader. She was two and a half times my age, Mexican, and dirt poor; I was wet behind the ears, new to Michigan, and poorer than dirt poor. Since reading didn't cost much and we enjoyed each other's company, this co-worker and I would visit hole-in-the-wall bookstores and buy armloads of paperbacks for a dime apiece. We'd read them, then swap. My friend was very much into science fiction and fantasy novels, which I'd never read; it was because of her that I developed an enduring passion for the genre. One of her very favorite authors was Anne McCaffrey, whose main fame came from the science fiction series The Dragonriders of Pern. I read what books had been written in the series to that point and was equally smitten with them. At that time McCaffrey had collaborated with an artist, Robin Wood, on an illustrated book of portraits of characters from the novels. We really loved the book. When my friend discovered that Wood lived in the Detroit area, she just looked up her number in the phone book, called her, and invited her out to dinner. She was bold like that. So we took the artist out to a dinner at a coffee shop that served all kinds of pies, and then after a couple of hours of pie and conversation, Wood invited us back to her home and studio. Who were we to pass that up? At Wood's home she showed us some of the original sketches for the book, but she also showed us her then-current project, which was a tarot deck she was designing for publication. She went through several of the sketches and finished illustrations and explained to us how she reinterpreted and expanded upon traditional tarot imagery. It was really a fascinating evening. My friend passed away about three years after that. After she was laid to rest, I was in a bookstore and noticed The Robin Wood Tarot out on the shelves, in final and published form. I bought it was a remembrance of my friend. It's really a beautiful set of tarot cards, and whenever I look at them, I think about my friend from those years with great fondness, and remember all the fascinating authors and artists to which she introduced me. More...