TheBreeder Posted June 5, 2010 Report Posted June 5, 2010 To see Breeder's original blog post click here I have a superpower. A sexual superpower, if you will. It’s one of those abilities of which gay men only dream. What could it be, you wonder? Is it the talent to turn any guy I see into my hapless sexual thrall? Well, no. I do that, but it’s just a fortunate side-effect. Is it a prostate-stimulating eye beam that, when I use my x-ray vision to probe deep into men’s bowels, instantly gives them the orgasm of a lifetime? Maybe, but no. Is it a super-cold blast of air that, when I exhale, transforms mens’ clothing to brittle dust that crumbles into nothing? Jeez, no. But you’re warmer. My superpower is as follows: I have an uncanny ability to make men remove their shirts in public places, like bars. Oh, don’t scoff. You know you’ve wished you could do it. It’s really a combination of my low-key personality, subtle flattery, and an unabashed Vulcan death grip on the guy’s vanity. Ten minutes later, boom. The guy’s strutting around shirtless. Yes, you may thank me. I’ve gotten all kinds of guys shirtless in the past. Pretty twinky boys? A few of them are shy, but a couple of kind words and they’ll take off their Hollister drag to show off their hairless chests. Leathermen? No challenge at all. They’re itching to get those T-shirts off and strut their stuff. Ordinary joes? They’re often the biggest challenge. Still, given a little time, sufficient ego-boosting, and enough alcoholic lubrication, soon enough they’re yanking off those neckties and sweaters and shirts and having themselves a good old time. But if you really want to know how far my superpowers extend, I offer the case of Heroes. Remember Heroes, the NBC show about ordinary people with (ironically) superpowers? The show that was good for a season and then got so rotten, so quickly, that I stopped watching after its second year? In its first few months, NBC was apparently so nervous about the program that it asked me to participate in a survey-based focus group. My first very lengthy questionnaire offered a lot of space to provide free-form answers, and in every one I offered the same sage advice: Your male leads need to take off their shirts more often. We want to see more gratuitous manflesh. I could tell the producers were responding when Adrian Pasdar stood around shirtless for a couple of scenes, a few weeks later. Come on, I wrote on the next questionnaire. Stop being a tease. Make all the boys take it off! NBC caved. First Milo Ventimiglia appeared bare-chested, then Pasdar started shucking his top whenever the camera was on him. (It was almost as if the camera’s mere presence dissolved his shirts.) Then the artist guy stood around without clothing for long, beautifully-lit moments. All the guys were lounging around in the buff as much as possible for no apparent or justifiable reason whatsoever. For a brief spell, under my expert direction, the show became a living Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue, but I liked it like that. Then Heroes stopped sending me questionnaires. And see what happened? Anyway, last night I went out to the local gay watering hole with friends, for a little while. One of them is horribly, perpetually single and not happy about it. We were sitting at a table together when in walked a couple of guys. One was short and had the general build of a grizzled old bulldog; the other was younger, darker-haired, and an extremely attractive, muscled Latin. “Oh my god,” said my friend, as his jaw hit the ground over the younger guy. “He’s so gorgeous. I want him. I want him to fuck me. He has to fuck me. I want him.” I raised my eyebrows slightly. “That won’t be happening.” My friend seemed outraged. “You are a bitch. Are you saying that I’m not good enough for him?” “No,” I replied, not getting ruffled by the insult. “Go talk to him if you want. His name is Jorge. That’s his boyfriend with him, but if you don’t mind that, go for it.” “You know his name?” asked my friend. “How do you know his name?” Again, I raised my eyebrows. “No, how do you know his name? Do you know him? How do you know his name? Where do you know him from? Do you really know him? Or are you just telling me you know him? How do you know his name?” He was so much like a yapping chihuahua that I wanted to put my hands over my ears. “Do you really want me to say it?” “Say what? How do you know him?” “Fine,” I announced to the table of five. “I’ve banged him. Are you happy?” To be honest, no, he didn’t seem very happy to hear that news at all. “Oh,” he said, deflating. Then, after a moment, “So that means he’s not a top?” “Oh, he is very definitely not a top.” Everyone at my table laughed, save for my friend. Jorge had been one of the whoriest bottoms in my stable, a few years ago when he’d been younger, thinner, lived a half-mile away, and was being impaled on my dick twice a week. “Well, fuck,” said my friend. He continued to be fascinated by Jorge, though, and kept staring at him. “Is he sexy naked?” he wanted to know. “I bet he’s really sexy naked. I bet he has a great chest. I bet he has a great body. You can tell he has a great body by looking at him. Yeah, I bet he has a really great chest and body. Does he have a great chest? I bet he has, like, this really sexy chest.” On and on he went, driving me to distraction. “Will you shut up if I do you a favor?” I said at last. He blinked, not understanding. “Just watch.” I cracked my superpower’s metaphorical knuckles, walked over to Jorge and his boyfriend, and laid my hands on their shoulders. Four minutes of small talk and laughter later, Jorge stood up on the lowest rungs of his bar stool, hooked his arms over his head, and yanked off his polo shirt. Then he showed off his chest to the entire bar, arms upraised in a victory stance. Several guys in the bar applauded. Jorge grinned shyly, then sat back down again to finish off his drink, still sans shirt. I strutted back to my table, where my friend was blinking. He looked as if he’d had a religious epiphany, though in his case it would’ve been the image of Jesus imprinted in the piss stains of a jock strap. “Satisfied?” I asked. “That’s how it’s done. You’re welcome.” He simply goggled. More...
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