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Saturday, January 30, 2010

Confessions of a Football Manager Part I: Alice Falls Down The Rabbit Hole

I watched part of the last Viking’s game this season and got swept up in the drama. It was a very entertaining game which, unfortunately, ended without the hoped for outcome. With the Super Bowl coming up, I thought I’d share a few of my football experiences. No, I never played the game, though I did spend a lot of time in the locker room.

I didn’t play the game because I thought it was stupid. I thought it was stupid because my older brother, who was a bit of a creep when we were growing up, played it and I hated anything he liked – with the exceptions of Bruce Springsteen and Cher. My older brother was actually in the starting line-up and played all through his high school years. He was quite an athlete. I, on the other hand, was an ugly duckling that never seemed quite ready to bloom.

My game was basketball. Yep, I was a dedicated benchwarmer up until 10th grade when the futility of my situation finally dawned on me. That’s when track became my sport. The coach deemed me suitable for only the two mile run, and while I failed to see the insult, I did see it as my ticket to legitimately earn the letter for my letterman’s jacket. I went to Regionals that year (where I came in last place!), but it all hardly seemed worth the effort and time. I ran until I earned that letter. The moment I did, I was done with high school athletics. All that mean boy energy rubbed me the wrong way (no pun intended). Oddly enough, it was only after coming out of the closet and having sex with men that my interest in athletics was restored. Since that time, lifting weights, running, hiking and biking (until I broke my neck – see an earlier blog) have all been a routine part of my life. The most athletic thing I did in the interim involved ballet barres, choreographing musicals and dancing in shows (I was a good dancer). That is, unless you count my time as Football Manager, which I do because during that time I certainly athletically worked a certain muscle over and over again.

In my small town, when sixth graders became seventh graders they also became high school students. Moving from the grade school to the high school turned out to be a very intimidating experience for me. Keep in mind I was pretty timid in general at that age. I was a quiet sponge, watching, observing and recording social interactions and their aftermath, usually from a safe distance. This was probably due to my placement in my family. As a middle child I pretty much became the family historian, the one to bear witness to everything. To this day I astonish my siblings and parents with my ability to recall some of the most mundane aspects of our lives, including events that happened when I was only a few years old. I was a sensitive sentinel. My abilities to absorb the emotional intent of others made me incredibly empathetic. Sometimes that served me well. In high school? Not so much.

So, upon entering those hallowed, hollow halls, I drew into myself even more. I recall being befriended early on by a group of senior girls who were drawn to me because I was so shy and rarely looked directly at anyone or anything but the floor. They became my protectors, escorting me about between classes. They thought I was cute. I would pay them compliments and flirt. Their boyfriends hated me. I was always underfoot. Once, one of the boyfriends became so enraged by my attentions to his sweetie that he pushed me hard into a locker and punched me in the stomach. He was a senior, I was a seventh grader. What the hell? Like I was serious competition? It happens that one of the girls involved happened to be the daughter of the principal of the school. That may be how I came to the attention of the head of the athletics department. But I could be wrong.

I’m not sure why it happened, but I was asked by the coach of the varsity football team, a burly man’s man who also served as the boy’s phys ed teacher, to be one of their Football Managers. The title seemed impressive and I accepted because… well, I’m not sure why. I think it might have had something to do with my lack of a sense of self. I had nothing to define me, save my love of Hot Wheels, my Action Jackson doll and acting out disaster movies in the privacy and safety of my basement (think Poseidon Adventure!). Also, it felt like I was being called before the king of the land and having a favor requested of me.

I had no idea what a Football Manager did, but I agreed to do it. This would be a role I would play for three seasons, until such time as I was informed by the head of the drama department that if I was serious about theatre and wanted lead roles this football nonsense would have to go, because the practice schedules were constantly in conflict. I chose the footlights. Exit the locker room, enter stage right.

It turns out being a football manager was pretty much the same as being a water boy. I and another kid, a nasally, lanky, dark-haired senior whose mouth seemed perpetually frozen in a condescending sneer, would haul first aid supplies, giant jugs of Gatorade, and assorted equipment out to the field for practices and games. We would then haul it all back. We would then hang up each player’s equipment in a damp, cramped room resplendently inundated with decades of funk and stale perspiration. That was the worst job. The equipment was very heavy and smelly. The best job? Oh, that would be handing out the towels to the players after they showered. As I mentioned previously on this blog, the towel room was located at the opposite end of the locker room from the shower room, which meant wet, naked footballers had to tread down a concrete aisle in order to be given a towel. The towel giver would stand in a tiny closet, much like a coat check room, and hand out one towel per player. It was the perfect vantage point for checking out the packages of all the top athletes at the school. Surprisingly, it was always the biggest geeks, dorks and doofuses that were the most well endowed. Oh, well, where God closes a door (by making you a doofus), Satan opens up a window (by giving you a big dong), am I right? But more on that later. In any case, I guess you could say the job did have its benefits – especially if you were a budding homo.

During my first year as Football Manager, I was the shining star. I was Johnny-on-the-spot, hardworking and eager to please. Each game I stood on the sidelines screaming my lungs out encouraging my team to win, win, win! Everybody loved me. I could do no wrong. All this adoration came at the expense of the other Football Manager, whose jealousy always surprised, but also fed me. There’s nothing so inspiring as the jealousy of another.

During a typical practice, one Football Manager would be out in the field with the varsity squad, while the other stayed in the locker room holding down the fort and passing out towels to the younger grades whose practice times ended before those of the varsity squad’s. The favored job was to stay inside, since practices tended to happen in all kinds of weather – that weather frequently being less than wonderful. Being the new guy I got stuck out on the field, chasing stray footballs and running errands for the coaches; rain, wind or shine. So basically the only dicks I got to see that year were those belonging to the seniors, juniors and coaches. I hadn’t learned to masturbate yet, and was, in fact still something of a sexual eunuch. So while I secretly admired these visions of manly wonder, I remained pretty much a clueless wonder.

I remember being awestruck by all the naked bodies running about. The general atmosphere was (especially during a winning season, which this one turned out to be) one of great camaraderie. I especially liked it when the students and coaches would engage in horseplay, usually naked – chasing each other with snapping towels, wrestling about and such. It was during one of these episodes that something that now strikes me as very odd occurred. During one particular ruckus, the head coach, who was naked, grabbed me and dragged me, fully clothed, into the shower room, where he held me under a steaming shower, getting me soaking wet. He was completely nude at the time, as were the players. I remember squealing like crazy, not out of terror, but rather like a little girl who is being teased mercilessly by the boys. I liked the attention. It felt like a rite of passage, a moment of ordained acceptance. I was one of the gang.

At the end of the season there was an athletic banquet where I was honored for my hard work and dedication. Seems that my being on the sidelines, screaming and cheering had some kind of impact on group morale and my contributions were deemed award worthy. I got my letter for my letterman’s jacket and a certificate. That made me the first person in my grade to get my letter. I was proud of that for about two minutes, until I realized that getting a letter for being a Football Manager was not the same as getting it for being an athlete. That’s why in 10th grade I would join the track team and earn my letter in the traditional way. Yes, sometimes a letter is not a letter.

The rest of the school year was spent trying to play basketball and then competing in the speech contests; both worthwhile activities, in spite of my lack of success. It wasn’t until the summer that I would come into my own… or maybe I should say I would cum into my own - my own hand, that is. Yep. I learned to masturbate. How, I’m not ready to share. It had something to do with the fact that I was now old enough to babysit and that every single home I babysat in had a copy of either Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask) or a book by Xavier Hollander. The first time I masturbated; I succeeded and because I had never experienced anything like it before was certain something horrible had just happened. Once I realized that I wasn’t going to die; that God was not going to come down and smite me and that my Mother didn’t know what I was doing, it became my new favorite activity. Everything I cherished in my life at that time: singing in church, being an altar boy, practicing and playing piano, and listening to music all took a backseat. Hot Wheels and Action Jackson had to move aside – there was a new toy in town.

This new found passion swiftly became an addiction, and soon no place was sacred. It began to color how I viewed and interacted with pretty much everything in my world. That was especially true of the boys who played football and the men who coached them. My fantasy life became infused with the info and images I became privy to due to my proximity to all that relatively adult male nakedness. Those smells in the equipment room now seem much less distasteful. Jock straps suddenly became not something to be embarrassed about, but something to revel in. And I did, revel. I reveled all over that locker room that fall.

You see, my nemesis, the hateful, hawk-faced senior who got to remain inside while I toiled in the rain and wind? He graduated. That meant the team needed additional manpower. And who did the phys ed coach recruit? The boy most likely to succeed, the smartest kid in my grade, and someone who filled me with horrible feelings of jealousy and someone whom, for the sake of this story, we will call Tim. Everybody loved him. Tim was super smart, well-spoken and good-humored. Beloved of teachers (his father was one), priests and little old ladies throughout the town. In seventh grade he managed something no one else had done before – he made it to the State Speech contest with a precocious reading of a Mark Twain piece. I, on the other hand, labored away in the serious prose category where I languished unappreciated and undiscovered. I was eliminated early in the season. During speech practice I would sit with a tight smile jammed onto my face, as the speech coaches went on and on, ad nauseam, about the tremendous potential and God-given talent Tim possessed. He would go on to become class president and then a priest.

But I think I knew the source of just why it was he was so studious and clean; he didn’t enter puberty until senior year! I know this because I peeked when I could and subconsciously kept track of such things. He had some sort of hormone deficiency or something. Hence, I don’t think he learned to masturbate until then. In an ironic twist, in our senior year, it was I who went to the State Speech contest (I made a deal with God that if I stopped masturbating he would allow me to place at State), placing second in my category, while Tim got bumped at one of the earlier levels of competition. It was probably due to his being distracted; making up for lost time no doubt. But then again… he did become a priest, so who knows.

What I do know is that as freshmen, Tim was the sexual eunuch, while I was quickly graduating to the level of a secretive, chronic, kinked-out masturbating deviant. My situation was further exasperated due to my new ranking as head Football Manager. Since Tim-The-Perfect was the newbie, he was the one who went out into the field leaving me to explore the joys of an empty locker room.

And I did. I ‘explored’ all over that place like a dog marking territory.

End of Part I
Next Week: Part II: The Joys of an Empty Locker Room - Alice Unleashed

Friday, January 22, 2010

Saturdays Should Always End With A Nice Relaxing Facial

Sometimes I like a challenge. I like to see how much I can cram into a single afternoon. There are days when I am much more successful than others, but even the failures can yield a good story. I’m going to tell it all to you, just because I think you really need to consider the logistics involved and how damn resourceful one has to be when hooking up outside the home.

I‘m hanging out at a coffee shop trolling on-line to see if I can find myself a little something-something. Guys are emailing me back and forth, but I’m not seeing a sure thing yet. Then two guys hit me up at the same time. One: medium height, with a nice, headless body pic sporting an 8.5 cut dick. No face pic. No problem. I like surprises. I read his profile and it seems like a match. Plus his first email to me is… “I want to pound your ass.” Ah, the direct approach… gets me every time. I don’t waste much time negotiating with him. He offers up his address and I’m figuring this is a slam dunk. The other guy; he takes a bit longer to get the point… but he does get there. Finally I mention that I’ve seen his profile on another site (a profile that is a lot more explicit about what he likes) and now that he knows I know a little bit about him, well, that seems to seal the deal. In his profile he claims to be a top and when I ask him what he’s in the mood for he tells me, “I want my dick sucked and then I want to fuck an ass with the guy on all fours”. Cool with me. This guy lives way out in some suburb I’d never been to, so once I Mapquest it I decide that logistically it makes more sense for me to begin with the headless photo dude first. I set up a time - an hour and a half later than the date I make with the first guy, figuring that should give me more than enough time.

In the meantime I get an email from a bud of mine who I have not seen in a while. We’ve been emailing back and forth trying to set up a time to play, but our schedules never jive. I distinctly remember telling him my Saturday afternoon would be free earlier in the week, but he has this tendency to wait until like 15 minutes before he wants me to be at his place to let me know he’s available. I don’t have a problem with that at all. A turn-on-a-dime booty call is a total turn on for me, but logistically? It rarely works. He emails me that he wants my ass. I am on my way out of the coffee shop when I get this email, so, I decide that he has had ample time to plan ahead, and that I shouldn’t change my plans, just because he suddenly decides he wants some. Do I sound like a chick? Yeah, maybe a big slutty chick with giant titties who really doesn’t give a fuck who does her. Anyway, I email him quickly that I might be available around 4 pm and he should get back to me and let me know if that works for him. I tell him I won’t be on line until 4:00 pm and that I’ll check around then.

So, that morning I did a thorough douche. This is successful only about 80% of the time. What I’m learning is that if you want to guarantee a really clean ass, you need to douche about 5 minutes before you get naked. Some places this is not a problem. I routinely will excuse myself and ask to use the restroom once I arrive somewhere. I usually ask upfront (pre-arrival) if it will be okay with my host if I use his bathroom. I don’t tell him why I need to use it, but I have feeling, if he’s been around, that he knows what’s going on. Of course, there are also some clueless wonders out there. One guy accused me of using his bathroom to shoot up drugs. Once I explained that what I was doing he apologized. Douching: can’t fuck without it and can’t seem to figure out a discreet way of doing it. What’s a fag to do?

In the event that I feel I have time enough, I will remain wherever I happen to be (coffee shop, restaurant, library, work, etc.) and douche before heading off for my play date. Today I’m feeling pressed for time, so I decide to risk it and just go for the gusto without bothering. Please note – this is never a good idea. But for once, my luck holds.

I arrive at destination number one a few minutes early. I check my bag for my usual supplies and double check the address. For some reason he didn’t give me the buzzer number for his apartment, but promises me that he will be looking for me. I pocket my supplies and head toward the front door of the building. Just as I am about to knock, the door opens and there he is, ushering me quickly and quietly inside.

The guy is short, young, stout and black (who knew?). He puts his index finger to his lips, indicating that I should not speak. Turns out dude has a boyfriend and a very nosy landlady. I comply and he ushers me into his apartment and shuts the door. He asks me if everything is cool and I shrug my shoulders and say, “sure”. I follow him to the back of the apartment to the bedroom. Since this guy seems to want to usher me about so much, from now on I’ll just refer to him as Usher.

Usher is a smart, determined little man. He has condoms, lube and poppers on a little shelf next to the bed. There’s an air of let’s-get-down-to-business permeating this play date, so I immediately strip and get on my knees. I am handsomely rewarded. Usher may be short, but in now way is he little. Nice, thick and juicy is more like it. With his track pants down around his ankles, his fingers are busy working his own nips as I grab my poppers, take a big hit. I take just the head of his dick into my mouth because I feel like teasing him a bit while I warm my mouth to the idea of deep throating the potential monster hanging before me.

I inch my mouth slowly up the shaft bit by bit, liberally coating it with saliva as I go. His dick responds nicely. If it seemed thick upon first glance, it is not long before I realize it is going to be positively hole-splitting once I get him up. Usher starts talking under his breath, asking me if I like that big black dick and encouraging me with, “Come on, bitch, suck that dick.” Well, you don’t need to ask me twice. I’ve only got half of him in my mouth when he starts calling me a bitch and that just makes me… well, very hungry. I open wide and let that fucker slide down my throat and don’t stop until my lips land firmly at its base. I pause. A lovely, light funk fills up my nostrils. It is earthy, manly and deep, with just a trace of sweetness. I linger, wanting to know what’s next. He tells me in short order. He starts skull fucking my face, deep and hard, forcing my head up and down the length of his shaft. The man having way too much fun – way too much.

Dude shoots his load. Boom! It is hot, sweet and tasty coursing down the back of my throat. Surprise!

I’m thinking – Oh well… Next!

But it is clear that Usher is not done with me. He continues working his dick up and down my throat telling me to choke on it.

Then, suddenly, he eases up, removes his sweatshirt and lies back on the bed. “Bitch, work those ball with your mouth”. Yes, sir! I move into place and steal another hit of poppers. Giving a dude’s balls a tongue bath is not always my favorite thing in the world, but I am really inspired at the moment and feeling like a total pig bitch, so I comply. His sack is fat and heavy, with a nice pair riding inside. Taking my time, I lick tentatively before going whole hog – taking one nut in my mouth at a time, swirling it around and then moving over to the other. Usher is loving it. He’s working his nips like they are controls to a video game. Finally I manage to get both his nuts in my mouth at the same time. Then I do one of my favorite things – I clamp down my lips under the base of his dick and I pull back just the tiniest bit. Everything becomes so snug and tight – this little trick usually gets one of two reactions – the really sensitive ones freak and the game ends, while the guys who love a little CBT make the most delightful noises. Usher belongs to the latter camp and the words coming out of his mouth are nothing you are likely to hear in polite company, but music to my ears. As intense as his language has become, Usher is still using a hushed tone. I suspect he thinks his landlady will tell on him, so he wants to play it super discreet. Part of me is hoping the bf is hiding in a closet watching, but I check later, and no such luck.

My little clamp down has had quite an effect and after ten more minutes of playing ball, Usher is now ready to fuck. How do I know this? Because he pulls me onto the bed and tells me to “get that ass in the air, cunt.” Normally, I take exception to the ‘C’ word, but Usher is working my fuck-me nerve like nobody’s business. I think it has something to do with his height. Napoleon Complex? Then what exactly is my complex? I am always drawn to bossy, short men who like to give orders… oh, just make that all men who give orders.

Usher positions me into place. I face the head of the bed, on all fours with my ass in air. I take a hit of poppers and prepare myself for a full out assault. Usher’s messing with getting the condom out of the wrapper, so I whip around, take it out of his hands, open it, remove the condom and roll it on his fuck stick. For good measure, I take his encased dick in my mouth – it’s my way of saying good-bye to the object of my oral fixation. I turn around and resume my position, telling Usher in as quiet and ominous voice as I can muster to “go slow”.

He listens (yay!) and enters like a pro, using plenty of lube. His dick is fat and thick and I am loving it. That slow glide in makes me absolutely giddy. Finally, he comes to rest against the cheeks of my ass. Then he flexes his dick inside me. Fuuuuuuck…. Okay, dude can have and do whatever he wants.

And he does want it. Bad. Oh, how I love second helpings!

He pushes his dick even further into me, pressing my face into the pillow, which I throw onto the floor immediately. I know myself all too well and Usher and his boyfriend do not need me drooling all over their pillow cases. I spend the next 20 minutes having my ass pummeled. I am twisted this way and that way (almost always ending up with my face pushed down and forward – Usher is not in love with me, he does not want to kiss me and apparently is not all that fond of my face). I am also called (along with my body parts) all sorts of lovely, filthy names.

However, there seems to be no end in sight, I am about to tell Usher to give up. That obviously that second load is not forthcoming, when he changes up his game. He makes me lay face down on the bed, flat. I reach for the poppers and take a hit. Usher slips his dick inside my still vibrating ass and lies down on top of me. I feel his whole weight. He then begins the slowest most sensual fuck, breathing deep into my ear. I abandon all plans of exiting prematurely. This is a lovely ride. I start to ungulate my ass in time with his slow thrusts, squeezing the ring of my ass as his dick slowly winds in and out. He takes the back of my hands in his and pins my arms down over my head. His sweat warms my back and the slight funk of our combined sweat makes for a heady combination. We work one another like this for another twenty minutes.

And then he stops. Dead still.

And he shoots, allowing his jizz to pulse out on its own volition. This is an incredible feeling. Every flex and throb registers in the nerve center that is my ass.

It’s all very sweet. He collapses on top of me, with his dick still in my ass. It feels so good. I am no where near ready to come and decide to save my load for bachelor number two. After a bit, he hauls himself off of me. I remove the condom and inspect the load and then proceed to take his still hard dick in my mouth. After paying his balls their due respect, I clean up quickly and make a fast exit. All the while my hole is actually tingling like it is alive with fairy dust. We pay lip service to doing it again some time (and we do) and I exit.

And I’m late. Already, fucking late. And I really only have the vaguest notion about where this next guy is located.

Panicked in the car, I overshoot my destination many, many miles and just happen to find the side road I was looking for by chance as I’m driving back home. I’m over a half hour late, but I figure, what the hell, might as well give it a shot. The dude can only say ‘no’.

I park and run into the lobby of his apartment building. He answers almost immediately. I apologize. He says no problem and buzzes me in. Riding up in the elevator I grow concerned – usually after such a fierce fucking, as the one I’d just had, I need a little powder room time. However, once I walk into the apartment, something tells me that won’t be necessary. Turns out this party started without me. My eyes do a quick scan of the living room. He has a blanket laid out in the middle of the floor. Lying about it are a neck rest, a full length mirror, lube, poppers and a couple of toys. The mirror is resting sideways along the bottom of a flat screen on which plays some generic leather porn. The toys bother me for a moment - I’m not one to play with toys – but then it occurs to me that the toys aren’t necessarily for my ass and that in all likelihood I won’t be the one taking it up the ass here. Not a problem, after all, I am flexible and an equal opportunity enjoyer.

We make small talk, mostly about my getting lost and being late as I take off my clothes. This gives me ample time to check him out. The only items he is wearing are a gym issue jock strap and a studded, leather harness. He’s one of those small, hard-bodied, no-body-fat types rocking a killer six pack. Completely hairless, except for a mop of blonde on the top of his head, I decide he’s very cute and very muscular. I take note of his cute little ass as he leads me into the living room where he lays back on the blanket and places the neck support pillow under his head. I crawl over between his legs and take the mesh bag of his jock into my mouth. Very fresh. I reach up, grab the poppers and take a long hit. Then I get nice and comfy with his jock, licking his dick through the cloth pouch. Eventually I slip his cock and balls out of the pouch. He is definitely enjoying what I’m doing, but I can’t help but notice he’s not getting hard. Not that his dick is the seventh wonder of the world, but I’m no size queen. I like any dick – so long as it gets hard. So, off I go in search of what it is I need to do to get a little reaction. I flip his legs up and work my mouth to his hairless hole.

Very sweet, very clean. Such a limber little dude. Every time I suck deep on his pucker he moans in appreciation, so I really start to get into deep tonguing him, getting him nice and wet in the process. I take my time with it, checking myself out in the mirror the whole while. From there, it seems only logical that the next thing on the menu to tackle is for me to fuck him. So I do. I love fucking dudes who are smaller in stature than me. There is just so much flexibility involved, moving them about, and I love the power rush that comes from being dominant. With him wearing that harness, I just figure I can get about as nasty as I want to. At first I just tease his hole with my dick, rubbing it, pushing against it, testing it.

The lube is in easy reach, so once I check in with him to see if he’s up for it, I work a gob into his hole. He really gets off on my finger work, which gives me pause and makes me wonder if he’s into fisting – not my thing, but I do like fingering a hot ass. I manage to get four fingers up his ass before I switch tactics and decide to really show him what that hole is made for. The mirror proves to be a real added bonus – because there is nothing I like better than watching my dick slide in and out of the sweet pucker of some muscled dude. I grab him by his harness and pull his body onto my dick. Changing up the tempo and intensity, I keep pulling out completely on occasion, so that I don’t blow my load early. In between fuck periods, I slide up beside him and kiss him deep, allowing my hands to run all over his tight little body. It’s during one of these breaks that he mentions that he has a roommate that will probably need to come out and use the bathroom at some point. I tell him that’s no problem – the idea of being watched is always kind of a turn on for me. So, I decide it’s Showtime!

Putting him on all fours, I hold him by his shoulders and pull him onto my dick – at first slowly – watching his hole open up for each entrance and exit of my dick. Then I rapid-fire his ass, slamming into him with all the brute force I can muster. The sheer sound of it smacks its way throughout the apartment. That’s when I think I hear a door open. The idea of this totally unknown person watching my ass flex as I fuck his roomie makes me go into overdrive. Soon there is no holding back and I decided to just let nature take its course. After the first spurt, I hold him tight and still, so we can both enjoy the spasms of my throbbing cock. Then for good measure, once my dick had ceased firing, I pick up where I left off and jackhammer the little dude for all he’s worth.

He never does get it up or off, for that matter. He also spent most of the session on his back, with me doing most of the work, and then totally failed to deliver on his promise to use my ass. I could be a bit pissed off about the whole thing, but he’s cute. And he was okay with me being so tardy. And he made a serviceable bottom. So I get over myself quick. Having spent over an hour playing with him, I decide that I’ve done my duty and that if he wants to get off he will have to take care of that on his own.

He hands me a nice towel to dry off with. We are both drenched in sweat. We makes small talk and I apologize (yet again) for being so late. I give him a quick peck on the mouth and make my exit.

Back in the car, I take a look at my cell. There are three text messages from my other bud near uptown. I think what the fuck… might as well see what’s up. He tells me he is… up and hard as a rock. I pause for a moment and think. You see… nice thing about this dude is that he’s all business and terribly consistent: I arrive, get on my knees, and suck on him. He then turns me around and pounds my ass silly until he’s ready to shoot. Just before he does, he turns me around again, forces me to my knees and shoots his creamy load on my face. In and out in 20 minutes. No drama.

After all I’ve been through today the idea of a nice, fast facial sounds downright relaxing.

“Can you hold off for another 30 minutes?” I ask him.

He says, “Sure. Hurry the fuck up.”

Ahhh, a man giving me orders. How can I refuse?

Now, if I can just figure out where to stop off for a quick douche…

Thank God for fast food restaurants!

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Fantasy Time: Fun For You and Your Friends; Humiliate My Banana!

All fantasies begin somewhere, as a germ of personal truth. Some truths are fairly common and recognizable. Others take their time and sneak up on you, and even when they do, it takes a moment (or twelve) to identify just what they are and where they came from.

The roots of this particular fantasy – the event that led to my having such a kink – came about when I was in 9th grade. I was jerking off all the time by then, having learned how by stealing illicit glimpses of chapters from ‘Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)’. I used to babysit quite a bit when I was in 7th, 8th and 9th grade. Babysitting was an easy way to make some quick cash and I generally had a good time (more about that in a future post). At the time, this book seemed to be the norm for every bookcase I rummaged through. Without it, I’m not sure I would have ever discovered masturbation. I mean, I suppose eventually, but I was never one of those who played with other boys’ private parts. Even in those rare instances when I had the opportunity to do so (more on this in a future post), I usually feigned disinterest or pretended to be asleep, because I didn’t want to give people yet more reasons to call me a fag. I was also totally clueless about sex. I vividly remember my first wet dream and how I had no idea as to why I pissed myself. I also thought sex was evil – and while this didn’t prevent me from researching it on the sly, it did prevent me from ever pulling out my willy and playing with it in the presence of others.

So solo jerking was pretty much my main preoccupation by the time I reached 9th grade. I would do it anywhere, anytime. No place was sacred, not even church (future post)! I’m sure to this day that there are viable samples of my DNA to be found throughout the high school that I graduated from. No classroom was safe, no urinal went christened. One of my favorite places was up above the main furnace of the school, which was located off to one side of the main stage in the gym. There was this raised floor area you accessed via an iron ladder affixed to the wall. This happened to be where the school stored all their football equipment in the off season – pants, shoulder pads, thigh protectors, etc. in huge piles. I spewed countless streams of hot cum all over that equipment on a regular basis throughout the school year. It never occurred to me that the jocks of the school would then unwittingly be wearing my dried cum as they hit the field that next fall. But then, there were lots of things I was not very aware of in those days.

Back to the fantasy triggering event… in 9th grade, gym was still a mandatory class, and one I totally sucked at. Routinely I was the fifth to the last person to be picked when choosing teams. That said, you should have seen the other four guys – being fifth to the last was not anything to be proud of. Granted, I was on the track team and the basketball team, but in both cases, it was just to please members of my family. I hated playing organized sports. That hasn’t changed, but what has is that I now really love working out. Back when, I think my distaste had something to do with the curriculum of the class. It wasn’t educational. It wasn’t informative. We were never taught the joys or benefits of working out. Instead we were grilled and drilled. I also suspect that had I an I-Pod and been allowed to wear it, I would have gotten into the groove and really succeeded. It also might have had to do with our phys ed coach. He was kind of a big dick (who happened to have a very tiny one). I never managed to put my finger on exactly what it was at the time that caused me to dislike him, but in retrospect I think he was just your run-of-the-mill failed-jock asshole. And thanks to the potent combination of piss-poor educator and lack of substance and therefore lack of interest, I came to despise gym class.

However, the same could not be of the locker room. That was one of my favorite haunts (and continues to be so), and perhaps my carnal familiarity with it (future post) is what triggered this incident.

Anyway, one time after class, we were all hitting the showers, as per usual. In fact, everything occurred as it always did after gym, so I’m not sure why this happened. We all showered in this large, porcelain-tiled room under showerheads that sprang from the walls. For some reason it was typical for the entire class to cram into the shower room all at once. This would result in a bunch of guys huddling naked in the center of the room as those lucky enough to be first inside showered. There was a tremendous amount of steam in the room, making it difficult to see anything, which really wasn’t that big of a loss. For, as I remember it, I pretty much kept my eyes glued to the floor, sneaking only the occasional glance at my schoolmates’ bodies. Having been taunted and called a fag on more than one occasion, the last thing I wanted was to get caught staring at some dude’s dick in the showers.

On this day, I didn’t get into the shower room fast enough, so I had to stand in the middle with the others and wait my turn. I was one of the last to shower, but there were still enough people in the room to witness my humiliation. One the guys suddenly yelled, ‘Hey, he’s got a boner!’ It took me a moment to realize that the boner in question belonged to yours truly. My dick was only semi-hard, but the attention now focused on it soon had it flying at full mast. I finished my shower as soon as possible, holding my breath the entire time, thinking that would help make my hard on subside. Sometimes that worked, like in a class, when I would try to force my hard on to whither before I had to stand up and exit. There was nothing more conspicuous than walking down a school hallway with your textbooks held firmly over your crotch in order to hide the outline of your throbbing dick. I never got teased for doing so, but I bet there were a lot of other people who knew exactly what was going on.

After exiting the shower room, I then had to walk the walk of shame. You see the towel room was located at the opposite end of the locker room – whoever designed it that way must have been something of a sadist, or perhaps they had a hidden agenda. In any event, I had to walk past everyone in order to get a towel. And who was handing out the towels? Why, the phys ed coach, of course. Due to my embarrassment, I chose to not try to hide, hold or touch my wood in any way, figuring that touching it would only make it worse. As I approached the door of the towel room, accompanied by the peals of gleeful laughter that echoed throughout the locker room, my dick felt fucking huge. Then the coach turned to hand me a towel.

Only he didn’t.

As soon as he caught sight of my hard on, he froze and then actually withdrew the offer of the towel. The surprised look on his face slowly morphed into a kind of evil grin – you know the kind where the corners of the mouth curl up? He was totally enjoying my predicament and in that moment, I felt such an odd rush of emotions. Mostly hatred and humiliation, but there was something else, too. Finally I lunged forward and ripped the towel from his hand. I struggled to wrap it around my waist, trying to capture my erection enough to get it to lie flat against my stomach. I glared at the coach the entire time. He just kept smiling, his eyes travelling from my crotch to my face and back again. A small laugh escaped his mouth, as I turned on my heels to my way to my locker. Mine was right next to the lockers of two of my best friends. I could tell that they didn’t know what to think or say, as I scrambled into my clothes. We never spoke of the incident, because my friends and I never talked about sex. Ever. This remained true even once we got to college.

I’m not sure why that incident died out as quickly as it did, but it soon seemed forgotten. I don’t remember getting razzed for it beyond that day. Maybe that is because it finally confirmed for everyone what a fag I was, so there was no sport in teasing me anymore. It also was probably due to the fact that I lived in a very small town where the sophistication level wasn’t exactly sea level. Most of the guys I went to school with were farmers, so, with them dealing with farm animals all the time, maybe erections were not that big of a deal. It never happened to anyone else. Not that I heard of, anyway.

About a year and a half ago, I found myself thinking about this incident. It was during this time that I began to get in touch with my inner slut. It became a fantasy of mine; to experience something similar, with consenting adults. I even went so far as to post an ad about it on Craigslist. Here’s the original copy from that ad:

Title: Humiliation as a kink? Up for trying something new. Be my DOM. - 44

I’m thinking about humiliation as a kink I may want to explore.

Here’s the incident that started it: When I was in high school we were all forced to attend gym classes. At the end of this class we would have to shower and then walk the length of the locker room to where the towels were stored. There, the gym teacher (a nice-looking, athletic, furry, thinning-haired, man with the usual stupid gym teacher attributes – small dick, though) – would hand us a towel.

One day, while soaping up in the showers, surrounded by my classmates, I sprouted a hard-on. It was quickly noticed and I was laughed and jeered at. I rinsed off and went quickly to get a towel. I stood before the gym teacher and motioned for him to give me a towel. He looked at my dick and then directly into my eyes. I was mortified even more. He said nothing. I think I made no attempt to cover my hard on because I didn’t want to get accused of playing with myself or I don’t know… afraid I’d cum?

So this memory, today, (I hadn’t thought of it in a sexual way before today. I did so only after reading an old Savage Love column.) has resulted in my being intrigued.

I would like to be tied up naked and kept captive in a room. With something covering my mouth, so I cannot speak, or, perhaps, wearing a full, leather mask which allows me to see and breathe freely. Then the person in charge would invite a group of people over and have them accidentally walk in on me. Or they should just ignore me. Or look at me with disgust. Or disinterest. Maybe on occasion the host could feed me poppers and whack my hard dick with his hand.

I’m a bottom (big surprise, huh?). Very oral. I have a seven and a half inch, cut dick. It is nice and thick. Pics available. I’m bald, over six feet tall and under 175 lbs. Furry body. I’m in my early forties.

So… is there anyone out there interested in such a scenario. Hit me up. Never done this, but interested.

I also like licking boots (have a couple of times and it was hot). Maybe I’m a sub in the making.

Send pics and stats. And stay on topic or risk being ignored. Thanks.

I did get one relevant reply. We met for coffee. He was a big man – like a pro football player, just a bit older than me. Very distinguished looking, well spoken and an experienced dom. He had grey hair and a handsome face with a goatee. I remember thinking he had the most amazing hands I had ever seen. I wanted to take his fingers in my mouth. We discussed various scenarios, interests and limits. If he was to take me on he would want to work with me one-on-one before attempting a scene like the one I had described in my ad. The discussion was pretty hot. He told me stories about some of the things he had done with his subs in the past. I recall that when I wasn’t staring at his hands and face, I had to fight an urge to climb onto his lap and put my arms around his massive shoulders. He was pretty much the ultimate Daddy.

Unfortunately, Daddy had a really busy schedule. We emailed back and forth a couple more times, but never got to meet for any of the training as promised. Which is okay. I mean maybe it’s just something that was never meant to be. Sometimes a fantasy should remain just that – a fantasy. I think the reality – the logistics and actualities involved – would probably have just resulted in disappointment.

Yep, sometimes a banana is just a banana. And sometimes, a fantasy is best left unrealized. Still, that didn’t prevent me from running the ad again just recently. I haven’t heard from anyone I trust enough to meet, yet.

But then, I’m in no hurry.

Friday, January 08, 2010

My Year at the Gym 2009 and My 2010 Mulling-It-Over List

Looking back at the year’s work out totals. Includes time spent at the gym only. Here are the figures:

Worked Out for an hour plus 220 times last year or 4.23 times a week.

There were a couple of weeks when I couldn’t work out at all due to some minor surgeries I was having throughout the year. I never went in on the weekends or during holidays.

That’s a decent amount of working out. Still, I don’t know why, but I am disappointed in the number. Something to work on for the new year, I guess.

I have also decided to get out of my comfort zone and try new things in the gym. I am slowly working in new ideas – mostly aerobic, stretching and yoga-type exercises. I am also challenging myself to attend some group classes. I did a few in November and December and found that you are so busy exercising you really don’t have anytime to be bothered by the people around you.

It’s very hard to let go of those dumbbells, though and break out of my rut. I end up fearing that I will be wasting my time if I do something other than weight/strength training. I am promising myself that when I hit the treadmill I will not try to run too fast. I promise to continue to concentrate on good form and not get caught up in the whole macho mindset where you find yourself working with too heavy weights.

Things I’m mulling over:

My I-Pod needs some serious updating. There are tunes on there I hope I never hear again. When I work out I keep it on shuffle. There are over a 1,000 songs on the thing, but I swear the same annoying ones keep popping up.

To shave or not to shave? My ass – I have guys tell me not to shave, because it irritates their dick and I have guys who tell me it’s one of the primary reasons they want to fuck my ass. You can’t please everyone, but it would be nice to please someone. That said, the whole body hair maintenance thing is getting on my nerves just a bit. It takes a lot of time. So I guess I need to find the time and do it right. I have yet to shave my back. I would like that done… preferably the day before I go to Chicago on a debauchery filled weekend.

Have a debauchery filled weekend in Chicago. There is this club called Hole I have yet to get to. There is also a naughty movie theatre and a couple of glory holes I would like to check out. I have never done a glory hole in my life, but it looks fun on X-Tube. Whether the filth and smell will outweigh the adventure aspect of it all – well, I guess I need to go find that out. I would also like to go by myself and host guys at my hotel room. I’d live like a vampire and sleep during the day.

I have to start saying no to anyone who is under the influence of drugs or alcohol. It really makes for awful sex and people who mute their lives with those kind of things tend to make poor choices, and I make enough of those all by myself. I don’t need to wake up the next day and deal with the consequences of their previous actions. That said – I need to take a firm stance re: barebacking. I toss this one around all the time – waffling back and forth. It seems sexy. Looks sexy on X-Tube and bbrts. But can I deal with the realities? Am I being a pussy? Or is common sense trying desperately to win out on this one?

I would love to report that I plan on limiting my number of sexual partners in the coming year, but sadly, the gay community will have to put up with my ass (shaved or unshaven) on the internet for yet another year. I know that if I could just find three or four guys who I clicked with and to whom I had reasonable access, I could limit my scope. Unfortunately, that just ain’t happening. The guys I do click with tend to have schedules that do not jive with my own and all we end up doing after our initial couple of fucks is email back and forth trying to ascertain a time that might work for another round of fun. So, expect more slutty stories in the coming year coming from yours truly.

I would like to be with guys who are as interested in my dick as I am in theirs.

I would like there to be more kissing in 2010.

I look forward to the summer and am already harboring fantasies about a certain bicycle enthusiast steering north on Wirth Parkway in order to come to the prairie, where we will get butt-ass naked and do nasty, pleasurable things to one another. Actually, I just want to see him naked. No, actually, I do want to do nasty, pleasurable things to him. (Hey… you get through the winter your way, I’ll get through it my way.)

By the way, I was going to do a year end tally of my sexual exploits (yes, I’ve been keeping a sex diary of sorts). However, I didn’t start the thing until March of 2009, so I will not be posting a full year of stats until then. So look for that posting in March. I recently went for 29 days without getting fucked up the ass. It was a long 29 days. That isn’t to say that my mouth was not busy during that time and I even managed to top a couple of times, but even with that lag in activity the numbers are – well, depending on your take on the whole slut thing – either awesome, awe inspiring, or really, really gross and damning.

My diet. I eat too much. I eat all the time. I want to eat all the time. I need to stop eating all the time. I need to limit my portion sizes. Aye-yi-yi-yi-yi. Shut up already. Okay, the portion size thing is something I could and will try to work on. Also the choices of what I put in my pie hole? I will also try to improve the quality of my food choices. Have you ever noticed that salads are a pain in the neck to eat and/or prepare?

I really need to spend more time with my dogs. They need to get out more. Outside – running somewhere. I need to take them with me. They need more exercise. I want them to live forever. I hate the thought of outliving them. But I could never live with the thought that I wouldn’t always be there to take care of them.

Friends. I will try to do something with one of my friends once a week. Coffee. A drink. Breakfast. Something. This weekend I am going to a birthday party for one of them. So, I think that counts.

And finally… I think I will choose a writing project to complete this year. It will probably be this musical drama thing I have been thinking about for quite some time about Swedish mermaids, a princess, a concert pianist and an psychiatric patient. Most of the music for it is written and scored. I have a half-hearted attempt at the book. It could be interesting. We’ll see.

Well, that is the state of union, for now. I have to go hit the gym. Later.

Tuesday, January 05, 2010

State of the Union: A New Year's Day Revelation or My Life As a Thirteen Year Old Girl

Note: I wrote this on New Year’s Day. I wonder how many others went through similar such thought processes (I was going to say ‘mind fucks’, but it seemed a bit harsh).

This is the sound of those murderous drums

The marching of footsteps
The twisting of thumbs
Over and over
Again here it comes

We're lost

Lost – Annie Lennox (2008)

I’m feeling lost. Maybe a bit trapped.

I’d love to write it all off as a case of post-holiday, mid-winter blues (and maybe that is what it is), but that would be pushing into denial some issues that I have been shoving into the furthest, darkest crevices of my mind ever since I became aware that said crevices (and said issues) existed.

I sat on the couch and watched reality television for the better part of the day yesterday. Me, my dogs, a blanket and some coffee – enthralled with the likes of Bridezillas, home makeovers, and how not to murder your spouse. I enjoyed criticizing the lives and actions of others in the safety of my living room. The irony of this was not lost on me. If the camera had been turned around, with the shoe on the other foot, they would have found a lot about my life equally ridiculous and distasteful. And then I would have been the object of scorn and derision. But then I think that is why reality television exists; so we can feel better about our own lives.

I woke with the best of intentions that day. I have three friends I have been meaning to call in order to reconnect with and salvage what might still remain of our friendship. But I couldn’t do it. I hate small talk. Avoid it unless I am face to face with someone and chose to engage in such banter rather than make us both suffer in silence. That’s part of my excuse. The other part probably has to do with the fact that I am not much of a friend. I don’t enjoy socializing like most people, or at least I don’t adhere to the norm. If I fail to see a reason for such interactions – if there isn’t something in it for one party or the other – then I also fail to see the point of getting together.

That makes me a friend of convenience. I hate feeling put upon. I hate feeling obligated. Guilt is something that I have built up immunity to, for the most part, although it continues to rumble around there in the background, coloring my perceptions and moods.

The year ended oddly. I had three sexual encounters in a row that left me wanting. The sex was bad, or odd, the people not to my liking or I, not to theirs. It happens. I also had a lot of offers that either didn’t work out for one reason or another – mostly issues of timing – or that I surprisingly turned down for one reason or another – mostly due to matters of convenience, timing and an unwillingness on my part.

So, in spite of my efforts to get into the holidays, to meet my social commitments (I did), do the family thing (I did) and follow thru with those things I promised to do (I did), December ended up being sort of a bummer of a month. Which means as I look at the next two months, I don’t see much to get excited about. I dread it.

Today is one of those days when my past seems so deep and murky I could never get to the bottom of it or through all of it. And if I did? I don’t know what I would want to do with it. Self-examination at this point feels like an exercise in futility.

I did play piano. I found sheet music for a couple of songs I wrote in 2000 and 2001. Playing them, they felt like they belonged to someone else… and in a way they do. I even went so far as to drag out my old Janis Ian songbooks and muddle through a few of my favorites.

That put an end to my pity party, though. I know I just need to get over myself; to see the humor in… something. Probably the humor in my own self-absorption. How adolescent. Of course it seems that my goal of late has been to live the life of a juvenile sexual delinquent, so what do I expect?

I’d love to make some changes in my life, but I am stuck. There are practical matters that supersede my personal desires.

And then there is a matter of honesty. I am not a very honest person. Haven’t been for… well, forever. My childhood was spent determining the best ways to get away with things and to exist on the peripherals of society all the while trying to draw as much attention to myself as possible. Maybe it was one of those situations where I was just dying to be caught and stopped, you know, like an addict who keeps acting out in atrocious, obnoxious ways in the hopes that someone will rescue them from their downward spiral. I just got too damn good at being sneaky for my own good.

I am an expert when it comes to being sneaky. And self-deception. I think that is another one I can cross off my list as done. To death.

The promise of a new year will do this to me; get me thinking about what I should change. That’s probably true for everyone on some level. I approach the new year as if it is an opportunity for redemption, as if all my past transgressions (which pretty much sums up my past as a whole) could be wiped away if I just concentrate on being more honest with the world. But I know it doesn’t work that way. That’s why the past becomes this thing you live with… this thing you bear knowing, it’s familiarity cradling your body in one of it’s clammy talons while you struggle to free yourself of… your self.

Odd how one’s past becomes the strange bedfellow you were proverb-ily promised.

I guess that’s why so many people keep moving forward. I did. I used to. I was always running away from the past. I did my best to remain at least a few steps ahead of it. For a long time that could be measured in a matter of shows. I always made sure that I had my next theatrical production lined up so that I did not have to deal with the fallout or the lack of artistic merit of the one I was currently working on. I’ve done that with jobs, too. And friends.

I keep meaning to pick up that phone, you know. To make an effort. There’s nothing I really need to fear. Except, perhaps, that they won’t be there to answer.

I thought today might be the day I go online and update all my profiles on those hook-up sites that I frequent. I was thinking I would just blank out the body of my profile and write in its place: Temporarily out of stock. Please see rest of catalogue for similar item.

But then I figure that would last all of a week before I would recreate what I had there before. And those pictures. Most are from this summer. I stopped taking photos in August. I really should take some new pictures or just get rid of the ones that I have posted.

I do plan on continuing to work out. But I know that I need to change up my routine. I have plateaued and need to challenge my body more. I’ve been watching infomercials explaining just that. I think that is part of the reason that I am feeling so down. Lack of interesting activities. I would love to be one of those people who cross country ski – but I am just not feeling the outdoors much these days. Too bitter cold. I’m just not feeling that fucking hearty. My soul is not ready to embrace the threat of frost bite.

That said – I will probably just end up watching television again today. Tomorrow I have to go back to work. That is depressing, too – but if I wake up really early, I generally I have a good chance of getting my ass out the door, in the car, and on my way to work before I wake up enough to agonize too much about my fate.

Well, I thought writing this all out would make me feel better and it has. A bit. Enough to contemplate something other than sitting on the couch all day.

I think I will make myself another cup of tea and reconsider my options.

One of the things I need to decide is what I want to do with this blog this year. Last year it was all about sexual energy and experiences (well, 90 percent of it) and I did manage to post something once a week (pretty much) with a total of 52 posts for the year. I was thinking about doing a serial novel, but I could see myself falling terribly short and losing interest in such a project. The two novels I started writing back in 1995 still haunt the back of one of my closet where they share space with the boxes of navel-gazing lyrics, volumes of yawn-producing journals and tons of completed scores for musicals that will never see the light of day or stage.

I wonder who I want to be this year. It will be some variation of who I was this year, I am pretty sure. But I could be wrong.

OMG! – I bet this is why I am currently stuck reading adolescent literature. Seriously – I am reading books that I then pass along to my thirteen year old niece. In fact that is what this whole post kind of resembles, doesn’t it?

The ramblings of a thirteen year old, self-obsessed, slightly delusional girl.

Well, at least I’m making an effort to get to know myself. Kind of a waste, though. Being an adolescent girl is not exactly what I had hoped for.

Still, Harriet the Spy has always been one of my favorite books. After reading it in seventh grade(!) I began writing in my spiral notebooks, capturing my observations and opinions about other people for the first time. I remember when I went through therapy the first (of three) time(s). Journaling came easy to me, because I’d been doing various versions of it throughout my teens, via song lyrics and notebook doodlings. I spent the 90’s obsessed with writing songs, and thanks to Noteworthy Composer I was actually able to score and print them. And share them. And record some. And perform some. That all ended in 2005. About the time I started doing this blog. So you see, I am still that precocious 7th grader scrawling in my spiral notebooks – offering up half-baked theories, ill-informed opinions and shoe-gazing adventures.

Maybe this is the year I take up enter the world of competitive masturbation. I think they carry it on ESPN.

Or maybe this year will be the year I discover how a middle-aged man copes with the realization that in spite of all his best efforts he is in reality a thirteen year old girl.

Well… you can’t say I don’t have my work cut out for me. You also can’t say my life lacks a unique bent. But then, that’s me in a nutshell: uniquely bent.

Happy 2010!