Weekend Onesie: Be Curious - Summertime Edition

Weekend Onesie:

Be Curious - Summertime Edition

If I had a beer for every time I heard this one...

Curious men. Love 'em? Loathe 'em?

They're everywhere you turn.

Personally? I don't have time for them.

I mean, I certainly understand their situation... but it's not mine to help them with. I just don't have the bandwidth or the patience.

Take that crap to a sex worker who gives a rat's ass.

I am no man's 'experiment.' (Unless it's something new to both of us.)

And who knew that a brewery from Wisconsin could be so sly?

What? We're reading something more into this than intended? Shut your mouth!

Or open it... and pour in a cold one.

Either way, trust me... something's going down that throat!

Hurry, boys... October is right around the corner.

May the days remain as golden as the sun's warming rays allow.

And as plentiful as the pleasures found when 'him' meets 'him.'

-uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque

--- ---

Here's To Summer - Jessica Jarell

Ah, Youth: To Envy... But Not

Ah, Youth: To Envy... But Not

I went to a high school graduation party last night.

It’s always the same.  The guest of honor is a kid and could really care less whether you show up or not.  You go for the parents, who are busy the entire evening greeting and briefly chatting up guests while dealing with logistics, so you end up sitting down at a table full of strangers who are pleasant enough, but with whom you have little in common. 

The small talk becomes brittle and eventually you’re standing in a corner by yourself looking at your watch, plotting your escape.

These are the kind of social obligations that I find burdensome.  But they are obligations that need to be honored, none the less, especially if you really value the friendship of the hosts.

That was the case last night.  I’ve known this couple since 1986.  Through the years, we’ve done theatre together, they’ve witnessed the cacophony that passes as my life, and I’ve watched as they married, created a life together, and raised children.  They are ‘good people’.

After I first arrived, the husband chatted me up as I sipped on a glass of wine.  Out of the blue he tells me, “Boy, if you want some eye candy, just head out to the patio.  Some of those boys are worth turning gay for.”

This simply struck me as wrong.

I explained to him how that would not interest me, as I am only attracted to adults of a certain age. My friend had enough wine in him to not take offense and said something about one of the boys being absolutely mind-blowingly beautiful.  I changed the subject and soon the conversation ended so he could attend to a couple of new arrivals.

A couple things bother me about this little exchange:

First off, the whole gay men as predators of youth angle; which I am absolutely sure was not my friend’s intention in the slightest, otherwise he would not be my friend.  He’s very well-educated, worldly, with an intellectual bent and an enlightened mind.  Quite frankly, he knows better. 

We’ll let him off the hook for that.

Secondly, that this was coming out of my friend’s mouth – a straight man with two kids and a wife.  We’ve never really discussed his sexuality, but, unless he’s a closeted bi-male, or contemplating exploring new horizons once the nest empties out, I am not sure what to make of his comments.  They felt rather out of left field.

Eventually, I found myself out on the patio, relegated to the ‘old’ person’s table, where we talked about the various museum exhibits currently featured in the Twin Cities.  As an older woman rhapsodized about the intricacies of Hopper’s drawings, my eyes drifted over the battalion of youth populating the carefully manicured gardens. 

Yes, there is a simple beauty to be found in the faces of the very young; those on the verge of heading off to college and unknown waters.  They all appear so clean and unmarred by life, their pristine skin free of sun damage and wrinkles, their bodies fresh and vital.   

But they’re kids.  Children, really.   Other than appreciating that they possess qualities that I, myself, once possessed; well, that is where the romance ends for me.

At this point in my life, you have to be of a certain mature age to be on my sexual radar – as in, over the age of 35.  The boyfriend is ten years younger than me, and some of my friends still give me shit about robbing the cradle, ludicrous, as he is hardly a ‘youth’.  What attracts me to him is the fact that his body has been lived in and his mind has been filled with experience, facts, thoughts and feelings.  That is what I’m drawn to.

There’s nothing about a blank slate that appeals to me in the slightest, no matter how ‘beautiful’.   This whole appreciation of youth?  Rather lost on me.  I envy them, but, ultimately, I do not.

At some point, given our friendship, I will probably have to pull my friend over like the sex police and coax out an explanation for his strange comments.  We will need to be well into our second martini before that conversation can take place, but… it will take place. 

The human condition? 

I understand so much about it, yet so much of it remains inexplicable and uncomprehensible.  Who knows what I’ll uncover.  But I will ‘go there’.  It’s in my nature to play psyche detective, leaving no id unturned, no ego unruffled, no super ego unexposed…

…especially when it comes to my friends.  

Isn’t that what friends for? 

Acquired Tastes, Chapter II : Armpits

The intoxicating, all-consuming musk of a fresh, ripe, armpit is what I’m talking about today, in this second installment of Wonderland Burlesques “Acquired Taste Series. Last week we explored the wonders and wonder-why-they-do-it of watersports. This week let’s dive deep into the mysteries of a moist, manly armpit and come up with a face full of delicious, manly, earthiness.

Armpits

Scope of Activity:
Involves:

- the licking, kissing, smelling, and nuzzling of armpits.
- the insertion of a rock hard dick into the fold of flesh created at the intersection of the inner, upper arm and pectoral area of the upper chest (axillary intercourse)

The Official Line:

The axilla (or armpit, underarm, or oxter) is the area on the human body directly under the joint where the arm connects to the shoulder.

The term "underarm" typically refers to the outer surface of the axilla. However, the terms are sometimes used interchangeably in casual contexts. Colloquially (according to the Merriam Webster dictionary), armpit refers to an object or place which is smelly, greasy or otherwise undesirable.

The sexual attraction to the underarms is called axillism and/or also known as Armpit Fetish. Armpit fetishism (also known as maschalagnia) is a paraphillia in which an individual is sexually attracted to armpits.
The attraction is mostly involves the strong, pungent odor of the armpit. The odor of the armpit is the most powerful in the body, sufficiently powerful to act as a muscular stimulant even in the absence of any direct sexual association.

Psychological Aspects:

I think the act of licking another person’s armpit or breathing in their odor are a means of striving for intimacy, on a very base level. A person’s musk is very distinctive; very much a product of that individual and how their body processes various consumables. Just as one might consume a dude’s cum in order to feel closer, so might one dive in and lick a man’s arm pits as a means of capturing another individual’s primal essence.

Or it could be a physical reaction having to do with the taste and smell of a man’s underarms, in their natural form: minus cologne, antiperspirant, and the like. Pheromones, commonly believed to trigger a social response in members of the same species, are produced by the skin's apocrine sebaceous glands, secreted via armpits and found in sweat.

My Experience:

As a child I associated sweat with my father working hard and then with my older brother, who was mean to me. Because of my contentious relationship with my older brother, I always had an aversion to sweat, its odor and origins and for a time was a bit prissy about it. I also recall a time when sweat made me uncomfortable and made my skin itch in winter.

As a football manager I embraced it – I had no choice. I had to handle player’s equipment and sometimes that equipment was brilliantly ripe. Still, I did not fetishize the aroma, at that time. That changed once I was free of my family and began working-out on a regular basis (about the same time I came out of the closet). Just as I fell in love with locker rooms and jock straps, so, too, did I come to have something of a fetish for the smell of fresh sweat and its primary origin – a manly underarm.

I can’t recall the first time I licked someone’s pit, or had mine licked. I do know that when armpits are on the menu there is a potent type of animal energy involved. Armpits are commonly listed in on-line profiles as something one is ‘into’. However, I don’t recall a single instance when that was part of the negotiation process when arranging a hook-up. There have been a number of times when I’ve had conversations with people who are into body smells, fresh sweat and armpits, but that type of dialogue, while titillating, has never led to any actual meeting. In short, all talk / no action; yes, Virginia, for some a fetish is exciting only in theory.

After a particularly lustful session that included some armpit love (see #1, below), I stopped using cologne (never really liked the stuff), bathing with harsh soaps (I now use a homemade, all-natural soap with just a hint of an earthy essential oil), and eliminated deodorants and antiperspirants. Now, the only time I use such things is when going on job interviews. Instead, I shower and change my clothes frequently. No, I’m not a stinky hippy. I don’t try to disguise my body odor by covering it up with patchouli and the like. Rather, I practice really good hygiene, very frequently.

I wish more men would. I can’t tell you how many times someone has offered up their armpit to me only to have me discover it caked with some odor-preventative. There was a time when I dove first and checked later – usually too late. Trust me, there’s nothing worse than a mouthful of antiperspirant. That chalky stringent has a taste that lingers long, rendering your taste buds useless, placing a pall over any romp.

Three men come to mind when it comes to armpits.

One is this guy who has the perfect otter’s body – compact, thin, wiry, with just furry enough to qualify. Shorter than me by about four inches, he has dark, wavy hair, a close-cut beard and absolutely no body fat, which makes his dick seem much larger than it is, although it should be noted that he has a really nice dick (8.5 and thick). With a no-holds barred approach to hook-ups, the dude is into just about everything imaginable. I don’t think he’s ever met a kink he didn’t like. The first time I met him, I showed up at what I assumed was his place – only it wasn’t. When I walked in he was wrist deep inside another dude’s hole. That was my first exposure to fisting (a future Acquired Taste topic) – I didn’t participate, I just watched. A true versatile in the sack, he is also into leather, light bondage, poppers, cock rings, natural body smells, 420, group sex and making total pigs out of the willing. I like his attitude; open, blunt, and very masculine. I recall once meeting him in St. Paul, smoking a little and then hitting the sheets which were made of leather (another first). Initially I was so into humping the bed I forgot why I was there. Fucking each other every which way but loose, we ravaged on another’s bodies in a frenzy that lasted almost two hours. We both came four times and it remains one of the most intense sex sessions I have ever had. Thing is, I think it was all-in-a-day for him. I envy his drive. We loved the smell of each other. Diving into his pit was like laying my tongue on a ripe piece of mango. So earthy and rich, I could get lost in it (and on several occasions, did – or was that the 420?).

Another guy that comes to mind is a tall, muscular, bald bartender that I played with. His physique is like something out of a magazine – a very, very naughty one. His huge chest is covered in a reddish kind of fur, which also covers his bubble butt, Adonis legs, wide shoulders and contoured back. He’s total dom and within minutes of having our clothes off, I was calling him ‘Sir’. Actually, my clothes were already off and I was wearing a blindfold when he walked in, but after playing for about 30 minutes, he removed it. It was like an act of blessed kindness and I felt elated as my eyes lit upon that which my tongue and hands had explored so thoroughly. We played for another hour after that. I know he fucked me several times and actually wanted to fist me (I begged off). A hyper-masculine dream machine with a coke can cock, it seemed only fitting that I should lick his pits clean as he flexed his great biceps. I’d like to climb that mountain again one day (I still have his phone number), for I know it would be well worth the journey.

The third gentleman is a short, bald dude, with a distinctive nose, a quick smile, bright, alert eyes and a body covered in delicious black fur. I met him this summer, at a park. We went into the woods, got naked and went wild on each other. It was very primitive. He’s into arm pits, body smells, rimming, and placing his tongue in places that never occur to me (my nose!). We’ve only played twice, so to tell the truth I’m not really sure all of what he’s into, but I’m thinking some of it might be a bit extreme for my taste. But that’s cool – he’s very affable, charming and sweet. Last time I saw him he was wearing these really ratty, faded, yellow briefs with a stretched out pouch and a couple of tiny holes here and there. He apologized for them, but needn’t have – he looked hot as hell in them. I spent the first five minutes of our session worshipping that stretched out pouch.

So, from the three example I’ve given you would think that being a furry little (or big) varmint would be a prerequisite to the enjoyment of armpit love, but it ain’t so. My most recent encounter of the underarm kind, came in the form of a slight, randy little gent with nary a hair on his entire body. The man is smooth as can be, and sexy as all hell. Granted, he has one of those bodies without an ounce of body fat, but at the same time, the word muscular would never be used to describe him. His handsome/cute boyish face is topped with a thick swirl of dark, auburn hair. His energy is relentless and even though he’s only a few years younger than me, I did struggle at times to keep up with him. I only hope I get another chance to ride his train. There was something mischievous about him that I am really into.

That said, I think the only thing that all these men have in common is their incredible energy levels. They are all Super Troopers in the sack and I can think of many types of merit badges these hot tops have more than earned. So maybe that’s the take away on the topic of axillary deep-diving; animal energy is key.

As for axillary intercourse, I can’t recall ever having been treated to or attempting it. If there was ever a time when such a thing might have occurred it would be during the near two hour marathon I enjoyed with bachelor #1 (the hot otter with the leather sheets). He could have very easily slipped his slick willie in my armpit more than once, heaven knows it has explored every other crevice I have on my body

My Conclusion:

Yeah, yeah, I get it…. armpits stink; one man’s sweet cologne is another man’s revulsion. That’s why it qualifies as an Acquired Taste. In this case, I think it’s the animal chemistry that takes place between two men that drives one to partake in this particular fetish. I appreciate the primal, especially in bed. Not everyone makes love this way, or has sex in this manner. Say no more. But that is not to say there is not something tender, intimate and romantic about sampling another man’s earthy essence. To say that I am an armpit enthusiast is to put it mildly. I only wish more men would forgo society’s insistence on the use of antiperspirants, colognes and deodorants and were open to this kind of lusty expression.

Next Week: Tea Rooms

Never Take Your Hole for Granted

On Manhunt the other day, this guy emails me. He likes my profile, and likes what he sees. He is the fourth guy within 15 minutes to write me saying basically the same thing, so I am thinking this has to be a scam, right? Four guys I have never spoken to before write to tell me that I’m hot? Not likely. But I’m a good sport, and curious to see if any of them write back with an offer to join such and such a site at a greatly reduced price or to tune into their webcam. When I return their emails, I pretty much write the same thing: Thanks for the compliment. You’re the hot one, dude! If interested in seeing more of me (I have more pics for trade), email me at: suchandsuch@email.com. I’m not a member so limited emails on this site.

Usually that is the last I hear of them. Guys are afraid to email. They will give you their cell phone number at the drop of a zipper tag, but an email? That is just too personal for them.

Anyway… this guy – we’ll call him Rob (not his real name), he emails me back. And he sends pics! Okay, all I can say is… this guy is a fucking porno wet dream. One of those seriously macho dudes: big, natural muscles (yeah, I can tell a roid case when I see one), nipples like pencil erasers, a nice coating of salt and pepper man fur, a neatly trimmed beard/goatee thing going on, a killer smile, bright, intense eyes and a granite jaw. Basically? He could easily pass as one of those Tom of Finland guys. I’m not kidding. His ass is all muscle and bubbled - totally edible. His legs are well-defined and his calves are legendary. Even his dick looks suspiciously oversized. Also – some of his pics are taken outdoors! He hides nothing. In on photo he’s standing in the middle of a railroad track; one that looks vaguely familiar.

I check back to his Manhunt profile and like everything I read. He’s a top. I’m in.

So I hit him back with my entire arsenal; every halfway decent naked photo I’ve taken this past year. I figure if they don’t scare him away, then maybe something will work out between us. Fortunately, he takes the bait and writes back. He loves outdoors sex, and knows the prairie area well. Everything else he has to say sits well with me. He wants to meet. I suggest a scene: he walks into this empty house I’m currently rehabbing, locks the door behind him and searches through the rooms until he finds me; naked, on all fours with my ass up in the air. He’s game. We set a time. I get there early and set up, figuring this is just going to be your basic suck and fuck. My ass is clean, I’m naked and in position. He actually shows up on time and walks on in, as planned.

I give him a bit of time to take in the view once he walks in the room. He can see me through the doorway of an adjacent room and chooses to strip and leave his clothes in there. I keep my ass toward him the entire time. I love the anticipation factor of set-ups like this. I’m so vulnerable, facing away from a complete stranger, my bare ass sticking up with my hole clearly visible. He walks into the room and gets on his knees behind me. He lightly touches my pre-lubed hole, caresses it, something I like very much. He comments about how nice my hole is. His voice totally matches the pics I’ve seen – hyper-masculine, deep, thick, throaty; the kind of voice that is used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter. He then proceeds to finger my hole, very tentatively at first and then with just a bit more familiarity. His touch is just right and I am really glad I lubed up ahead of time. He asks me if I like that. I take a slight hit of poppers and begin to push back on his finger, letting him know that, yeah, man… I like that.

Finally, he moves around to the front of me and gets on his knees. The view is so worth the wait. His pics do not do him justice and they certainly fail to capture one of his rather exceptional physical attributes. His dick. It’s super, super thick. Like a coke can. He is a Tom Finland icon. From what I can tell, he’s uncut. I look upwards. His chest is killer. Beautiful pecs with chewable nips. His shoulders massive, his arms more so. His face… his eyes. The boy in me melts. Daddy’s home.

We kiss.

This is shaping up to be an exceptional introduction.

Our kisses grow in intensity until they become deep and passionate. He pulls me into him and I feel physically smaller than I thought possible. My hands and arms experience his body. We embrace. We explore. There’s some beautiful friction between us. I love how he cups the cheeks of my ass with both his hands while allowing a finger to caress the pucker of my hole. I move my mouth to his left nipple. I hoover it, suck it, lightly nip at it. He moans. I move the other one and repeat the process. He removes the b-ball cap I’ve been wearing and places it on his head, backwards. For some reason this gesture immediately endears this man to me. I smile and raise one of his arms up. My hand follows up the length of his arm, pausing occasionally to give his muscles a squeeze of awed appreciation. My mouth moves from his pec to his arm pit. Trimmed hair. No deodorant. Fresh, manly. I suck and lick and deep tongue his pit. He likes it. He says, “Fuck, yeah… get my stink all over you.” And I’m like, “Yeah, man… mark me.”

Again we kiss. His hands and attentions return to my ass. “Let me eat that fucker.” And me? All I can say is, “Yes, Sir!”

He moves behind me. I bend forward offering up my hole once more. He spits on my crack and immediately dives in. I hold the cheeks of my ass apart as far as possible for him so he can gain full access. With his tongue, he works the same magic on my ass that he’s worked in my mouth. I want to give my all to him. And when he requested to eat my hole, he wasn’t just paying lip service to the act… this was one very committed ass muncher. I take another slight it of poppers and grind my hole onto his mouth. I feel so open. So fully consumed. If this is all there is to be of this session, I would walk away one satisfied fucker.

“Turn around and lick Daddy’s nuts.”

He leans back, on his knees, his massive thighs spread wide. Still in my crouched position, I move around to face his dick. His nut sack hangs loose and generous. I try approaching it from underneath, kissing it succulently with my lips. I then take one ball in my mouth, and then the other. Still leaning back and now resting on one arm, he reaches round with the other and pushes my face firmly into his crotch. I lick. I suck. I move up to his dick, still in awe of its width. I engulf it, my mouth stretching, my jaw relaxing. It’s a struggle, but because he’s only average in length, I’m able to accommodate him. As I’m blowing him, I reach under his nuts and feel my way back to his exposed hole. I touch it, finger it, enter it just the tiniest bit – like testing the water. I wanna eat it, but have a feeling that might not be on the menu today. So instead, my mouth still stuffed full of dick, I reach up and begin to work his nips with my fingers. I pull on them. Squeeze them. Pinch them firmly, holding on to them. He grunts encouragement and tells me to work those fuckers. Happily, I do.

He leans forward and pushes my shoulders up. He switches to his knees and dives face first onto my dick. I’m nice and hard as he expertly deep throats me on his first lunge. I push his head down, indicating he’s to stay there for awhile. He does. I begin to slowly face fuck him. Small movements at first, building, building, until I’m in power fuck mode.

Suddenly, he pushes down hard on my thighs, disengaging his mouth from my dick and pulling my lower legs out from under me until I am lying flat on my back. He lies on top of me and grinds his dick into mine. I love it. “Oh, yeah, nut fuck me, bud. Yeah. Just like we’re in high school.” He loves it and responds in kind, melting his powerful body all over mine. We kiss the entire time. Then his mouth leaves mine and travels down my body. Soon he’s taking my dick in his practiced mouth again. I reposition myself on to my knees, so he is forced up on all fours.

I take in the view. His broad shoulders and chest, his well defined lats , tapering down to a smaller waist and then blooming into those two mounds of mouthwatering temptation. While he’s busy downing my tool, I reach over his back and grab his ass cheeks. They feel incredible. I give them a smack and then move my right hand to the crack of his ass while spreading his cheek with my left. I pause to put my index finger into my mouth and wet it before touching his hole. I tell him I want to eat his ass. He doesn’t reply and instead just keeps sucking, so I assume I am barking up the wrong tree.

I feel close to coming, so I push his mouth off my dick. Without missing a beat he stands up and feeds me his dick again. I can’t get over its thickness and I’m beginning to wonder how the hell he plans to get that fucker up my ass. I take my mouth off his dick, and as he is standing over me, I take my freshly buzzed head and rub it under his ball sack. He moans with pleasure and proceeds to hump my head for a bit, before slipping down, lifting my chin and forcing his dick back into my eager mouth.

“Let me see that ass of yours, boy.” He says this without any trace of irony. I have a feeling we are not that far apart in the age department, but his tone is very convincing and I am only too willing to go with the flow of our role play. I turn around and get on all fours, searching for my poppers. “Daddy wants to open you up some before he fucks you,” he says, fingering my hole. Not sure what’s coming next, I locate the poppers and then turnover so that I’m lying on my back, my knees up, my legs wide and my naked hole exposed.

He starts with one finger, just as he did at the start of our session. He explains to me that he needs to give me a lot more in order to open up my hole. I start snorting the poppers like my life depends on it. I tell him I’ve never been fisted and am not sure I want to be. He tells me to just lie back and relax. So I start to reason with him. I tell him I trust him, and take another couple of deep whiffs off the bottle of poppers. I lie back and he cozies up to the opening of my spread thighs. He’s working some kind of magic with his hand, pausing to add more lube from time to time. I keep telling him how much I trust him and he talks to me reassuringly. I’m in good hands. I start to feel my self open up. It feels warm and expansive and I push my ass forward just the slightest bit in order to meet the thrust of his fingers. Occasionally I reach up and take hold of his nipples and pull on them. Each time I do this he increases the pressure and intensity with which he’s finger fucking me. I know he has at least three fingers up my hole by now. His look is one of great concentration and care.

I take another hit of poppers and finally say to him, “I surrender”.

I surrender. Four fingers. Up to the knuckles. Fuck.

I’m thinking he’s gonna go for it… he’s gonna fist me.

But then, just as I’m beginning to try to wrap my head around the idea of actually being fisted, he rolls me up onto my upper back and shoulders.

“Daddy needs to fuck you now, boy. Daddy’s gonna plow you deep.”

And he’s as good as his word. I don’t even wince when he enters me. He allows me to catch my balance and my breath… to get used to him. And plow he does, hard, and deep. We’re in sync. I work his nipples, he works my hole. We kiss. His mouth explodes with a rush of air. He pulls back. He pulls me into him. I’m jerking my dick as he begins a low groan, which builds into a series of staccato gasps.

Daddy’s home.

He explodes. I follow suit. My legs are wrapped around his waist. He feels so close. He plays with my hole gently. Saying good-bye to it. He moves to the side of me and lies next to me. We curl into one another. I feel so small. So protected. Safe. Spent. Delicious.

We talk. About the fuck. About chemistry and hook-ups in general. About expectations. About exceeded expectations. Neither one of us is in a rush to get going, or to get away from the other or the scene of the crime. I compliment him on his body, his looks. He’s sweet. And smart, well-spoken, very social. I explain how I’ve never done that with anyone before… never allowed anyone to be that intrusive. I don’t think I could… with anyone else. We linger, enjoying each other’s warmth. My hands and fingers trace and follow the various curves of his magnificent physique. Our legs intertwined. Our breath close.

No longer Daddy and boy… just two men enjoying the afterglow. And what a glow it is…

Later. He gathers his clothes. He gets dressed. I clean up. One last kiss… he’s taller than me… and… he’s gone.

My hole. Feeling the heat. A sweet burn.

It’s not until the next day that I start taking note of the damage. It looks… bruised. The surrounding area, too. I look like those guys on Xtube, you know the ones: the ones that have had way too many very, very large objects up their holes way too often. Okay, so mine is not that bad. But it is dark. And the bruises get darker in the next few days. I hope that it’s not something permanent.

I don’t want to look ‘used’. I want to be used. I want my hole to look usable.

I keep my eye on the bruising for the next few days.

The entire week I try to sort out how I feel about fisting. I’m not mad, at myself or him. But I’m glad he stopped when he did. And I decide that fisting is not for me. I don’t need anything that big up inside of me. I don’t like the look of a bruised asshole. I don’t want to look ‘used’.

I give my hole a full week’s rest. I keep checking it in the mirror at the gym when no one else is around. It still looks different to me. Will it always look different to me? Is it something permanent, like a tattoo? Will others notice it when they look at it? Or is it all in my head? Will it go back to the way it was? Before…?

Another half a week goes by. Finally, I decide it is time to get back into the saddle. I’m online and I am talking to two different guys. I am pretty sure that something is going to pop soon, so I go clean out my hole. After I flush it out, I lube up my pucker and stick my index finger up there to see if everything is okay.

OMG… I’d forgotten. The interior… it feels silky smooth. Delicious. Tight. My finger, the perfect fit. The tissue that surrounds my digit feels healthy, strong, slick, and oh-so fuckable.

I’m relieved. And titillated. I feel a rush of excitement. My hole… wants… more.

But I resist.

I go and shut off my computer. I take a shower, resisting the urge to explore more, and then I head to bed, picking up a paperback I’d been slowly working my way through over the past week and a half. It is fall and the weather is just a bit more chilly than usual. Beneath the covers, with the pillows plumped up so my back is supported enabling me to read, I feel snug and secure.

Not unlike being in the arms of a certain man, whose real name is not Rob.

I sigh. And find my place in the open book. You know…

Some things you just don’t want to rush.

The Guy Who Hates Me (And Why I Stopped Breathing)

Okay, so I told you about the guy I hate. Now I figure it is only fair that I tell you the story of the guy who hates me.

We’ll call him Robin.

One day, in the late, late 90’s, I was cruising a park, walking along a trail, when I passed this really, really cute guy. I kept walking. I figured he was way out of my league, so why bother. Rejection, I don’t need.

He was shorter than me (I’m 6’1”, he was about 5’ 7”), younger than me (by at least six years), and looked to be in good condition (hwp). He was dressed kind of preppy: in a polo shirt and a pair of army green cargo shorts. My eyes were immediately drawn to his calves, which were quite nice. He had a nice healthy tan. His hair was cut nicely (sort of a modified bowl cut) and he had a full head of auburn hair streaked with highlights. He had a long face which angled into a nice, strong chin, a nose that was straight and perfectly suited to his face, and generous lips (especially the bottom one). His best feature: a set of brown eyes that were large and luminous; they seem to hold a great sadness and indicate a bit of mischievousness at the same time.

But I kept walking. And walking. Until I had to turn back and walk the way I came. That’s when I ran into him for a second time and he said “hi”. Kind of bashful. Very cute. He also indicated that I should follow him. He took me off the main path into a grouping of trees surrounded by brush. We played with each other’s crotches. We slowly leaned into one another’s lips. Really slowly. And we kissed. It was… perfect. He then unsheathed his dick and indicated with a sly smile and a nod of the head that he wanted me to blow him. I obliged, still not believing my luck. His dick was perfect; somewhere between 8.5 and 9” and nicely thick. He smelled wonderful, too. It was like one of those guys in a cologne ad coming to life, bumping into you in the woods and telling you to suck their dick. Perhaps shorter in stature than you expected, but just as cute and dreamy.

He liked my technique. I liked his dick. He came, I came and then we just kept kissing, until I couldn’t hold my glee anymore and went off laughing. It was such a nice encounter.

So imagine my surprise when I got an email via my work account from a fellow employee telling me it was nice to finally meet me and that he had a good time. I was floored. I asked him if he had time to meet me for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. He did.

We became fast friends. And cruising buddies. And fuck buddies.

At the time I wasn’t much of a bottom and in the four years we hung out with one another we never went there. We tried three-ways (not his thing – because I think he disapproved of the others involved). He would mostly watch. Sex consisted mostly of me giving him head, getting naked and lots of making out. And talking. We liked a lot of the same things. He was devoted to his dog; a cute little white Scotty. We liked the same shows (Sex in the City, The Simpsons, etc.), movies and music. He turned me on to Kylie, I turned him onto the Killers. We met for lunch. We went shopping. We cruised the skyways of downtown Minneapolis. It was fun.

We shared lots of secrets.

Robin was a former fatty. You would never have known it. He did it all by dieting and walking. He was regimented about his eating habits. I think that is where the sadness in his eyes came from, for he seemed to carry around a chip on his shoulders – not an angry chip, just a sad one - like he expected to be disappointed or hurt or to become a fat kid again.

I think Robin was also kind of a snob. The company we worked for at the time attracted snobs; fashion snobs, cultural and educational snobs, status snobs. I’m not a snob, so that is part of the reason I never fit in well and only stayed there for six years. But Robin… he was a snob. He liked designer labels. He liked possessions. He liked status. The brand of car he drove was an reflection of who he was. So were the shoes and where he bought them and how much he (or most likely his partner) paid for them.

He complained about his partner a lot. I complained about my bf, too. But there was something mean and pointed about the way Robin tore into his partner’s shortcomings. I frequently got the sense that his situation was a temporary one and that his current partner was just a stepping stone to something better.

Then we started visiting each other’s houses. That’s when things got complicated.

We got caught in the shower together by my bf, who was pissed as hell, but came to accept Robin as my buddy rather quickly (and surprisingly). Then Robin insisted that we (my bf and I) meet his partner – whom we’ll call Ted. The four of us were never sexual together – because Ted didn’t know anything about my relationship with Robin and my bf was just not a very sexual being. Also, at the time that kind of thing just would not have occurred to Ted. From Ted’s POV, I was just a work colleague of Robin’s.

Ted was in finance and from a wealthy family. Robin would get a large amount of cash each year from Ted’s parent’s at Christmas time; money which he would tuck away in a savings account. They shared a huge home. They drove expensive automobiles. Robin got to do pretty much what he wanted with his money, as I suspected Ted paid all the bills. Ted was funny, articulate, well-educated, opinionated and very real. Very well grounded. He had a sweet side to him. He was also a bit stiff, which I think had to do with his waspy origins.

Physically, Ted was my age, taller than me (probably 6’5), bald, with a big goofy smile, big ears, and large hands. I was in lust the moment he shook my hand. His fingers were so thick. He was in great shape, too. I wanted to see him naked so badly. But, while I flirted a bit, I never made a move on him. I also had to constantly fight the desire to pluck the hairs that grew in his ears.

The four of us, or the three of us (Robin, Ted and I) would do things together; go out to eat, go to the orchestra, rollerblading, etc.

Thing continued like this for about two years. Then Ted and Robin broke up. Robin had saved up enough money for a down payment on a condo downtown and announced that it was over. End of story. It was weird. My bf and I continued to see the two of them socially – separately. I kept getting the sense that I was supposed to choose one or the other – that was my first mistake. Ted and I began hanging out together alone, mostly having dinner after work. He was sweet and a bit lost without Robin. I really liked him.

I rationalized the situation; I thought Robin would do fine without me. He was younger than Ted, my bf and I. He was good-looking. I thought Ted needed my friendship more.

Somehow, Robin picked up on my loyalty to Ted. He resented it – I guess - because we never really talked about it. He stopped talking to me. I failed to notice at first, but then one day, after not having spoken for three weeks I saw him in the cafeteria at work. I was with a group of co-workers who knew that Robin and I were friends. I walked over to him and started to talk to his back, as he faced a display case of sandwiches. He never turned around. I said hello – several times. He never answered back. I ended up feeling just ridiculous. He ignored me; acted as if I did not exist. My co-workers asked me what was up, but I just smiled and shrugged it off.

I guess I had it coming.

I emailed him later. He never wrote back.

Later that week, my bf called me at work. Robin and Ted (who were still battling over custody of the dog) had a fight, during which Robin spilled the beans and told Ted everything about everything. Ouch.

I ran into Ted a few weeks later, hiking. He ignored me. I guess that is what people in polite society do in these situations. They pretend the person, whom previously was a friend, but has now been revealed to be a tramp and a liar, simply no longer exists.

I’ve run into Robin, too. Many, many times. To this day we still cruise the same parks. Once he sees me he always walks in the opposite direction. Once I parked my car next to him, got out and tried to talk to him through the closed window of his vehicle (I know, how desperate, huh?). He just sat staring straight ahead. I told him I was not sure what I had done wrong, but that I apologized and that I never meant to hurt anyone. I would repeat the same speech the next time I ran into Ted in public. His reaction was cryptic, dismissive and brief. And then he walked away.

Several years later, I was chatting on line with a former fuck buddy, when he told me about the new man in his life - his new partner, Ted. The fuck buddy, whom we’ll call fuck buddy, knew the whole sordid story about Ted, Robin, my bf and myself. He told me he was working on Ted. He thought Ted needed to get over it. I was grateful for the fuck buddy’s efforts, but told him I wasn’t holding my breath.

A side note: The fuck buddy was a big bottom, and a very, very gay one. He was a screamer. And if anybody was going to get Ted to loosen up, it was this guy – because he was as big a whore, if not bigger, than I was. He also had a huge dick (11’ and thick). All I could think of was him taking it up the ass with Ted. I’d like to see that. Hell, I’d like to be part of that.

Well, Ted did eventually loosen up - enough to talk to me several times over the years at gay pride, where I could be found working a booth (retail, not glory hole). He and the fuck buddy are still together (that I know of) and when last I spoke to them, Ted was experimenting sexually and the two of them were hosting the occasional third party. Lucky fucks.

Robin on the other hand, continues to give me the cold shoulder and walk the other way when he sees me. I always make a point of saying hello when we actually pass one another on the trail – sometimes almost out of spite. I don’t see any reason why we should pretend we didn’t know each other once upon a time. I have my hopes up just the teeniest of bits because this year, when we passed and I said hello, he actually said hello back. Not that he met my eyes or stopped. But facile civility is better than nothing. And I know better – Robin is proud and stubborn – we will never be friends again. I just don’t want to be THAT GUY for him. I don’t want him to hate me. But I don’t control things either.

I would just like closure, if nothing else. I’d like to know what I did that was so wrong..

Robin fell off the diet wagon a bit. He is looking a little chunky. I’m not sure where he is working or living.

I miss him - which is why I keep saying ‘hello’ when I see him.

I have a habit of forming intense, fun friendships that for some reason or another end up with the other party not talking to me anymore. So it is about me. It’s also about them.

I don’t have any such friends at the moment. Haven’t for some time. I think that part of my life is over. It’s not that I wouldn’t risk it, if I found someone I thought would be my friend. But at this point I’m just not holding my breath.

In some ways, I know I’ll never breathe again.

Summer Hummers

Summer is here, at last. I’m so excited. Warmer weather means more time outdoors wearing less clothing. Warmer weather means hikes in the woods with the possibility of a little something-something taking place in the bushes. The warmer the weather, the more things are sprouting, budding and leafing out. This translates to a more relaxed attitude by cruisers in general – meaning – you’re more likely to see skittish guys showing dick.

I was thinking this was going to be the summer of me taking a lot of dick up the ass, but the fates have put that whole plan on hold, for the time being. I’m just not feeling it, either. So I will have to make up for it by spending some time on my knees. Something I find just as enjoyable, except…

I’ve rather had a change of heart about the whole mercy fuck thing. I used to be certain that you had to pleasure those you didn’t find all that attractive in order to occasionally snack on someone that was out of your league. I believe it is the plethora of less than attractive guys offering up their noodle these days that has me looking at my options and frequently just opting out.

Maybe less is more. Not true, not true, says the whore in me. But what about choosing quality over quantity? The problem? Frequency. It’s just not very often that I stumble upon someone who blows my circuits who also happens to be into me. How do I know this? Well, since April 16th, 2009, I have been keeping a sex diary.

Here are my stats from 3/16/08 to 5/16/09:

45 Events
39 Guys

New Comers: 30
Repeat Business: 9

Activities:
JO only: 2
Fondle only: 4
Kissing: 4
Oral only: 20
Oral and Anal: 10
Me as Top: 3
Me as Sucked: 2
Mercy Fucks (oral only): 8

Anon/Blindfolded Walk-In Scene: 6
Outdoors: 32

Quality:
Exceptional: 3
Okay: 28
Bad: 8

I could break it down more for you, but I’m not in the mood. Out of those 45 events I only performed badly once (came too soon and the guy was a real jerk about it). The anal count would have been considerably higher, but in the first week of April I had an anal endoscopy and they took some biopsies. Boy, that really slowed me down. I was shut down completely for two weeks and then performed only oral after that. I even began to top on occasion or be the suckee. I’m not sure when I’ll return to full capacity. Possibly never. I was doing this really incredible scene at this house I’m currently rehabbing. Place a personals ad on occasion. I get a good number of responses. Of those, only a small percentage of those are suitable. Only a smaller percentage of those ‘get it’ – as in they dig the whole idea. The scene goes like this:

We agree on a time. You come to this house I’m rehabbing. The house is empty, no furniture. The front door will be unlocked. You enter and choose the door I am behind. There will be a blanket on the floor. I will be on it, on all fours with my ass up in the air. My ass is lubed and clean. There will be lube, condoms and wet wipes. The room is darkened via shades. I would have a blindfold on. You would remain anonymous (your call – you may also remove it at anytime during the course of play). You walk over to my raised ass and touch my hole gently. I take a hit of poppers (happy to share). You then move around to the front of me and guide your dick into my mouth. I take you deep, until you’re rock hard. You make me lick your balls, your armpits, suck on your nips... it’s all your call, your pleasure. Open to kissing as well. When you’re ready, you return to my ass. I take another hit of poppers and, after entering slowly and then building up momentum, you plow my ass big time -slamming into me until your juices burst. Use condoms. Makes for easy clean up. When you’re done, you wipe your dick on the towel provided, use a wet wipe, get up and leave.

I would love to go back ‘to work’, but I’m a bit gun shy. The first time I tried to get back into the saddle a portion of my hole puffed up like a car air bag. Not pretty. Or comfortable. So there it is. The ugly truth.

Needless to say, I have just not been that into sex recently. I worry. About my hole. About STD’s. I have come to the conclusion that poppers are only good you’re bottoming or giving oral where reciprocation is not on the table. Poppers make you come to quick. I’ve finally woken up to this fact.

So, basically… I’m depressed. I want to get big time fucked. But I’m afraid. I don’t want a puffed up hole. I don’t think any top would either.

So are my days as a whore numbered?

Well, of course they are… but am I all washed up – as of now?

Tune in tomorrow.

I Never Do Anyone Twice

Once, yes, once would be nice
Twice though loses the spice
That’s why, take my advice
And never do anyone twice…

This is my paraphrased version of Stephen Sondhiem’s ‘I Never Do Anything Twice’. It is a cute little ditty about the dangers of revisiting an experience that once yielded pleasure, advising the listener that a return to the well will only yield diminished returns and risk tainting one’s memory of the first time.

Something experienced for the first time is infused with the nuances of anticipation, a lack of knowing, and a modicum of basic fear, that a second time around the merry-go-round can’t hope to duplicate. You can’t repeat a first time experience. You can repeat the experience, but it will end up being a different experience. Keep in mind that your memory banks stored the information garnered during that first time and that the knowledge gained will end up coloring and informing your second visit. It won’t be the same as your first time, because it isn’t your first time.

Some things are best left in the past. Some things don’t bear repeating. Usually this is because you didn’t enjoy it the first time. But what about those times you did enjoy? What about those times when it was absolutely magical?

There is no such thing as magic. Something can seem magical. But there is no magic. It comes down to circumstance, conditions, luck and skill.

This is very true of sex. Yes, the basic mechanics are always the same, but never underestimate the power of individual chemistry, good lighting, a coincidentally timed song or the power of a skilled lover. A combination of all four striking at the same moment will leave you breathless with bombs bursting in air. That mesh of energies and happenstance is potent. Once experienced, it is what makes the idea of sex as intoxicating as the act itself.

But just because lightening strikes once, I don’t think it is fair to assume that – even if circumstances and conditions remain exactly the same – that it will strike twice. So I have a general rule:

I never do anyone twice.

Yes, there are exceptions to the rule. A meeting of the minds and bodies or the possibility of some unexplored future pleasure will bring me back to the table. But in general, I avoid creating the familiar. It’s not that familiarity breeds contempt… it just bores me. I live for the spark of the new, the undiscovered, the unknown. A little fear is good for the libido.

So, I’ve avoided repeat business. Sometimes it’s because I wasn’t that thrilled the first time around and sometimes it’s because whatever happened was exceptional and I would hate to taint its memory. So I let it go. I let it live in my memory.

What? You think I have intimacy issues? Not so. I am more open with people than I perhaps should be. I love kissing. Physical intimacy is not an issue. Even emotional intimacy, with a strict understanding of its scope and shelf life, is a real turn on. Emotional intimacy makes for the best role play. But you can only have that if shared by two, self-aware adults. Immaturity and inexperience can render such play devastating.

Also: I have established intimate relationships. I have only so much room, time and energy for them. If I’m guilty of anything it’s knowing my limitations and compartmentalizing my life.

The latter is probably the reason that my life is not a complete success. I can’t multi-task. I also can’t synthesize. Synergy escapes me. I like everything separate. I love a good goulash, but my life cannot operate in such chaos. I tend to, through a process of elimination, eventually find a process that works for me; one that brings about the desired results with enough frequency and potency to make the execution of said process worth my while. So, while I must admit I am a little exacting and didactic about the pursuit of sex for pleasure’s sake, I also must confess that there is something much more organic to the whole procedure – something that escapes me and is probably frequently mistaken for magic. Sort of like making a good a hotdish; good, individual ingredients are mixed together and stew/bake side by side creating entirely new and original flavors. You can’t force it to happen, it just does. Or it doesn’t. But through process of trial and error you eventually find something that works on a consistent enough basis to be worthy of pursuit.

Well, via trial and error, I have learned that not having sex with someone more than once works well for me and my life. It’s also a great way to let someone down when they come knocking on your door wanting a repeat performance.

Are there exceptions? Yes. I currently have three guys I have happily visited multiple times and the relationships have been ongoing for more than two years each. They’re rewarding relationships. They aren’t relationships in the usual sense. We have sex. That is the extent of relationship. We get together, we have sex, we go home. Pleasantries are exchanged. We are witty, we flirt, we divulge, we orgasm, we go home. There are no strings. There are no expectations. It is what it is while it is and then… we go home.

Is it good sex? Usually. Or some kink that needs to be scratched on the parts of both parties (so-to-speak). There is some emotional connection. It is not forced. It is not out of desperation or need or lack of alternatives. It just happens. And while the mechanics and composition of each of these relationships could be dissected and discerned, I don’t see the value in doing so. To do so would breach the rules of common sense.

Sometimes I take the Wizard’s advice: I choose to ignore what’s going on behind the curtain.

Is it healthy? For me, yes. I make it work for me. It doesn’t work or make much sense to others. It’s easy to say I lack emotional depth or that I have intimacy issues or that I’m a sex addict. But I actually can counter and offer evidence to the contrary – at least in the first two issues raised.

I simply crave new experiences. There are parts of my life that tie me down. I can't move. I don't have a lot of freedom. I have a limited means to seek out those new experiences – so I grow where I’ve been planted. And until those activities have a negative impact on my life or cease to be pleasurable, I am more than happy to...

...never do anyone twice.

Would You / Could You?: For entertainment purposes only.

I play a game all the time… it’s called ‘Would You / Could You’

I think it’s a variation on a game Charlotte and Carrie played once while seated at a sidewalk café on an episode of SITC. But my version is more… desperate. I can’t think of another word for it.

The rules are simple: you look at a man walking past you and ask yourself Would You / Could You?

The ‘Would You’ implies choice. I would choose to have sex with this man. These men are the no-brainers; the automatic ‘yeses’. Those cases where there is something about them, even at a glance that trips your trigger.

The ‘Could You’ has something to do with submission – if you had to. This is a grey area, because you can define and redefine under what circumstances you would allow yourself to have sex with the approaching man.

Some days my ‘Could You’ is defined as ‘under threat of death’ and some days it is defined as ‘if it was after closing at a bar, you were really horny and he was the best of what was available at the sidewalk sale’, or defined as ‘if you felt sorry enough for him and/or yourself’.

Now I am not a surface queen. I am not about traditional beauty, body perfection, symmetry, cheekbones-to-die-for or any of that typical, designer clothing / hair product bullshit. I like my men with flaws; preferably the visible type and not emotional ones. Although, I must say that emotional flaws can be pretty endearing, too – but only when they are not psychopathic or violent in nature.

So I do not judge based solely on physical appearance or manner of dress. You see, I’m kind of an ‘empath’. An ‘empath’ intuitively picks up on another person’s emotional state / state of mind. I guess you could call it ‘having a sense of someone’. I do this pretty easily; in the blink of an eye. It is that ‘sense’ of a man that determines my attraction. And you would be really surprised by some of the men that I find attractive.

Yes, I kind of pride myself on my ability to look beyond the stereotypical constraints of beauty as defined by modern society. Who wouldn’t be proud of that? Many people have this ability. I feel sorry for those who don’t – especially when it comes to this game, because they just don’t have any fun with it. I had a friend who was really hung up on what I consider the stereotypical constraints of beauty – and when we would play this game he would just get frustrated and not find any joy in it. I guess he took it too literally. I also guess it’s one of the reasons he’s no longer my friend.

Now there are limits: I don’t generally find people with poor hygiene attractive. For me, the ability to keep ones self clean, presentable and in working order is pretty much a must-be-able-to-do. For me, part of maintaining ones hygiene is maintaining ones weight. I like stocky men, but lots of flab is probably not gonna get you on either of my lists. There have been exceptions to the flab rule, but less than two handfuls (maybe three… handfuls).

My biggest turn off? Snobbery. Fashion queens, I am talking to you. You girls get nothing from me, no matter how well put together you are. I don’t care where you bought your trendy-ass clothes or who streaked your way-too-high-maintenance do - your sense of what is important in this lifetime makes me cringe. So, I guess that’s why I have never been able to watch a single episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy – because those queens just make me break out in emotional hives.

Back to my games: one of my favorite places to play this game and its other variation (see below) is a coffee shop in a mall with tables outside its storefront. There was a Caribou Coffee in Gaviidae Commons (I think it is still there) that was a favorite of mine. I’d sit out there for hours, pretending to work, all the while scoping out the cuties heading up the escalator to the mens room on the third floor (the topic for yet another post) (and, alas, something that is still there, but no longer as interesting as it once was).

The nice thing about these games is that you can play them anywhere, with someone else or by yourself. There just has to be people traffic in the area – not so much that you can’t keep track, but not so little that more than a few moment pass between options. You don’t have to be sitting down to play, nor do you have to play for a given length. No one keeps score and everybody wins.

The variation on this game requires that you are seated and that there are people milling around you. Malls are perfect for this game. For the variation on this game, you keep track of the next three men that walk through a given doorway or cross a certain path. You then must choose one of the three to sleep with. You may pass, if all three are absolute can’t do’s, but it’s more fun if you stretch your whore-rizons a little and make exceptions to your usual rules. You only get three passes. After that, for the remainder of the game, you must choose someone out of any given three. This is a great game to play with someone else, preferably someone with lose morals and a sense of humor.

I enjoy playing this game because it helps me to keep an open mind. I’m constantly reconsidering what it is I find attractive about others. This has only helped me in situations where actual hook-ups have been a real possibility, because my definition of what is attractive has been consistently broadened. I am open to new ideas and sensations. In short, I get laid.

Practicing this game will result in a loosening of any rules you have about attractiveness. If you play it long enough and with a sense of humor, you will come to realize that, where attraction is concerned, there are no hard and firm rules – just hard and firm penises. And once you dispense with the nonsense of rules… well, then the world is your oyster, my little pearl. It becomes a sensual buffet, a smorgasbord of sexual possibilities.

I noted earlier that there are no losers in this game – that everybody wins. That brings up the question: Are these games degrading to other people? Answer: depends on your perspective. Since I am one of those who probably ends up on a lot of people’s ‘absolute no’ list or possibly their ‘Could You’ (under threat of death) list, I would have to say no, it is not degrading. It is entertaining. This is for entertainment purposes only - do not try at home.

Attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder. It is a whimsical, off the cuff kind of choice where no one gets hurt. The people walking by have no idea you’re passing judgment on them as potential sexual partners, so what’s the harm? Keep in mind, that most of those you would choose, wouldn’t have anything to do with you given the option – so it is only in your tiny little mind that any such sexual liaison has the potential to exist.

Does it hurt you to view people only in terms of sexual attractiveness or as potential sex partners? Probably. Where else do sex addicts come from? But then, if ones addiction is not having an overriding negative impact on ones overall life – then what’s the harm? It’s a choice. Do I think I could stop anytime I want to? Well, to be honest, no. But then, I don’t want to stop. I think life without sex and all its accoutrements would be… not a hell of a lot of fun. Will there come a day and age when the entire sexual ball of wax becomes nothing more than one giant frustration? I suspect, yes. But I’ll deal with it then.

At that time, maybe I’ll take up needlepoint or get serious about playing classical music on the piano.

But until then… let the games begin!