Mr. Smokescreen: Somewhere, Out There...

Lucked out last Friday.  I happen to be cruising Grndr, when my one and only favorite – as in, the one dude on that site whose little yellow star I lit up and designated a favorite – was on-line and looking.  He’s an incredible find: black, 6’3”, in perfect shape,  around my age, worked-out, handsome, and possessing a nice thick 9” plus dick!  He’s the kind of dom top I like – very direct, very meat and potatoes.  He never wastes a word, and knows how to throw one hell of a fuck.  When we get together it is pretty intense.  He doesn’t kiss (much), but my mouth is usually busy either deepthroating his massive rod, or gasping for air in between butt attacks.

We met last year, on Martin Luther King Day, and have played two or three times since.  The last time I went to his suburban condo, as invited, I knocked on the door and his ‘roommate’ answered, looking as shocked as I was.  Mr. Smokescreen swept down the stairs and ushered me quickly outside.  He’d texted me in between the time that I had left my place and had arrived at his doorstep.  He had to cancel.  I apologized, though I really didn’t know what to make of the situation.  I did feel like I’d stepped in something not kosher.

 

Fast forward a few months and here he is, hitting on me again.  He texts me that he needs to fuck my ass today.  I had been looking, so I was all on board.  I had a couple of meetings to finish up and then I would be free for some hot lunch at his place.  At the last minute he clues me in.  He’s now living in a completely different part of the city.  I don’t need to ask why: two and two (or in this case two and one) always equals the same thing. Obviously Mr. Smokescreen has split up with his ‘roommate’.

   

I arrive, cleaned out and pre-lubed.  I mention the lube, because just before I arrive I text him and inform him that he will need to use plenty of it on my ass; dude is big and I like to minimize the damage. He says no prob.   Ushered inside, Mr. Smokescreen is covert as usual.  The house is okay, a definite step down from his last digs, but nice all the same.  After a quick grope, we head up the steps to his room.  All he has is a dresser, his record collection, a desk, and some kind of futon mattress on the floor, but it looks inviting all the same.

 

I strip off my shirt.  I have a cock ring and some poppers with me, that is all.  Turning around I see he’s taken his shirt off as well, already has a cock ring in place, and has his dick out.  Say no more.  After a brief embrace and a kiss to his neck, I drop and take that semi-hard fucker all the down to the base.  He moans.  I like that about him.  Not much on talk, but definitely knows how to communicate his pleasure levels.

 

Tugging on his balls, I feel sexy and powerful.  I hadn’t had sex since the 23^rd of December, so I was ripe for this particular encounter.  He, on the other hand, isn’t ripe at all; no funk.  Smells like he had just showered.  I am a little disappointed, but then I have a nine inch dick down my throat, so what the fuck do I have to complain about, am I right?  I suck on him for about five minutes, my hands wandering up his chest to play with his nips.  He’s thinner than I remember.  Just as handsome as always.  Worked-out.  Sexy as fuck.

He leans over me and touches my hole.  Now it’s my turn to moan.  This has become one of my favorite moments – when I have a top’s dick stuffed down my throat and he then reaches over to play with my hole.  It never ceases to send a jolt of sexual electricity throughout my body.  Mr. Smokescreen pushes me off his dick and towards the nearby mattress.  I grab the poppers.  I know I’m going to need them.

First, he lies down spread eagle on the bed.  I kneel between his legs and swoop in, my mouth greedy for more dick.  “Fuck yeah, suck that dick.  You like that dick, huh.”  I’d answer, but the answer should be obvious.  He sits up and plays with my ears, using them as handles whenever he wants a little bobbing action.  There’s something about Mr. Smokescreen’s energy I like.  He’s intensely masculine, distant, reserved.  Another five minutes or so go by and he announces, “Okay, now I need to fuck that ass.”  Cool by me.

I move to the head of the bed and turn around.  He kneels at the foot of the mattress and I am quick to get my mouth back on that dick.  He’s not only long, but thick as well.  Sometimes I can have a bit of difficulty creating enough fluidity with my throat, but for some reason, his dick goes down nice and easy, just as it should.  Continuing to suck, I lose myself in the moment.  I don’t need poppers for this; this is what I was born to do.  I change up my technique just enough to keep things interesting, though he lets me know – no two bits about it – that he prefers his dick lodged as deeply in my throat as possible.  Not having any problem breathing through my nose, that’s not a problem for me, at all.  I flex my throat, swallowing and massaging his massive member with the muscles of my throat.

While I’m doing this, he’s grabbing lube and working some into my hole.  Then he pulls out a Magnum Gold and rips the condom from its foil packet.  He’s hungry.  He wants hole.

I hit the poppers.  Hard.  He’s behind me now, rolling on that Magnum.  More lube.  He tests the ring of my ass with the tip of his cock.  It feels good.  I’m… Imma gonna let him in.  He slides in and I take it all the way to the root, then he just holds it there.  He reaches for the poppers, takes them from my hand, and as he is taking his first hit starts working that monster dick in and out of my hole.  I’m moaning like a total whore.  This guy is good.  And it has been awhile since I have had a fuck of this quality, so I am a grateful whore.   Fucking back on his dick, I start to take over a bit.  Soon we’re in sync, meeting thrust for thrust.

I rear up and take his cock from a higher angle.  More poppers.  There is something about his height that compliments my own in this position.  I remember this always working - like a beautiful photograph - in the past.  It still works.  I know better than to turn my head and try to kiss him.  He hasn’t kissed me since the first time we were together.  I accept that and remain his grateful whore.

More poppers.  Now I’m bent forward, burying my face in the mattress, biting the cloth of his comforter.  He’s pounding my ass.  Hard.  Harder.  Fucking animal.  Nothing mean about it.  He’s not mean.  He’s moaning.  He’s loving it.  So am I.   Soon, the animal in me takes over.  I fuck back again, this time, just as intense as he was giving it.  I’m a jack hammer in reverse, a fucking energizer bunny.  It’s weird, because this has become part of a pattern for us.  I always end up getting him off by becoming a dom bottom, using my special power on his magnificent dick.  It doesn’t work this way with anybody else that I remember.  I wish we could film it.

Again, I rear up.  His chest is on my back.  This is perfection.  I’m still in control.  I’m still bouncing.  He warns me.  “You’re gonna make me cum.”  Those are the magic words.  My ass goes double time.  It’s a smaller movement, but rapid and tight all the same.  I squeeze my hole for all I’m worth.  I want it.  I want to make this man cum.

He does.

We’re both crying out.  I time it so I shoot, too.  I’ve been hard for the entire session, a rarity for me, but a testament to just how long it’s been since I had a quality fuck.  Then the come down…  we’re gasping for breath.  And gasping.  And clinging to each other.  I love how our bodies fit.  His chest is still at my back.  I love the curve of the mall of my back and how the rounds of my ass sit in his lap.   It feels so natural.  And beautiful.  We stay in this position, like a heaving, panting erotic statue.

It seems to take forever for us to catch our breath and move apart.  He lays back on the bed and I toy with the idea of cleaning up his still raging dick.  I go for it and take him in my mouth, playing with him until he begins to go soft.  He’s happy.  Me, too.  He apologizes for cumming so soon.  He always does… apologize and, believe me, the dude has NOTHING to apologize for. 

As I dress, my eyes fall upon some promotional postcards.  I never knew what Mr. Smokescreen did for a living, but suddenly it dawns on me.  There’s a reason he doesn’t have a day job.  He’s a performer.  Probably a vocalist with the local, internationally known singing group advertised on those postcards.  That would explain all his record albums and the odd taste he has in music.  We part with a brief hug.  I explain that I am free during the day a lot more right now, due to a change in my work situation.  Hoping Mr. Smokescreen takes the hint, I leave it at that.  He’s reserved.  Masculine.  But warm.

I’m not too sure that we have much of a future though.  He was the only person I had as a favorite on Grndr.  No matter where I have been or how long it has been since he’s been on–line, his profile would always appear next to mine when I opened the app.  Now it’s gone.   Did he delete his account?  Did he block me?  (I think he blocked me!)

The fuck we just had?  It was quality.  You don’t fuck yourself to the point where you’re gasping for air after cumming and walk away from it thinking otherwise.  So, I’m not sure what the deal is.  If I ever find out, I’ll let you know. 

In the meantime, it’s enough to know that we ended on a high note.  And it’s enough for me to know... 

...that Mr. Smokescreen is somewhere, out there.

Uncle Poodle: You Are Not a Victim, You Are Equally Responsible

Fuck you, Uncle Poodle.

So a character on Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, a reality series on TLC, has announced that he is HIV positive.  Cool.  He’s healthy, he’s happy, he’s out and proud.  And as gay guys on reality television series go?  He’s okay.  Real.  A little squirrely (more weasel/otter, actually), but a very real person.  Okay, maybe a little too real, if you know what I mean – but that’s what you get with a reality series .  I enjoyed the episode where he came over to help Honey Boo Boo with her pageant choreography.  He is not a choreographer, but because he’s gay, everyone in the family bestows upon him the gift of… dance?  I guess that is what you could call it.  It was sweet and endearing to watch.  And ridiculous and a bit cringe inducing, especially when he took it upon himself to don the little girl’s tiara and hobble around in a pair of high heels.

For those unfamiliar with the show – the cameras follow the adventures of a family of small town, southern rednecks; in particular the kiddie pageant exploits of its youngest member, affectionately known as Honey Boo Boo.  Honey Boo Boo is a little butter ball of energy (mostly supplied by Go-Go Juice – a combination of Red Bull and Mountain Dew, if I remember correctly) whose mouth will spout the cutest things and on occasion something akin to wisdom.  The little girl is long on sass and short in the beauty/talent departments.  That said, she is a good soul.  At one point, asked what  she thought of her gay uncle, she declared her love for him and stated that “everybody is a little gay”.  Gay makes no difference to Honey Boo Boo or the rest of the clan; family is family.

Someday, way in the future, I can imagine a grown Honey Boo Boo, still clinging to that name and, at best, serving as the Grand Marshal at gay pride parades, or at, at worst, appearing at your local strip club as a featured dancer.  A little sad, but ahhh… the price of fame, am I right?

I thought it sad, but gutsy for Uncle Poodle to come forward and state his status.  Of course, he has done so in the hopes of getting his own reality show, but that is sort of beside the point.  I think a reality show depicting the everyday realities of being positive, southern and gay man would be rather interesting.  Uncle Poodle, based on what I have seen, does not come from money, nor does he have a typical TV gay career; to my knowledge he is not a lawyer, marketing specialist, ad exec, trust fund baby, party/wedding/event planner, hairdresser, etc.  He’s just a regular Joe.   White trash, even.  He also plans on serving as a spokesperson for safesex and promote anti-bullying measures (he declared publicly a bit back that he had been bullied as a kid).

But then I read how he became poz and his reaction to it. 

Apparently, a boyfriend of his did not disclose his status when they started fucking.  I’m not sure just how long a relationship we are talking about, but when Uncle Poodle came up poz and the boyfriend confessed – guess what?  Uncle Poodle did what he felt it was the right thing to do and had his boyfriend arrested.  The boyfriend is currently serving five years in prison.

Why does this upset me?

Because it is so easy to paint ourselves the victim and not take any responsibility for our own actions.  Sorry, but if you are fucking without a condom and come up poz, just whose fault is that?  Hmmm?  It seems to me that Uncle Poodle was fifty percent of that particular decision-making process.  And it is one thing to blame someone else for something you chose to do, but it is another whole thing to have someone arrested and put in prison for something you share the responsibility for.  In as much as this boyfriend ‘ruined’ Uncle Poodle’s life, Uncle Poodle has ruined this man’s life. 

So, just how ‘ruined’ is Uncle Poodle’s life?  Well, he will need health insurance that is for sure.  Those meds are expensive.  But they exist and are very effective.  Yes, I know some people have developed resistance to them, that some people have trouble taking their meds on a regular basis, and that, yes, some people continue to die of HIV/AIDS.  And yes, they say that getting the virus automatically cuts 10 years from your life (not sure what that is based on, but that is the word).  However, most people, with access to medical care, are able to manage the virus quite well and live healthy, productive lives.

But back to that responsibility thing… you dance with the devil; you may on occasion get burned.  And when you do, be a man about it and accept the fact that YOU made a bad choice and have to pay the price.  While I see the value of putting away sex offenders and poz people who are purposely going around and attempting to infect people, I don’t have a feeling that is the case here with Uncle Poodle.  I think this is a case where a little alcohol was probably involved, initially, at least, and one thing led to another and before you know it you got two homos going at it.  Fine.  Did they have the conversation?  Did Uncle Poodle ask?  Let’s say ‘yes’.  Guess what?  People lie.  People don’t disclose.  

As someone who frequently has unprotected sex with others, I realize that even if the dude I am with tells me he’s ‘clean’, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not poz.  Because of the gestation period with this virus varies so greatly, sometimes, people just don’t know their status.  Some don’t want to know.  But I know… because I am an adult, take responsibility for my actions, and have lived in the real world for quite a while now – that people lie.  It then becomes my choice to believe them.  It then becomes my choice to offer up my ass and let them fuck me without a condom.  That risk?  That’s my choice and as an adult, who knows better, who knows that HIV exists, and that people lie about their status… I need to take responsibility for MY ACTIONS, no matter what the outcome may be.   No going back the morning after and trying to rewrite history.  No painting ourselves the victim. 

So, that’s at the heart of what upsets me about Uncle Poodle and his HIV status.  I can see this being a civil matter.   The boyfriend should be held accountable for up to fifty percent of the medical costs incurred due to his negligence.  But jail time?  This was not a case of rape.  This was not a case of there being a power imbalance.  This was consensual sex, between two adults who were in a relationship long enough to confer the term ‘boyfriend’ upon one another.  So what does locking this dude away accomplish?  Well, I suppose if he was stupid enough to not disclose to one poor sap, then he would probably do it to someone else.  So maybe this will prevent that from happening.  But know what?  The same 50-50 split regarding responsibility once again would go into effect and if someone chose to fuck him without a condom, then that person is equally responsible for the outcome. 

I think there is a special kind of karma for people, such as Uncle Poodle, who want to play the victim and refuse to take responsibility for their actions.  Just as there is for those who lie about their status. 

And every time I think society has its little pointed head wrapped around what this disease is all about – as in, all the lessons we are to learn as human beings, I read another Uncle Poodle story, and it makes me realize how far we as a community and society have yet to go.

So, fuck you, Uncle Poodle.  Grow the fuck up and take responsibility for your choices.

Acquired Tastes, XXVIII: Nerds

Introduction:

A pair of black, heavy-framed glasses can lend most faces the look of an intellectual.  Add an askew posture (be it slouched-shoulders or curved spine), a slighter or plumper form, and a perceived inability to engage in group sports, and you have the physical ingredients for your basic nerd.  Pile on a bookish nature, at least one quirky preoccupation, and a dysfunctional sense of style?  You have yourself a mega nerd.  Make him gay?  And you are looking at a hell of a good time!

The celebration and appreciation of nerds is a rather recent trend.  Somewhere between the likes of the ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ boys, Urkel,  Superbad’s McLovin’, and the men of The Big Bang Theory, gay men picked up on this minefield of hidden sexual potential.  Their rise to power mimics societies’ overall reverence of all things electronic in the age of technology.  Power is sexy, so it’s no surprise that those once delegated to the front rows of classrooms and the last to be picked for any athletic team, are now viewed as desirable sexual beings.

So, let’s sweep aside the Dungeons and Dragons handbooks, the Star Wars figures still in their original packaging, and Ph.D.’s from M.I.T while looking beyond the high-waisted, high-water pants, the pocket protectors, and the horn-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses, in order to explore the hidden charms and delightful sensuality that make up your typical…

Nerds

Scope of Activity:

A sexual appreciation for nerds.

For the sake of this entry we will limit our examination to male nerds and the gay male population’s sexual appreciation of such.

We are not talking about pseudo-nerds; really handsome dudes who put on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses in order to convey intelligence or cop a pose.  Since the sexualization of nerds has come to be, their look has become a fashion statement in and of itself, and has been adopted by many a gym bunny (usually because they possess no personality of their own).

The Official Line:

From Wikipedia:

 A nerd is a person typically described as being overly intellectual, obsessive, or socially impaired. They may spend inordinate amounts of time on unpopular, obscure, or non-mainstream activities, which are generally either highly technical or relating to topics of fiction or fantasy, to the exclusion of more mainstream activities. Additionally, many nerds are described as being shy, quirky, and unattractive, and may have difficulty participating in, or even following, sports. "Nerd" is a derogatory, stereotypical term, but as with other pejoratives, it has been reclaimed and redefined by some as a term of pride and group identity.

The two types of interests that are most likely to be described as nerdy are:

• Intellectual, academic, or technical hobbies, activities, and pursuits;  especially topics related to science, mathematics and technology
• Hobbies, games, and activities that are described as obsessive and "immature", such as trading cards, comic books, television programs, films, role-playing games and other things relating to fantasy and science fiction

Stereotypical nerds are commonly seen as intelligent but socially and physically awkward. They would typically be perceived as either lacking confidence or being indifferent or oblivious to the negative perceptions held of them by others, with the result that they become frequent objects of scorn, ridicule, bullying, and social isolation. However, many nerds may eventually find a group of similar people to associate with.

Stereotypical "nerd" appearance includes very large glasses, braces, severe acne and pants highly lifted up. In the media, many nerds are white males, portrayed as being physically unfit, either overweight or very thin.

Psychological Aspects:

Why the yen for nerds?  They are ‘undiscovered country’.  They possess an element of innocence that is fun to corrupt – like the transformation of an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan.  It’s the film cliché, where the girl with the over-sized pair of glasses removes them, unfurls her luxurious hair, and is transformed into a hottie.  The same can happen for nerds, but trust me, the impact is never as transformative.  Usually, if you remove their specs all you get is a lot of squinting and a bit of whining.  Better to leave those glasses on and enjoy the dirty pleasure of corrupting their pristine ‘Poindexter’ veneer. 

I think our lustful desire for nerds has a lot to do with their ‘hothouse flower’ appeal.  That is where the appreciator gets his jollies; the same sense of power a sexually experienced male gets when deflowering a virgin female.  Not that all nerds are virgins.  Far from it.  In fact, the nerds I have come in contact with are some of the kinkiest, most sexually-advanced bastards out there.  

Precautions:

Never judge a book by its cover.  What may appear to be a nerd may just be a rather unfortunate and unattractive person.

Don’t touch their ‘stuff’ – and by stuff, I mean their Star Wars memorabilia, their comic books, etc. And don’t ask them about that stuff either, or you’ll spend the whole evening in trivia hell.

Don’t pretend you ‘know’ things about Sci-Fi programs or movies.  They will out you for the poser you are.  Also, don’t assume that Sci-Fi is of interest to them.  Both of these things are also true of anything technological in nature, such as computers and video games.  

Don’t offer to help them pick out clothing.  You get a nerd, you take that nerd as is.  Trying to change them into something they are not will rob them of all their charm.  And the gay community doesn’t need more well-dressed, ineffectual, socially-challenged, undefined men… we already got plenty of those.

Don’t back your nerd into a corner regarding putting out sexually.  They will bite.  And kick you out of their apartment.  And block your number on their cell phone.

Don’t plunder the bevy of nerds at your place of work.  This should go without saying, but never grab dick where you earn your paycheck.

Be careful with their hearts.  Some nerds are socially inexperienced and this can lead to some assumptions on their part (no, darling, fucking my ass does not constitute a ‘relationship’), misunderstandings that can lead to hurt feelings.  Just as I cautioned you not to back them into a corner, don’t hurt their feelings – they bite.

My Experience:

There is something about fucking around with a nerd that makes me feel even more like a dirty old man than I actually am…  I’m fixated on that whole corruptibility factor, even though, as stated above, the nerds I have played with have tended to err on the kinky side.  In one instance, I met this guy from Duluth.  He was easily half my age, but as long as he didn’t run screaming from the room once we met in the flesh I figured he was old enough to know what he wanted.  We never had sex in the ‘traditional’ sense.  Lots of touching and posing.  Lots of talking.  And lots of smelling.  His sneakers were grossly smelly and he seemed proud of it.  He thought it would be cool if I would learn to appreciate them, too.  I liked his armpits.  I liked his body.  He was a lousy kisser, but I thought that is a skill that can be taught.  I might have liked his dick, but it remained wrapped up in his jeans and a pair of tighty whities.  He had no ass, which, I kind of found sexy.  If I was still in die-hard top mode, I might have tried to rape his cute little ass.  That would not have gone well.  Nerds will fight back– and they are not good at it, so you will get hit in places you are unaccustomed to, scratched, and it will hurt a lot.  ‘No’ really does mean no.    

I like my nerds sexually deviant.  Because of our preconceived notions about them, they always have the element of surprise on their side.  This is particularly true when it comes to kink and… dick size.  Those little fuckers may have spent a lot of time masturbating alone in their rooms, but frequently it turns out that was probably because they had so much to work with!  Big dicked nerds are the best kind of nerds… but then, it could also be said that big dicks are the best kind of dick!

Okay… confession time.  I was a big nerd, though I did not wear glasses.  I was smart, but really on the low end of smart; more clever than intelligent.  But in high school, it was enough to get me adopted by the nerds.  As it turned out, they were also very artistic and musical, so it was a good fit and during those years I got to be in my first two ROCK BANDS: a really daring punk outfit and a really boring Journey/Toto/ARS kind of thing!  Anyway, I definitely was a nerd because all the social aspects of high school – parties, drinking, dating?  It all escaped me.  I was more interested in theater, technology, music, and masturbating.  I was clueless, naive, and weird – a bad combination when navigating the halls of your local high school and beyond. Also, fashion?  I had no sense of all, and this deficit followed me well into my adult years. I thought fashion wasn't important, so I wore bell-bottoms and tight polyester pants long after anyone should have.

 

I probably stopped being a nerd during my first year in college.  After that I simply morphed into being a total weirdo.  I still didn’t get the clothing thing (and wouldn’t really until after my vintage period (as in, I wore nothing but vintage clothing) in the mid-80’s, when I finally came to realize the value of good jeans and a tight t-shirt.  I remember a former best friend once telling me how much he hated me upon sight back in 1982.  He teased me horribly and made fun of me and was mean to me.  So, of course we became best friends, a relationship that lasted for 20 years before disappearing in a puff of smoke.  He was an ice queen and I was a nerd.  He gave me a sense of fashion, or at least pointed out my many failures, and I… I tried to warm him up a little for general consumption.  It was a good pairing… for about 20 years.

He had a thing for nerds long before I recognized their allure.  Now, looking back at it, I think the thing I liked most about nerds was that I could take out all my aggressions on them in the sack.  Behavior they took as me being a dom top, was really simply me taking out all my pent up anger from being bullied… on those I knew to be like me – something, I guess, I couldn't see until I started writing this entry. 

Which opens a whole thing about the bullied becoming a bully – which is behavior I could only get away with in the sack.  As for those nerdy types I took my willful suppressed rage out on?  I do believe they enjoyed themselves.  On occasion I would get a complaint and need to dial it back a bit.  There was a production of A Midsummers Night Dream, where I had to wrestle around with the incredibly handsome homo playing Lysander to my Demetrius, whose shoulder I subsequently dislocated because I refused to ‘play nice’, even after he had asked me to, several times.  Shakespeare always brought the worst out in me.  In Taming of the Shrew, as Petruchio, I had a scene with a tailor or haberdasher – where I was to wail away on them.  Despite their many protests, and a few rebukes by the director, I could not seem to hold back and had a horrible tendency to leave bruises.   So, when given the opportunity to be a bully, I knew what to do, because I had been bullied.  And something about being given license to perform in such a manner on stage translated to the bedroom, where I took perverse pleasure in dominating nerdy little dudes.  Weird.  But probably pretty common.

Now, I’m a bottom.  I get aggressive, but never to the point that someone asks me to dial it back (although my porno talk can get to be a bit much and tops will frequently either cover my mouth with their hand or tell me to ‘shut the fuck up’). 

I fucked a lot of artsy nerds.  Several painters, in fact.  Lots of costumers.  Oh, and the video store I once worked in?  That was like a candy box full of nerds.  I preferred the painters or the film buffs; slim of build, smooth of skin, pliable, flexible, and as clueless as I. Something about their vulnerability would bring out the beast in me. 

So what happens to nerds once they become older?  They tend to cease being nerds (although the corners of numerous office buildings housing aging CPAs would probably prove me wrong) and find a comfortable niche where their nerdy tendencies warp into some type of myopic fetish.  The leather crowd is full of former nerds who now take out their submerged aggression by donning a pair of leather chaps and grabbing a cat-o-nine tails. Or… they take their art pose to the extreme, becoming a playwright or (gasp/gag) theater critic.  Or they become common schlubs; grey-skinned creatures who inhabit many a studio apartment throughout metropolitan areas 

And this nerd?  What did I become?  Why, someone who writes odd, erotic essays and posts them on the web for the occasional perv / stranger to read.  I would like to consider myself more worldly and more sexually advanced than I once was.  I’m certainly more experienced (used old whore).  And I’ve managed to subdue the nerd within by camouflaging him in nondescript dark clothing and a good pair of boots.  Also, I hit the gym regularly, because old nerd bodies?  They tend not to age well.

Ah, well, I tell myself.  It could have been worse. I could have ended up being an old theater nerd; delusional, pretentious, and sad.  They are the WORST!  (Though probably not much better than dried-out, old hose bags who recount their sexual adventures via rarely read blogs like an old lady showing off her medals!)

The Big Bang Theory has done a lot to elevate the esteem of nerds; celebrating and putting on display all the idiosyncratic debris that populates their world.  But they are not my kind of nerd.  I don’t find any of the archetypes presented on that show all that sexual.  Perhaps, that is my own personal blind spot in relation to nerdism.  Many nerds are asexual; which helps explain why they don’t appear on my radar, as I tend to only focus on people with a little juice to (in) them.  If it gets a woody, I am so there!

My favorite nerds?  The Jewish ones.  They have black-haired covered butts and, sometimes, full heads of curly hair.  I like the smaller, pale, thin ones.  The plump ones?  Not so much.  That said, Howard Wolowitz?  Not my thing.  He knows too much and comes across as smarmy.  I like them a little shy; all the better to psychologically plunder them.

My Conclusion:

 It takes more than a pair of glasses to make a nerd.  It takes intellect of a specific nature, a myopic view of the world, and a total disregard for the conventions of adolescent development and fashion.  Throw in a fascination with masturbation or some other fetish, and you got yourself a real winner!

These men were born with genitalia, and therefore do develop as sexual beings, even if that means asexual ones.  My favorite nerds are the chronic masturbators.  I love talking to them about it and watching them squirm.  On occasion they like to show off or play the voyeur – both of which gets my crank rotating.

The nicest thing about the recent evolution, acceptance, and celebration of nerds?  People have stopped trying to turn them into something else.  We now recognize their intrinsic value and that of their peculiar culture.  And those of us with a kinky yen for them? 

We appreciate them naked, blushing, and clueless. 

Acquired Tastes, XXIV: Boots

Introduction:

They are iconic.  Tom of Finland immediately springs to mind whenever I think of masculine gay men wearing basic black boots – the kind that Marlon Brando wore in The Wild One?  For men who are only concerned with the most testosterone-driven aspects of gay life, boots help define the man.  They bring to mind images of fascism, dominance, and a hyper-masculinity that only a few are biologically capable of achieving.  For those who came up short in the DNA department, the proper gear helps, and nothing is more proper than a righteous, kick-ass pair of boots.

Not that those are the only kind of boots gay men wear.  Think of the skinheads, who, more than anyone, has fetishized this particular apparel to its apex. 

Motorcycle Riding Rebel.  Cowboy.  Construction Worker.  Drag Queen?

These Boots Are Made for Walking was a declaration of independence, one that certainly spoke to and was embraced by our community.  It was Nancy Sinatra at her toughest.  Put in historical context, it was a brave, ballsy statement coming from a dame – a huge risk for a female singer, which is why it could only come from an offspring of the Chairman of Board.

So, get ‘em on, baby – be they go-go, cowboy, steel-toed work, hiking, knee-high waders, Doc Martens, Russian army, English riding, goth, combat, Wellingtons, moto-cross, or motorcycle… leather or pleather – let’s give them a collective spit shine and celebrate…

Boots

Scope of Activity:

The appreciation and fetishism of boots.

The Official Line:

From Wikipedia:

Shoe (or boot) fetishism is the attribution of attractive sexual qualities to shoes or other footwear as a matter of sexual preference, psychosexual disorder, and an alternative or complement to a relationship with a partner. It has also been known as retifism, after Nicolas-Edme Rétif (October 23, 1734–February 2, 1806), a French novelist. Individuals with shoe/boot fetishism can be erotically interested in either men's or women's shoes. Although shoes may appear to carry sexual connotations in mainstream culture (for example, women's shoes are commonly sold as being "sexy") this opinion refers to an ethnographic or cultural context, and is likely not intended to be taken literally.

The mid-1960s British TV series ‘The Avengers’ often featured fetishistic clothing, and Patrick Macnee and Honor Blackman released a 45 RPM single in 1964 titled "Kinky Boots".

Psychological Aspects:

It’s about power.  Or fashion.

The former has to do with collective images of military or sports icons and their overall message of male dominance.

The latter has to do with the aesthetic values of wearing boots – a sleekness, if you will; attained due to wrapping the upper regions of the lower leg in leather or some artificial material.

Boots as costume pieces? Or as a statement about who you are? If you are a construction worker and wear steel-toed work boots then there is authenticity to what you’re doing as well as a practicality.  If you live your dream than… wow, lucky you!  For the sake of this post, what we’re talking about has to do with the sexualization of such icons.  We wear them as a form of emulation (think of those who wore suits in the old vogue scene) in an effort to become that which we hold in high (sexual) esteem.  The boots become a symbol of the power we view as endowed upon the revered icon.  When we wear those boots, we attempt to harness the essence of that power.

My Experience:

Have you ever had a dude place their boot on your head while another dude is fucking your ass?  I have.  It’s pretty heady stuff.   In that moment you experience a sense of powerlessness that, in safe circumstances with people you trust, can be truly freeing.

The same part of me that responded well to the above scenario is also the part of me that, as a young boy, was able to relate to and appreciate a rather dour, visceral poem by Sylvia Plath, entitled Daddy, an excerpt of which I will share:

‘Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.’

Ummm…. Yeah.

Rereading the poem in its entirety, I wonder… what the hell was I thinking?  In seventh grade?  See… this is what happens when you spend entirely too much free time at the library at an impressionable age.  I was a morose little fucker who went on to develop one hell of a masturbation addiction.  No wonder everyone termed me ‘weird’.  I was (am).

And yet, that poem is part of what helped shape me, helped inform my spirit – and my appreciation for ‘the boot’.

Part of me doesn’t even want to go there.  It’s too dark.  I want sunlight, not the dungeon’s dank foreboding air.  So, instead, I will dismiss myself as what I probably was: a precocious, pretentious little freak of a kid; someone who grew up and got over his pretentiousness only after he learned to laugh at himself and embrace the freak within (it’s been a long journey). 
I love all boots.  Even girl boots; I don’t wear them – girl boots, but I appreciate them.  I like masculine boots.  Work boots, cowboy boots, leather dom boots, hiking boots.

I have a cool pair of mid-calf black boots that I wear when I want to wear my freak in public.  They are a costume piece, like the jock strap I like to wear with them.  I frequently wonder whether or not I will gravitate more towards leather as I get older.  I have less to spend my money on these days, and fetish wear would seem an outlet; a means of expression.  The expense is one of the few reasons I don’t dip my toe there.  I certainly find it attractive.

I like cumming on the boots of others.  It’s a stronger statement than, say, cumming on a dude’s bare feet or even their face.

I like the smell of leather, so I like smelling boots.  Really powerful foot odor?  Not so much.  But a fresh, hot boot?  Grrr.

I have licked the boots of others.  Something that, in the abstract seems odd and uninviting, but in the moment I attain some weird sense of fulfillment.  There was one bald-headed skinhead type who invited me over to his apartment; had me walk in to find him sitting spread eagle in a chair wearing his boots, jock, armbands, and a cap of some kind.  He looked like a Leather Night bar advertisement.  After stripping off all my clothing at his command, he put me to work right away.  My tongue got a good work out, and not just on his boots!  A lot of saliva and the ability to produce a lot of saliva in this case tend to be a good thing.

Are there sexual scenarios where boots are involved that do not contain some element of a power exchange?  Sure.  I love being in the woods wearing nothing but a jock, a cap, and my hiking boots.  When I see others in the same gear, in the outdoors, it gets me hot.  I love it when I’m on my back getting fucked and my boots are in the air – they seem so heavy and out of place – and sexy.  Out of their normal place (the ground) they take on a discordant ambiance which screams of surrender – masculine surrender.  I think that is what makes being a bottom so appealing to me.  So, there, too… power is exchanged, huh?  Not that to be a bottom is to surrender – as in all-the-time.  I tend to be an aggressive bottom and there’s nothing submissive about that.  I take all the energy I used to put into being a top into working my hole on a pole.  In those instances, wearing my boots help; they give me an edginess that tops seem to respond to… seem to respect.

Do I wear boots in an effort to gain respect?  Is that the power I really hope to achieve?  Probably.

To tell you the truth, I never knew just how weirdly deep my associations with boots were until I started writing this entry.  It feels like I hold between my fingers a single thread, part of a giant blanket I have been lying under, and once I start to pull on it, the whole thing threatens to unravel, revealing… what?

But that is the fun of exploring acquired tastes, isn’t it?   The unraveling.  Hmmmm.

My Conclusion:

At one point, in writing this, I had to just let my head voice stumble through the words, allowing them to make no sense.  They fell onto the page in a heap, while still possessing some glint of meaning.

Another part of me just wanted to admit defeat, post a bunch of photos and let the images do all my talking - which is what a lot of bloggers do, not because they are inarticulate souls, but because images are powerful and frequently can convey and express things that mere words cannot capture.  I think that is the case with ‘boots’.  I can touch upon their essence with words, but their image?  That really captures their full impact on the psychosexual self.

So, I am just going to leave it at that, and allow these images to work their magic.

Enjoy!

I know I will.

Now, if someone will kindly press ever so firmly the tip of their well-polished boot on the pouch of my jock as I sit here spread-eagled, lost in the wonder of some of these images…?  I would so like that

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