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I was in the steam room after a killer workout. A muscled latino walked in wearing a speedo that could barely contain his amazing bubble butt. He looked me, I looked at him and smiled. He dropped his speedo to his knees and began to finger his hole.
The door opened and he quickly pulled up his speedo. We made no more eye contact.
The other guy walked out and the muscled latino went back to fingering his hole for me. The door opened again and another guy walked in, the latin guy made a motion for me to follow him, I did.

We walked into the sauna. I told him that I wasn't going to do anything in there and that I had a better place. He followed me into the massage room. I locked the door.
We got naked and I put him on the table. He was on all fours, I threw my face into his bubble butt, eating his sweet hole.

He moaned as I made out with his butt.
He got on his back, and I slid my raw black dick into him.
He took my dick to the base with no effort.
He took my pounding him with no effort.

He took it, he moaned, he demanded more.

I want your load, he told me. I want your cum in my ass.
I assured him that he'd get it.

I had him get doggy style so I could watch my dick get devoured by that sweet cunt in his firm bubbled butt. Watching my dick disappear while he moaned made my nuts boil and tighten, my dick was pulsing, and I unleashed a flood of cum into his guts.

We made out and he left.
We hooked up many times after that.

Good times.


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The next Friday night, Rod showed up at the bathhouse about midnight. I'd been there about an hour and it had been fairly quiet.


I gave him some time to get situated in his room and then went over and walked through the open door.


He was laying there on the mattress with his towel draped loosely over his mid-section. It was starting to tent just a little.


I dropped my towel and climbed on top of him. “You ready for me to take your ass again, bitch?” I whispered in his ear.


“Yes, sir,” he said with a slight moan.


I leaned in and took him in a passionate kiss. Our mouths devoured each other. I swear if he could, he would have stuck his tongue all the way down my throat.


While we were making out, I reached between us and pulled his towel away. We were finally skin on skin and our dicks were rubbing together between us. Rod's dick was leaking lots of precum and my dick was getting slick with it.


I broke our kiss and moved up to straddle his face. “Suck my cock,” I commanded.


Rod slowly worked his lips down my cum slicked shaft until he had it down his throat. He would pull all the way back and then swallow me down again. Finally, I reached around and took the back of his head in my hand and started fucking his throat.


I could see his eyes watering, but he was determined to take it.


After a few minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to get in his hot ass.


I got off him and took hold of one of his legs. “Get those legs up, slut.” I said as I started to lift the one in my hand.


Ronald tried to bring his leg down. I pushed against it and bent it back toward his chest.
“Wait,” he said, “I'm not ready to fuck.”


“Your getting fucked, boy.” I said as I pushed forward and lined my dick up to his hole.
Ronald started squirming and my dick slipped out of position. I grabbed him by the waist and flipped him on his stomach.


I climbed on him and held him down as I got my dick between his ass cheeks and lined it up to his hole again.


“No, please, I'll give you a taste. Just not yet.” he said.


“Uh uh, you little cock tease,” I whispered in his ear. “Your gonna give me more than a taste. You're getting fucked.”


That said, I started pushing my dick into him. He squirmed and clenched his hole; trying to keep me from entering him.


“Quit resisting it, boy,” I said. “It's gonna hurt like hell if I have to force it in.”


Ronald moved again to try and keep me out of him. I pushed hard and shoved my dick all the way into him. A look of intense pain crossed his face.


I started to fuck into him with short thrusts. He pushed back and lifted up off the mattress. “Please, pull out. I promise I'll give you a taste in a little bit.”


“Too late, bitch. I'm already in you and I'm not pulling out until I breed deep into your hot hole.” I said as I pushed him back down.


I started slamming into him. I wanted to blow my load in him.


Finally, after a few minutes of holding him down and nailing him, I came deep into his ass. Once I was done, I started fucking him some more.


“Ah, fuck,” he said as he lifted his head and looked back at me. “You son of a bitch. You came in me.”


I pulled out and lifted off him. “Yeah, just the way you like it.”


Pulling him up to me, I planted a kiss on his hot lips. When I pulled away, I said, “I told you before, your ass is mine to fuck and breed whenever I want.”


He sat up and put his arms around my neck. “Yes, sir, my ass is yours to breed whenever you want however you want.” He gave me a quick kiss. “Man, I love the way you get into the rough role play. It makes me cum every time.”


I looked down at the wet spot behind him on the sheet. He shot a pretty good size load. “Anytime, anywhere. You can count on me to get you off.” I said with a grin. “As long as I get to cum inside you, of course.”


We lay together for a bit and made out; feeling each other up a bit. Finally, we got up to go shower and find our next playmate for the night.



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Memory is a fickle friend. While so much of this story is remembered in "technicolor" down to the feel of lint in my pocket or the callous on his left hand or the exact time on a clock, other moments are a blur, beyond the reach of a probing mind.

Such is the case, unfortunately, for much of the time I spent in TCD's house.

I remember some things, of course. I remember the light-headed feeling of walking up to his door. I remember thinking his lawn was well tended and wryly wondered if he did it himself wearing a "wife-beater". I remember the doorbell not working and the flash of anxiety at getting no response to my somewhat hesitant knocking. I vividly remember the relief that he didn't answer the door and the surge of adrenaline that told me to "get the fuck out of there!"

But, of course, just as I turned to run, the door opened, and it is from that point my memories begin to play tricks.

He was not what I expected. Younger, shorter, more clean cut that his voice suggested. He was Hispanic, I would guess, though he was clearly raised in America. And yes, he was good looking, though in an unremarkable way. Most memorable, however, was the fact that he greeted me at the door with absolutely no clothes on. Kinda hard to forget that, especially in his somewhat crowded/busy neighborhood.

I don't remember why he hit me and knocked me to the floor or if that was even the next thing that happened. Perhaps I was staring too long, or maybe I failed to answer him when (or if) he spoke, or maybe because he didn't like what he saw. I don't know. I just remember the lemony smell of his floor as my face planted itself on the crack between the white and the black tiles, and I remember thinking, "This floor is really, really clean, I better not mess it up..." followed by the slow recognition: "I am now in for some serious bad luck...".

I must have lost consciousness, because for the life of me, I don't remember how I got naked or even where my clothes were. And I had even less idea how I ended up on the "most abrasive carpet in the world", but the carpet-burn on my knees is not something I am likely ever to forget. While obsessing about the blistering pain in my knees, it took me a long time to realize my hands were duct taped behind my back.

I remember a string of events around his coming back into the room and pushing his cock deep into my throat and slapping me for scraping his dick with my teeth. Every time I tried to explain that I wasn't a particularly good cocksucker, I got jap-slapped, sometimes with the back of his hand, other times with his dick. I had never really deep-throated an average cock before, at least not well, but TCD's dick wasn't average and he wasn't waiting until I learned. His very brief instructions, such that they were, entailed telling me: "I hope you ain't ate nuthin faggot boy, cuz I'm a gonna rape that throat until you throw up, bitch." I remember trying hard to make enough spit to cover his fat 8 inch cock (or was it 13 inches?) but every time he pushed into my throat I gagged and worse-- I panicked, feeling like I would never breath again. And just as I would start to really go nuts, he would pull out, enough to let me breathe a couple of breaths before he shoved back in. I don't remember how long he throat fucked me before I blacked out again...

When I woke up the second time, I was alone, face down on the carpet from hell. I struggled to swallow and then regretted ever trying, as I was accosted by the angry taste of his cum, burning as it tried to slide down my that thing I used to call "my throat".

It wasn't until I stood up that I realized my throat hadn't been the only victim. Because of the startling "lack" of feeling in my ass, it took me by surprise that I began to feel something dribbling down my right leg. With no little trepidation, I reached back and felt for my hole but couldn't actually feel anyhing other than the slime oozing from my ass, which I reluctantly brought to my nose for the superfluous identification.

I am not sure what compelled me to look in the mirror, but I wish I hadn't. When I looked, I saw the letters written on my forehead by what must have been a big-ass marker: "Y O A T". What the fuck was a "yoat"? I have been called many things by many people (not all of whom particularly liked me) and indeed was called at least a dozen humiliating names by TCD himself in the short period I actually remember, but try as I may, I couldn't remember anyone calling me or anyone else a "yoat". Did he mean "goat" by some chance? Maybe he was just a terrible speller. Maybe it wasn't English and since I don't know Spanish, I settled anxious mind down thinking that must be it.

Weirdly, the only thing I could think of next were the fucking Hardy Boys and not the cute Parker Stevenson/Shaun Cassidy Hardy Boys, either, but the four dozen Hardy Boys books I read when I was 10 years old. Nothing I did could clear my mind of the stupid "boys" until it finally occurred to me that they were speaking to me from the recesses of my youthful memories to remind me: you're looking at a mirror, dumbass. I ran back to the mirror expecting THE answer to everything going on, but was only met with the sickening realization that TAOY was probably even less intelligible that a "yoat", which at least sounded like something. Again, my mind rapidly mulled the meaning of TOAY, and again, it was rebuffed.

Of course, by now, my body, and its many travails was now starting to wake up and it didn't take much for my body to remind my mind: you have far bigger issues than this stupid teenage mystery, dude. The now searing pain in my ass, the mangled chortling of my throat which could not longer utter words, even in a whisper, the raw feeling in my knees, the ache in my shoulders where my arms must have been pulled back in some physiologically irrational way, and the growing feeling that could only be described as micro-wasps trying to sting their way into my butt cheeks.

When I consulted my new nemesis, the fucking mirror from Wonderland, I could tell someone had wailed on my butt as they were "spanking welts" all up and down each cheek. And above them in very neatly written words which I deciphered quicker than a Hardy Boy: This Ain't Over Yet.


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Yesterday I wrote about one of the French professors I bedded in college. With a little bit of pride I should point out that he was not the only French professor I disrobed as an undergraduate; by the time I’d finished my four years at the school, I’d managed to have sex with all three of the professors who comprised the faculté Français. Oh yeah, I collected them all. If the campus had been a Monopoly board, I could’ve built hotels in Romance Languages and Economics.

One of my readers yesterday commented that it was so ‘very me’ to have found a four-year fuckbuddy in my first hour of freedom on my college campus. In a way, I suppose it is. But to squash the illusion that I am some gifted superstud with a supernatural ability to ferret out the good fucks in any situation I’m in, let me assure you that within the first day of arriving at college, I had my first stalker as well.

I wasn’t the most social kid at my college. I was a year younger than most of the freshman, and I’m pretty sure it showed. Tall and gangly though I might have been, I still was an extremely young-looking seventeen when I left for school. I was quiet where the other kids on my dorm hallway were loud and crazy. My roommate was a bit of a lout who, the moment his parents disappeared, began drinking so much beer that he was drunk by 4:30 and had vomited all over his bed, his desk, and out in the hallway before nightfall. The other guys on my hall thought he was hil-ar-ious, and had turned my dorm room into party central.

So I took advantage of my first couple of days at school to find all the places on campus where guys went for sex. There were a few.

I’d already located the basement of the student center with the French professor. I went back after dinner and sucked off an older student in the same place. Then I discovered that the first floor of the campus center had a little action going on itself. I cruised the library and found that the second and third floors in the stacks were a place to find dick even fairly late in the day. I sussed out a toilet in the psych building with some promising graffiti, though I wasn’t sure it would pan out as a sex spot. (It never did.)

And then I found the tourist restroom.

My college, I’ve said before, is one that was adjunct to the tourist spot of Colonial Williamsburg, that quaint living history display of pre-revolutionary America. When one left the modern campus and walked through its most historic buildings to the very front, the tourist attraction sprawled out before one, across the street. First was a buffer of gift shops and restaurants known as Merchant’s Square. A couple of blocks below began the attractions.

Between Merchant’s Square and the historic area proper, however, was a small visitor’s information center. The tour busses stopped there every ten minutes, disgorging dozens of passengers who’d collect maps or buy tickets at the tiny booth within. It was little more than a satellite information booth, of course—the real ticketing and information center was an air-conditioned behemoth of a building a couple of miles away. I spent so much time at the small visitor’s center, however, because of the men’s room. It was perfectly set up for cruising.

In the men’s room were three stalls and three or four urinals. They were set perpendicular to each other in the room so that through the cracks of any of the stalls, one commanded an unobstructed view of men whipping out their dicks and peeing. Or, more often than I thought probable, stroking themselves to hardness and showing them off to the men behind the stall doors. The place sometimes seemed to have as many cruisers as urinators. Handsome tourist daddies free of their families for a few seconds would become hardened perverts, masturbating themselves into the urinals while men watched. Professors from campus would come down, unzip, and find a willing mouth in which to relieve themselves. A couple of the bolder students, myself included, would visit and feast on the buffet of dick presented with every new busload. I’m not exaggerating when I say the place was like a Roman orgy—at all times of day, really, but particularly at night.

I also found out that first night at school how the tiny little park behind the rest center, scarcely more than a handkerchief of grass and two park benches, was where men went to get into activities more involved than practical for a small restroom. When night fell, the only people in the darkness there were guys fucking—sometimes ten to twelve of them, making no more noise than the occasional grunt or sigh of relief when they came. I don’t remember exactly who got me that first night. It was just strange dick to me, and I welcomed several in my mouth and a couple in my ass in that little park before finally I slunk back to my dorm room, where the guys were still drinking in the dorm hall and bullshitting about all the pussy they’d fucked.

Freshmen had about a week of orientation before classes actually started. I found myself with some free time the next day, so back to the visitor center I went. I spent about an hour watching men pee and getting the occasional flash of an erect dick, but at midday the center was too busy to be conducive for action. I wasn’t getting any, in other words. After a while, though, someone came in and sat in the middle stall, next to me. We did the dance of the tapping toes. A moment later, he handed me a note beneath the stall, written on toilet paper and wrapped around a pen. Would you like to go somewhere else? he wrote.

Sure, I wrote back.

I know a spot where we can talk and stuff.

Okay, I scrawled, and waited for him to pull up his pants and go so I could follow him.

But no, he had more to say. Are you really going to follow me?

Yes. Yes, yes, a hundred times yes, I thought to myself. Just get going!

After what seemed an eternity, he finally rebuckled his trousers and left. I followed him out a moment later, and looked around for the guy with the shoes I’d seen once I was outside in Merchant’s Square.

I wasn’t too pleased with what I found, either. The guy was not at all attractive. He was obese, for one thing. While I’d been with big men before (and since) and hadn’t really minded very much, there was something off about the fellow that didn’t make me want to follow him. He couldn’t have been older than thirty or thirty-two, but he dressed like an eighty-year-old in cheap synthetics with elastic at the waistband and snaps instead of buttons; even his dock siders looked as if they’d been extruded in shiny plastic. He was effeminate to the point that his shiny shirt had a not-so-subtle floral print. His eyes were tiny and set far back in the shrunken apple doll head that was his face. He was just an all-over not very attractive man.

But I was young and stupid, and instead of disappearing into the crowd as I should have, I decided to do the polite thing and go through with it, even though every atom of my body was telling me not to.

When he said he knew a place to talk, he wasn’t kidding about talking, whereas I’d been expecting more ‘and stuff.’ He took me to a little green alley by the Governor’s Palace where tourists didn’t really venture—only Williamsburg employees rushing to and from an employee restroom hidden behind a privet hedge nearby. He sat down on the grass with his ankles crossed like a kindergartener, and settled his hands onto his lap and stared at me while I sat across from him, but not too near. He was like a baby and a gross old man, all wrapped up in one unappetizing package. “What’s your name?” he asked. Like a fool, I told him. He addressed me with it. “So you’re a homossssexual,” he said.

I stared at him. I was a restroom cocksucker, and a park slut. I had been bent over picnic tables and thrust up against trees and had my head knocked against urinals. I’d seen more dicks than the average urologist and done it in every conceivable position and variation, but I’d never had anyone who had intentions of banging me sit down and make me identify my sexuality.

“I think it’s best that you admit you have homosexual leanings,” he said, smiling patiently. I was furious. I almost wondered if he was some kind of evangelist who’d infiltrated the restrooms to find gay guys to proselytize. “Well, sugar, you’re lucky you found me,” he said, reaching out to clasp my knee. I scooted back to avoid his touch. “I’ll be gentle your first time, unlike most of the brutes who hang out in that place.”

Now I understood. He thought I was a virgin, cruising the restroom for the first time. “You know, I don’t want to. . . .” I started to mumble.

“Of course you don’t want to be a homosexual,” he said. “It's awful. But you are. You should just admit it.” I wasn’t going to admit anything to this weirdo. If I’d been bolder or more assertive—in short, if I’d been then the man I am now—I would’ve excused myself, or simply said something like, Listen, bub, you’ve got the wrong impression about me. But I was not as adroit then, and unused to maneuvering out of a sticky situation. He used my name again. “Do you want me to tell you the names of famous homosexuals throughout history? Or do you want to hold hands?”

I did not. So I did what I shouldn’t have done, which was to bolt. I mean, I stood up and ran like a wild man, pell-mell down that little gravel alley, kicking up colonial dust in my wake. The entire time it happened, the enormous baby-man yelled out my name in my wake.

The nightmare should’ve been over at that point, but no. When I went back to the visitor center that night, thinking I could get some dick without a hassle, I sat down in one of the stalls and started jacking myself erect when I looked to my right and saw my name scrawled on the partition, in black marker. It makes me sad you can’t admit what you are, it said. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I yanked up my pants and recomposed myself. Before I left, though, it struck me to check out the other stalls. Sure enough, he’d written in all three. You are a homosexual, it said in the middle one, with my name prominently attached. In the third, beneath my name, it said, Admit the truth.

I have to confess here that what upset me so much wasn't the notion that I was gay. I had kind of figured that out, by this point. It was that he used my name, so publicly. In a panic, I left the men’s room and walked out to the little park where I’d had so much fun the night before. Men were moving in the gray shadows. I couldn’t make out what they were doing, exactly, but I was sure I wanted a part of it. A tall man brushed by me. The tips of his fingers stroked the corduroy of my pants. He looked back over his shoulder and jerked his head for me to follow.

Then I heard a familiar voice from the bench, saying my name loudly and breaking the hushed spell of the park. “Fancy seeing you here,” said the baby-man, in the most meaningful of tones.

I fled again, as he called my accursed name at my back.

In short, I allowed myself to become victim to someone who delighted in making me uncomfortable. These days, I know pretty much how to handle it. Then, I didn’t have the resources or experience. I’d avoid the park and the visitor center for a couple of weeks at a time, then go back for a few days and enjoy myself until I ran into the baby-man again. He would always use my name, very loudly and prissily, as if he took great pleasure in embarrassing the hell out of me. From time to time he would refresh the graffiti, coming up with fresh words to rekindle the hell of my mortification.

It’s hard to believe now that I allowed that shit to go on for three and a half years. It wasn’t until my senior year that I got rid of the guy. I used to meet up with a guy who worked for Williamsburg as a slave—by which I mean he was an actor from Brooklyn who was paid pretty well to strip to the waist, adopt an African accent, and portray a colonial slave, of course—who would change into street clothes and hang out at the park with me on warm nights. He was a muscular man of great comeliness who always made me feel very flattered when we’d make out and swap blowjobs in the bushes. When one night I started to flee because of the baby-man, he made me stop and listened to my complaints. “Oh, that old queen,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Fuck that shit,” he said. “Just pretend he’s not there and do whatever it is you want. That’ll make him stop.”

I was dubious, but I took the advice. And sure enough, once I pretended I didn’t care, the baby-man left me alone. When he’d call out my name and say something insinuating and sly, I’d pretend I didn’t hear. If he wrote on the bathroom walls, I pretended I didn’t see. There were other people with my name, after all. Eventually he got tired of playing a game without a partner, and disappeared for the last semester of my college career.

Fuck that shit was one of the best lessons I learned in school, frankly. I apply it on a daily basis, still. I wish I’d just been a little quicker on the uptake.


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Holy crap! I watch a lot of porn and this one is undoubtedly one of the worst (if not the worst) I've seen in the last 25 years.

Allegedly, it's based loosely (and I do mean loosely) on Harry Potter.

First off, the lead is no where near as cute as Daniel Radcliffe. Secondly, the "story" is lame and the action is tepid. I was really surprised when I saw Matthew Rush in it. Oh, how far he's fallen!

Trust me, this is one you do not want to waste your time on. If it doesn't give me a hardon (and I usually get them pretty easy), which this one didn't, don't waste your hard earned money. You'd be better off using it for an enema (which might be more enjoyable than this flick).

Later!


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Every moment in life offers you a choice. You can hit snooze for the third time, OR you can get up early and go running. You can skip breakfast and gulp down an Extra Large Dunkin D Coffee, OR you can eat a bowl of fresh cut fruit with oatmeal. You can drive to work like a man possessed, pushing for every advantage to get to work those 3 minutes faster, OR you can decide to be the guy that let's the other car make that impossible left turn. Every moment offers us those choices, if we only open our eyes and see them for what they are.

But not all choices are equal.

I didn't have to call "The Card Dude". Keeping The Card was a choice. If I had thrown it away that first day, this story wouldn't need to be told and I would be a rather different person. Calling The Card Dude ("TCD") was another, and somewhat bigger, choice. With the call, I "chose" action and "carpe diem" over the mundane safety of my comfortable life. With that call, I chose to be "another me", if only for a moment, with no idea who that might turn out to be.

As I sat looking at the phone after being "ordered" to the TCD's place, I realized I was being presented a much larger and (seminally) profound choice. It was one of those "Big Life Choices" that we get from time to time. It was a choice between a lingering (but inconvenient) fantasy and a "hard to contemplate" reality, between serotonic comfort and adrenaline rush, between a control-oriented brain, and the unprobed recesses of my inner void (um... so to speak...)

Some part of me, the responsible/dependable part, calmly reminded: "You don't have to go. Just walk away now, and chuck this whole thing up to an *interesting* life experience. In a few weeks, it will all seem like a funny dream." And as the rest of me heard these soothing words, I felt the lightness of being that often follows a near traumatic moment.

I became me, again.

I left my office, jumped into my car and allowed muscle memory to make all the turns, stops and starts that represent my 13.5 minute drive home. But 43 minutes later, I was still driving and my heart-rate picked up as TCD's rather ordinary house came into view.

Apparently, choices, profound or otherwise, aren't always made with one's brain.


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While Dan and I were at Time's Square, he got a text from a fuckbuddy of his. he was taking loads and wanted to know if he wanted to swing by. We caught a taxi and went to his apartment, there on the bed was a buff, blonde, tall handsome jock. His butt has a light coating of hair, and it was round and inviting. I dove in and ate his butt, I tasted the sweet taste of a load from a man who I will never know. I stuck my tongue in and got some of the spunk from him, then Dan and I took turns nailing his ass. We both made out with him while we fucked him and I shot my load deep into his hole.

We then went out to see more of the NY sights.


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If you guys live in LA, spend time in weho, or go to Faultline, you've seen him, the tall slender guy with the curled mustache. He is a total slut and total exhibitionist. A few weeks ago he was in the showers at the gym, showing off his pireced tattooed cock, fingering his hole as he showered. I went up to him and I fingered his cunt. He smiled at me and followed me into the massage room.

I bent him over and ate his showoff manpussy.
Then I slid my dick into him.

"Yeah, fuck me, breed me, give me your load, I want to have a piece of you with me when I have lunch with my friends, give me that fucking sperm, sperm my fucking hole, give it to me, man that dick feels so good, so fucking hot, cream my ass"

It was nonstop. He nasty talk was neverending and it was going srraight to my balls.
I unloaded deep in his cunt. He smiled and went on his way, I always got a big smile and wink after that.


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Hey guys (and gals?), sorry I've been MIA the last couple of weeks. Between work, family and, well, football starting (72-0... Go Ducks!) I've been pretty damn busy. I picked up another shift at work with the goal of making as much money as possible now so I don't have to work as much when school starts. Part 2 of the Beach Boys story will be posted shortly. I already have half of it done.

Because you have all waited so patiently for so long, here's a short recap of a fun little encounter Jockguy and I had earlier this week:

I was sitting in my apartment around lunch time, watching tv and waiting for work to start. I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to see Jockguy.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked, surprised.

"It's my lunch break. I have half an hour," Jockguy said. He walked in my apartment, grabbed my hand and led me to my room.

"I've been horny all day. I need a quicky," Jockguy said, getting undressed.

"Do I have a say in this?" I asked.

"Nope. Take off your pants," Jockguy instructed.

"And what if I don't want to?"

Jockguy grabbed my jogging pants and pulled them, and my underwear, down in one quick motion.

"Trust me, you want to," Jockguy said as he pushed me onto my bed. I landed on my stomach. Jockguy immediately crammed his tongue in my ass. Spreading my cheeks with his hands he had full access to my hole. His tongue darted in and out of my pucker, lubing it with his spit.

When my ass was sufficiently lubed, Jockguy spit-lubed his cock and lined it up against my waiting hole. He slowly pushed forward. His dick head popped into my ass, sending a bolt of pain throughout my body. I bit down on my pillow and tried to relax. After a couple seconds the pain turned to pleasure. Jockguy started to pump his cock in and out of my ass, making me moan with each thrust. His cock felt amazing as it hit my prostrate, sending waves of pleasure throughout my body.

Jockguy pounded away for what seemed like forever. His balls slapped against my ass with force. His quads beat into the back of my thighs. His hands gripped my shoulders and forced my body into his.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jockguy tensed up.

"I'm gonna cum!"

Jockguy's cock swelled up as he exploded in my ass, sending shot after shot of hot, creamy cum deep in my used hole. Jockguy collapsed on top of me, hard cock still buried deep inside of me.

"Fuck, I needed that," Jockguy whispered in my ear.

"Glad I could help. Anytime you need me, I'm here." I turned my head and kissed Jockguy. He pulled out of my ass and rolled beside me. We made out for about 5 minutes.

"I really gotta go," Jockguy said after pulling off of a kiss. "I'll call you when I get off tonight."

Naked, I led Jockguy to the door.

"That'll be $200," I said, putting my hand out.

"Ha! You are overvaluing yourself by about $150," Jockguy laughed. I pucnhed him in the arm.

"You know I'd pay a lot more than that for that ass of yours," Jockguy said, pulling me in for one last kiss. "Ok, I really have to go. See ya later, sexy." Jockguy slapped my ass as he walked out the door.


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At the little southern college I attended, he was the most senior of the French faculty, yet I never heard him speak the language. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of pewter-colored hair around the shiny dome of his head.

When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen.

I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve.

As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and from little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, while Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life, I realized something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. Those minutes flew by quickly, and soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest. I stood with my own mother and father, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my jeans, wishing that the whole goodbye thing could be protracted as short as possible. “Well, okay then,” I said, and gave them awkward hugs.

After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off, and I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick.

I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d have them in mind when the time came to use them. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, at the moment.

But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti.

I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction.

I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me.

I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be at least in his late fifties.

“Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.”

I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted.

The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently seemed toyed with the outside of my hole.

I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth.

I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.”

I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?”

Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and take a walk with him, usually to the nearest quiet restroom or sometimes to his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school daughter, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm.

The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .”

“Of course I remember you,” he said. “You graduated.”

“I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but it wasn’t coming out.

It didn’t need to. He smiled. “So do you have time to take a walk?”

I always had time to take walks with my favorite French professor.


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Dear Bottoms of the World,

You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you.

I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you.

However. May I make one simple request?

If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?”

I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind.

That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know.

My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger.

If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite.

Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hand-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well.

That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble.

I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it.

And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.”

Until we meet,

The Breeder


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Gentle readers,

I'm still a little bit down from the events of the weekend. Judging from the website statistics of the past couple of days, everyone's out of town or at the beach anyway. So in lieu of an entry today, let me just wish all of Breeder's Readers a most happy, warm, and sandy Labor Day, and safe travels to those of you fortunate to be spending the holiday in some nice vacation spot.

Oh, and a click-to-enlarge dirty photo:




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A new batch of videos is being published by a photographer out of New York City who has decided to post them on his own blog rather than rely on Xtube, which has just disintegrated over the past few days into a useless pile of code.

I mean, what the fuck is going on at Xtube? Did someone cum all over their keyboard or what? Videos take forever to start, and when they finally do, you get only about 10 seconds worth of film before it freezes up and stops working altogether. There have been some pretty decent-looking videos of good length posted over the last few days, but none of them can be seen.

So here's a better solution if you're posting on Xtube. Do what NYC_photographer on Xtube has done... load your videos on your own blog and use Xtube only to publicize where they're at. If Xtube ever gets its act together (clean the cum out of your servers, boys), you can still watch the vids there, but in the meantime, just put them on your own blogs. A blog is so easy to create for yourself, even a caveman can do it.

(I believe even a caveman would do a better job of running Xtube these days.)

Let's hope the folks at Xtube didn't leave some old geezer alone at the switch for the long holiday weekend, and when they walk in Tuesday morning they find him keeled over his keyboard with his cock out and all the circuits screwed up...

Oh yeah, here's where you can find NYC_photographer's videos: http://nycamateurvideos.blogspot.com/. Enjoy!

For now, here's a sample of one of his vids, but be forewarned: It's a link to Xtube, so it may not load for you. (Not even Xtube's embed codes are working, so I have to give you just the link.) Here goes: http://www.xtube.com/watch.php?v=P1QMb-G241-.

Later bros,
will


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