Friday, November 30, 2007

Abditional Research

Now that I've demonstrated that you can sculpt abs without going to the gym or buying the John Basedow videos, there's still a lot of research to be done and a lot of decisions to make. You might think that you want washboard abs, but have you thought about just what that means? There's a whole universe of yummy abs out there to choose from.

I suppose that it's nice when the abs are symmetrical:

But there are plenty of beautiful abs where the muscles don't line up. It's more like they alternate. And those ones are very nice, too:

It's probably easiest to go with symmetrical and then if the knife slips, you can always say, "I meant to do that." But once that choice is made, you have to figure out just how defined you want that tummy to be. Sure, the supercut look is attractive:

But would you say no to someone sporting a smoother, leaner look?

Or maybe you want something in between:

Cookie-based abdomen construction being what it is, I think that you almost have to go with smooth abs.

Of course, I love the hairy abs, but I'm not sure how I'd create them. Most things are stuck to your man with royal icing, but if any of the icing shows, he looks all pale and pasty. And you really don't want one of your guest looking at your gingerbread hunks, seeing white, and saying, "Is that icing or... OH MY GOD!" It might be possible to use some dark dark sprinkles over an egg wash, but getting a pattern as nice as real life could be difficult.

I reckon I'll just have to do the best I can. I'm pretty sure the end result will be a success. I just got a call from b&c, who mentioned the prototype I made last night. I'm pretty sure he was salivating.

Happy weekend to all.

I Can Make You a Man

Warning: full frontal male nudity later in this post. And, no, that doesn't mean "scroll down now." Geez. Read the post.

We here at The Neighbors Will Hear are all about the holiday season. And we're all about the hot men. This is one of those killing-two-birds-with-one-stone posts. Unless it's one of those post about a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, but maybe we won't go there. Today.

Nothing says "holiday" like gingerbread men. But if you're like me, the standard gingerbread people don't do a lot for you, visually. Sure, they're tasty and spicy, the way a man should be, but they just don't look quite right. I'm always saying that if you don't like the man you have, you should go out and get one who suits you. Or, in this case, make one that suits you.

The hardest part about making your gingerbread hunk is getting the template right. (Deciding what you want in a man is harder than finding him. Uh huh.) Hopefully, you're either better than me at drawing (trust me: that is not setting the bar very high) or you're better than me at finding icons from men's rooms that can be easily translated into a cookie template. None of the ones I found was what I wanted, so I folded a bunch of pieces of paper in half, got out a pencil and a ruler, and started to experiment. If the proportions were wrong, I made adjustments, and before long, I had a small orgy of paper cutouts. Not as easy as posting an ad on craigslist, but the results are less frustrating and last longer.

As you can see, there are a lot of different shapes you can make, depending on what kind of man you want. I like the slimmer guys, but when it came to make my prototype man (The small army of gingerbread men comes later, before our holiday party. I can only hope that they don't end up with consciousness and I don't end up having a horror movie "based on a true story" about me.), I went for one of the mid-sized muscled guys. I figured he'd be easier to handle.

Here's my guy ready for the oven. I did my best to give him nice pecs and abs, but I'm thinking I fell down a bit on the iliac furrow. Nobody's perfect.

And here he is out of the oven. He's, like, baked.

As you can see, he did lose a little bit of definition. It was to be expected: he's mostly carbs, after all.

When he comes out of the oven, he needs to sit on his pan for a few minutes and then cool on a rack for a while. Fortunately, he can hold a pose almost indefinitely. Then it's time to make him a little more anatomically correct. I may have exaggerated one of his features a little bit.

He's got a nice cock, but his nuts are a bit on the small side. I suspect steroids. I'll be sure to watch out for any unexplained rage. Here's another pic, this time with the flash on.

Overall, I think he looks pretty good, but his torso's too long for his legs. I guess that means gingerbread hunk 1.0 gets devoured, and I try again to get the template just right. Once I get the proportions just right, I reckon the decorating will become somewhat more elaborate.

I'll probably have two or three templates, just so I can see which of my friends goes for which type of gingerbread hunk. I anticipate a certain amount of back and forth about who's a size queen, but what's a holiday party without a healthy splash of bitchiness?

Now I just have to get working on that life-sized photograph for "Pin the Cock on the Twink." I already have the blindfolds, naturally.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Promises, Promises

I hate all things insipid. If I'm going to eat cheese, I want a nice strong gorgonzola or a robust romano. American cheese is fine for food fights, but I want flavor in my food. And in my words. Last week, I was walking through the reception area at my office, and I noticed that there were Dove chocolates (bittersweet! 63%!) in the candy bowl. The chocolate itself was strong and tasty, but then I looked at the inside of the little foil wrapper, and there was a platitude. "Life is a bouquet of rich aromas." Oh for the love of Mike. (Mike: call me!)

I think Dove has always had these things in their chocolates but they weren't always so cloyingly pointless. I understand that there's not a lot of room on the wrapper, but you don't need many words to make a strong point. Think of those little candy hearts that you get around Valentine's Day. They taste awful, sure, but the messages are short and to the point: "BE MINE," "LUV YU," "BEND OVER," "MORE LUBE."

Anyway, I got to thinking. The Dove messages are useless, but the idea of a message in an unexpected place is a sound one. I couldn't help wondering what other small, foil-wrapped item might benefit from a short message. You see where I'm going with this, don't you? I knew you would. So here are some more of the Dove promises (On some days I ate as many as two, just to collect them: do you see how I torture myself for your benefit?), followed by an analogous, but improved, message to go next to the latex. (Venture capitalists: call me!) You'll have to excuse me for not photoshopping mock-ups of condom wrappers. I don't know how.

An insipid message about insipid music. Elevator music is pretty much designed so that you don't want to sing along to it and so that if you did want to sing along to it, you still couldn't. Simply to be contrarian, I might be tempted to sing a harmony part in the elevator, except that we don't have music in the elevators here. Besides, except for when I'm singing in the choir, I've given up singing harmony in public for the next few months, as part of my public mourning for the demise of We, Like Sheep.

For the condom wrapper, I'd go with a musical reference here:

Why must love be like a ball and chain?

Yeah, you heard it from Dove first: compromise is a bad thing. Let's hope that no one at the State Department or the Annapolis conference got that one. For the condom wrapper (in smaller print, to fit):

Wear the fucking condom. If he says he wants it bare, grunt. When he sees you pull the condom off say, "How did that get there?" It's easier to get forgiveness than permission.

Because if you don't, someone else will sell them, I guess. Really, where do they come up with this shit? For the condom wrapper:

Own the ass. Property is theft, and stolen fruit is the sweetest.

Yep. And x still equals x. Condom wrapper:

Ass a little funky? We also have a full line of latex gloves!

Have you ever tried to listen to your heartbeat and dance at the same time? It always beats in two: what if you want to waltz? And doesn't your heart beat faster when you dance? Does anyone else see a positive feedback loop problem here? Condom wrapper:

Shut up and fuck.

Maybe we'll just put that on all of them.

It's My Blog, Dammit!

Apparently, some closeted gay conservative took Scott (of Scott-o-rama) to task for having the temerity to write about politics. He wanted Scott to go back to his earlier, funny movies light-hearted shenanigans and posts of scantily clad, attractive athletes. Or whatever. Scott, unsurprisingly, demurred, opting instead to write about whatever the hell he wants. I will spare you a rant about gay conservatives and how on the one hand they claim to be rebels for not toeing the gay party line while on the other hand they have the exact same politics as their parents. Well, I'll spare you the rest of that rant, anyway.

Probably the best thing about blogging is the freedom to write whatever and whenever you want. Also, the ability not to read any blog that you don't like. Cthulhu knows I'm not giving up writing about the gay sex any time soon, but if I felt like it, I could. So as a way of driving that point home, today's post is about something completely different. Please enjoy these pictures of cheese. No, really.

Don't try to put me in a box! (Unless there's some good cheese in there. And maybe a baguette and some nice red wine. And a bottom who kisses well. A boy can dream, right?)

By the way, we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming shortly. As much as I adore cheese, I don't want to talk about it on The Neighbors Will Hear because I worry that men will get the wrong idea. Let me be very clear: I do not like cheesy men. That statement stands for all meanings of the word "cheesy."

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


After yesterday's drama-laden post, I thought that today I'd post some snippets interspersed with pictures of attractive Asian men. The reason I chose Asian men today may or may not become apparent, but the fact that I find them handsome should be reason enough.

I can't explain the fascination I have (or anyone else has) for Asian men. I'm tempted to say that gay men fall into two classes: those attracted to men like themselves and those attracted to men unlike themselves. And I'm further tempted to claim that men attracted to those unlike themselves are so attracted because of their broader outlook on life in general. But that line of reasoning fails for (at least) two reasons. First, I don't believe you can help what turns you on. Second, I'm very much into guys both like and unlike myself. It's true that, on an intellectual level, I would (if I were in the dating market, which I am not) prefer to date non-Americans because I'd get a more interesting world view. On a visceral level, however, give me a good set of lips, a responsive body, and the desire to use them, and race just doesn't matter to me.

Speaking of Asian men, this Monday morning, I had to go downtown to a meeting with a client. I'm almost certain that the controller, who is Chinese, was flirting with me after the meeting. I can't think of any way to find out for certain that wouldn't be unprofessional, though. And it doesn't really matter. If I saw him on, I'd do in a minute (and for two hours). But if you take even the sexiest man in the world and make him an accountant (that I have to do business with), all the fire drains from my loins. Once you've talked about the DC unincorporated business tax with a guy, you can't picture him naked. Alas.

When my friend George (along with his #1 boyfriend) was over this weekend, I was talking about how I'd been trying to get just the right cutout shape for hunky gingerbread men. I happened to mention that I'd gotten the muscle guy shape right but that I was still working on the thinner shape for the Buddhist monk gingerbread cookies. In response, he mentioned that his #3 boyfriend is thinking about becoming a Buddhist monk. I was all, "Dude. In a couple of years, it's possible that you will have slept with a Buddhist monk! Do you know how I fantasize about that?" I am bright green with envy. I may have to hide all the Buddhist monk cookies from him at the party. And eat them myself.

I'm thinking that getting a nice saffron color for the royal icing for the Buddhist monk cookies might be challenging. But I'll manage. Or I'll just put them in Speedos like the muscle men. I think that monks should embrace the Speedo, anyway. Nothing says humility like putting your twig and berries out there for me the world to see.

I didn't get home until almost 8 last night, so b&c had already started dinner when I came in the door. I grabbed him and started making out with him and told him I wasn't really hungry and that I would see him when I was done with my shower. Don't breeders commonly have sex that lasts fifteen minutes or less? I was doing my best to move things along, but we still went for forty-five minutes. When we were lying their afterwards, we had a brief conversation:
B&c: I guess I should make dinner.
TED: God, yes. I'm starving.
B&c: But you said you weren't hungry.
TED: I never had lunch today. "I'm not hungry" doesn't mean "I'm not hungry." "I'm not hungry" means "I'm starving, but I'm hornier than I am hungry." Haven't you ever heard of priorities?
B&c: You're crazy.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Hot Blooded

It is not always easy living with a man of Italian descent. Sure, you get all the pasta and eggplant parmagiana you could ever want, and there's always plenty of red wine in the house, but then there's that Mediterranean temperament.

B&c will be the first to acknowledge that he is the hothead in our relationship. His natural tendency to quick anger was probably exacerbated by living alone for nearly a decade after his youngest son (who shares my temperament as well as my first name) went off to college, but he has made some progress since we started living together, so we no longer have exchanges like the following:

B&c: You should fold your underwear like I do.
TED: I'd rather do it the way I'm doing it.

I exaggerate, but only slightly. Anyway, while it's no longer suggested on a monthly basis that I move out, there is still some sort of minor eruption (usually him swearing at something and me ignoring him) on a daily basis and a major eruption once a quarter or so.

Sunday evening, for example, I brought YFU home from her ballet rehearsal, and b&c asked what we were going to do about dinner. This was not the eruption, of course, but it was noteworthy: b&c always insists on making dinner himself. I only get to cook when we're having guests. Anyway, I volunteered to make something. He told me that he'd already started defrosting some tomato sauce, and that I could use that. I said I'd make some pasta and heat up some of the leftover green beans from Thanksgiving.

Then he started to quiz me about how the green beans had been prepared and to complain about the manner in which I'd prepared them. I ignored him and went to the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove to boil, got a box of ziti out of the cupboard, and emptied the sauce into a large bowl, which I then put in the microwave so that the sauce could defrost. I started to cut up some leftover turkey to add to the pasta, and b&c came into the kitchen:

B&c: You're defrosting the sauce in the bowl? I usually defrost it in the container for the first few minutes and then finish defrosting it in the bowl.
TED: [What possible difference can it make?] Hmmmm.
B&c: You're using that pot to boil the water for the pasta? I usually use the saucepan.
TED: [My pot's bigger, and it has a pasta insert.] Hmmmm.
B&c: Let me find the spaghetti.
TED: I already have some ziti out.
B&c: I thought you would make spaghetti.
TED: [I thought when you decided that you didn't want to cook, you would sit on the couch and drink your wine and leave me the fuck alone.] Hmmmm.
B&c: Are you sure you want green beans? There's a package of spinach in the freezer.
TED: I'm sure.
[TED takes the defrosted sauce out of the microwave, adds the chopped turkey to it and returns it to the microwave to heat through.]
B&c: [Petulantly.] You didn't just put the turkey in the sauce, did you? I hate that. I want to eat pasta when I'm eating pasta and turkey when I'm eating turkey.
TED: Ball and chain [I use his full name when I'm angry with him], when you make dinner, do I stand in the kitchen and micromanage you?
[B&c curses quietly but audibly as -- unasked -- he gets the parmesan cheese and begins to grate it. TED decides not to mention that he hadn't planned to use the parmesan because the turkey was brined any more salt would be too much. TED goes to set the table.]

At the table, b&c put the pasta on his plate and then picked the bits of turkey out of it and piled them up separately. He ate the green beans but complained about them. (In four years, I have never once criticized anything he cooked.) YFU and I thought everything was fine.

At this point, I knew there was potential trouble ahead. I did my very best to stay out of his hair because his explosions always build on a foundation of grumpiness. Typically, he's grumpy because he hasn't been fucked in more than two days (which I presume was also the case here, since he'd spent the preceding three days at his mother's house), but it can be almost anything. Everything was fine until after I'd put YFU to bed (she had lost a tooth, and I had to put money under her pillow after she was asleep). I was in EFU's old room, doing something on the computer, and he came in.

B&c: [grumpily]Oh. You're in here.
TED: What?
B&c: Nothing. I was going to sleep here.
TED: Is something wrong?
B&c: I think we need separate bedrooms.
TED: I beg your pardon?
B&c: I need more space, I need more freedom. This has been coming for a long time. We can't talk about this now.
TED: Are you annoyed about something? [The answer to that question is almost always yes.]
B&c: I'm not annoyed about anything. I just need to be able to come and go as I please.
TED: What are you talking about? Who's stopping you?
B&c: I just need my own space. I'm not sleeping well. We can talk about it when YFU's not here.

Maybe it's just me, but "We should have separate bedrooms" is one of those things that I would probably not bring up unless I were prepared to discuss it right when I brought it up.

I reckon I should know by now that when b&c does something like this, I shouldn't take it too seriously. But what if he means it seriously? How would I know? My response is always to feel very insecure about my living situation until I can get back to the office, take a look at my budget, take a look at condominium prices, run a tax projection, and reassure myself that, if necessary, I could swing buying a place of my own and still have enough left over to give the amount I've agreed to give to EFU for her tuition. After that I relax some.

Anyway, last night I went home, and b&c was getting used clothing ready for a Purple Heart pickup that was coming the next day. He asked me if I had any, and I said I thought so. Then I went and took a shower, went through the closet, pulled out some suits that were too big for me (I only wear suits at funerals any more, anyway), tried on a pair of jeans to make sure they still fit, and went to look for b&c, who had mysteriously disappeared:

TED: B&c?
B&c: [from downstairs] Yeah?
TED: Are we having sex now?
B&c: Oh. Yeah.
TED: I mean, I know we're not having sex right now, but can we have sex in the very immediate future?
B&c: I know what you mean. I'll be upstairs in half a minute.
TED: Verb tense is very important to me.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'm the wife in our relationship. I'm not trying to promulgate gender stereotypes here. God knows that in my parents' relationship, my mother was the one who threw things and my father was the even-tempered, oil-the-waters spouse. But when things have been tense in our household, I'm the one who keeps quiet and who tries to restore calm, generally by making sure that when we finally get around to the buttsex, I pound away for a few minutes longer than usual before I give up the semen. Then, in the aftermath, when b&c is in a much better mood, I calmly try to bring up what's bothering him. My initial reaction is to tell him to stop being such a fucking baby. I mean, really, who loses his shit over having some turkey in the freaking ziti? But throwing gasoline on a fire is not what I do, especially when it's over three bucks a gallon. I don't especially mind being the soothing one; on the other hand, if I'm going to be the wife, I should really get to stay home all day, prepare the meals, and bone the UPS guy. Life is so unfair.

Anyway, when we were at the dinner table having some wine and waiting for the casserole (he decided to try something new; most of it was dreadful; I did not complain) to cook through, I waded in. Apparently, he felt that there were too many restrictions on his freedom. I reminded him that he'd spent almost the entire summer abroad. I reminded him that he has anywhere from ten to eighteen hours a day when I'm at work and he can do whatever and whomever he wants. I reminded him that I'm perfectly capable of fending for myself (as evidenced by the several months when he was away) and that he cooks every night because he hates doing the dishes. And then I asked him to compare his free time with my free time. I also told him that I'd be perfectly happy sleeping in a different room, as long as I could still have morning sex on demand. But it turned out that the different rooms thing had been a canard. That's too bad, really. I like sleeping with b&c just fine, but I need a much darker room and a much softer bed than he does, and we only cuddle when we're awake. I'd be thrilled to sleep alone. Again, provided the morning-sex-on-demand condition is met. Which shouldn't be that hard to do: I'd have to pass by his bed on my way to and from the bathroom, so I could just climb in after a shower or a piss.

Anyway, calm settled once again over the household. The next time he's due to erupt is during tax season, when I'll be too busy to notice. He'll probably just fly off to Europe for a week instead. After dinner we had a much more pleasant conversation:

B&c: You really need to go on Silverdaddies.
TED: Please. I'm 43.
B&c: Uh huh.
TED: We've been through this before. 43.
B&c: It doesn't matter, there are a ton of twenty-year-old bottoms on there who are looking for, um, forty-three-year olds.
TED: Twenty-year-olds bore me. You should be finding me wealthy older bottoms who are willing to pay for the pleasure of my company. I could use the revenue stream.
B&c: Uh huh. What's in it for me?
TED: The house gets thirty-five percent.
B&c: Hmmmm. How much should I charge?
TED: Dude. Pricing is a management decision. I'm labor, here.
B&c: You know I've always been very pro-labor.
TED: Yeah, yeah. Remind me to stick it to the man sometime in gratitude.

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Missed Connections of Orange County

Have I mentioned that I spend too much time watching reality TV? I never miss an episode of Project Runway, and I have a particular fondness for any MTV reality show where young men are prone to walking around shirtless. Which is most of them. There's a reason why you rarely see anything like Real World: Alaska. Anyway, I watch some shows even though they're awful and don't feature much in the way of semi-clad men. The Real Housewives of Orange Country, for instance. You do see the occasional shirtless young man, but mostly you see a lot of societal parasites overconsuming. Sometimes I think that Bravo produces TRHoOC (which is not, really, terribly interesting) in order to show that there are a lot of dumb people with money. But if that's the case, I'd bet that it backfires. A lot of Americans probably watch that show and come away with great admiration for the OC residents. In any case, I'm sure the real reason was that Bravo wanted to capitalize on the Desperate Housewives phenomenon. I've never seen an episode of Desperate Housewives, though. There are, after all, some limits to my depravity.

Anyway, as part of my ongoing series of cybertourism via craigslist (sort of like Munchausen's by proxy, but less interesting), I decided to look at the Orange County missed connections ad. And, you know what? It turns out that the rich are different: they got more money.

No more brains, though. There is the usual assortment of men who are too timid to approach the objects of their desires. There is the occasional bit of remarkable stupidity, though:
antique dealer - m4m - 27

Reply to:
Date: 2007-11-24, 10:49PM PST

I went to a sale in irvine you had and you were very friendly and gave me a great deal on some art. We talked really briefly but a woman you worked with was calling for you so we did not get long to talk. I see you often but you sometimes wear a wedding ring and sometimes dont????? You have a nice ass and your nipples are always popping out of your tshirt. I bought a Paris street scene picture..if you remember me email me and lets have coffee. Your birthday was appriaching and I like older men so if you are interested in coffee, email me and tell me where the sale was and we can meet up. If you read this and dont respond I might be too embarassed to shop again.

Location: Irvine

I do, of course, applaud this young man's sense in exploiting what is obviously most important to his intended. By threatening to withhold his custom if the other guy doesn't bend him over an antique settee and fuck him all the way to next Thursday, he's showing the antique dealer both that he's a force to be reckoned with and that they speak the same language. Pig Latin, I reckon.

It's a bit hard to draw too many conclusions about the real character of Orange County from the missed connections. You could certainly infer that the gay citizens there are vapid, but you would have already known that because of where they live and the fact that they're posting on the missed connections. But getting beyond that is tough. I was, however, able to discern that what Results is to DC, 24 Hour Fitness is to OC. Every one of the Washingtonians who's afraid to approach a hot guy at Results has a counterpart in Anaheim who's afraid to approach a hot guy at 24 Hour Fitness. It's comforting, in a way, to know that deep down we're all really the same.

I'm a bit confounded by the following ad. I suppose that a spelling error on the part of the poster is the most probably explanation, but it's not a difficult word to spell, and he (mis)spells it the same way twice in a post that otherwise evinces a firm command of the language. Or is it a misspelling after all?
Oh Target Manger - m4m

Reply to:
Date: 2007-11-25, 11:08AM PST

You = cute, tall , white and a Manger at Target across from the Orange Mall. Me= hispanic, 6', blk (with a little salt)hair, black pants and reddish/pink buuton down shirt. We were cruising each other in the electronic departmentaround 6pm last night. I was in a hurry. Lets meet for coffee or dinner.

Location: Orange

Is there a job description for a "Manger" at Target? I shop at Target only rarely, so I might not know. Perhaps it's some sort of performance art thing where the guy acts out the nativity scene during the Christmas shopping season. The other obvious explanation is that it comes from the French manger, to eat, so that it's the job of this person to offer on-site blowjobs and rimming to the customers. It is Orange County, after all, and according to the real housewives, the people there expect and receive superlative customer service. But if that were the case, why would you need to post an mc ad when you could just go back during the guy's shift and sit on his face?

Clearly my confusion is further evidence that I'm far too provincial to make it in the OC. It's kind of a relief, though. I don't think I have the patience to get my hair highlighted.


I don't think that I hook up too casually, but every once in a while, I think that I should think that I hook up too casually. But I'm playing safe, so as long as I'm having a good time when I hook up, logic (and my libido) tell me that it's better to have fun than to adopt the morality of my Southern Baptist childhood. On grounds totally independent of morality, sometimes I feel that the time I spend going for that third hook-up might be better spent doing something else, but at the time, nothing else usually seems as interesting. Besides, it's possible to multi-task. This past weekend, between Friday evening and Saturday afternoon, I hooked up four times, and I still managed to get the kitchen cleaned up from Thanksgiving and candy two quarts of orange peel. I'm going to assume that you're more interested in reading about the hook-ups, but if you're interested in discussing candying orange peel, then by all means e-mail me.

I was working on several fronts at once. I had a craigslist ad up, and I was sometimes on, and I logged on a few times to rhymes-with-flirt. It got to be a bit tough to keep all of the guys distinct in my mind, and on Saturday afternoon, when I was heading out to see a movie and then have dinner with a couple of my friends, a guy called my cell phone, gave me his name (or a name, anyway), apologized for not calling me in the morning as he'd said he would, and asked me whether I was still looking. I got as far as "Right now I'm headed out for a movie and dinner with some friends," but when I said, "but e-mail me later, and maybe we can work something out," I think he had already hung up. It is occasionally annoying that cell phones don't make a noise when someone hangs up on you.

Anyway, the first guy was a fit older (he said 48, but I'm guessing 55) guy with white hair. I found him very sexy, at least in appearance. I was supposed to be doing another guy at the same time, so I told him I'd leave the door unlocked and that he could come upstairs, undress, and watch until I was done with the first guy. But then the first guy baled on me after we talked on the phone and I told him he couldn't take a video of our session. So when the other guy showed up and came upstairs, I was alone.

As promised, he kissed. Well, sort of. It turns out that one of the things that really turns him on is having a hand held tightly across his mouth, and if you kiss him hard enough, it provokes the same effect. He didn't really kiss back, but his nipples took quite a beating. What he mostly liked, though, was to have me wrap my hand around his cock and balls and twist slowly. He was quite insistent about having me do it just right. I don't get the deal with bossy submissives, but whatever. I would probably have been annoyed except that he gave good head. He wasn't letting me in his ass (which seemed odd, since he'd obviously cleaned it well), though, and every time I got a finger more than a couple of inches in, he complained. After half an hour or so, I got a little bored, and it was clear I wasn't going to get off from his cocksucking, so I jerked him off to completion, and he left. Next!

That last scene took place after midnight, and I had a couple of things set up for the next day, so I went to sleep not long after. Around 6:30 am, I got a text message from Kip. Previously, Kip had always done threeways with b&c and me, but b&c had given him my number and suggested that he contact me directly over the weekend. We'd exchanged text messages, but he was working when I was free, and I had the girls when he was free. But at 6:30, I got a message that he was about to get off work at the hospital and that he wanted to come over. I texted back that I had another guy showing up at 9, and Kip asked whether he could join us. I said I didn't think the other guy would go for it (probably not true: the other guy was a married sub, and he'd likely have done just what I told him), and he texted back to ask whether he could come over before married guy. Well, why not. I told him I'd leave the door unlocked.

I've wanted to get Kip alone for a while so that I could fuck him. He responds well to an authoritative attitude, so when he came upstairs and got undressed, I pinned him to the bed while we made out for a while. He's got nice lips and solid technique, so that was fun. The cell phone rang while I was straddling him and holding him down. It was the married sub. I pushed him back to 9:30, then told Kip we had plenty of time.

I know that the best way to get to fuck Kip is to ignore his needs, but his ass is just too nice not to eat, and once he was on top of me having his ass eaten and (for once) going down on me, he became less submissive. I pushed a finger up his ass, and he complained, so I put him on his back, held him down, and chewed on his nipples until he became more compliant. I went back with two fingers, and he took a hit on his poppers. When I gloved up and started to lube his hole, he started to say he was scared, but I ignored him. But every time my cockhead got up against his hole, he'd wriggle away a little, and pretty soon he as hanging over the edge of the bed. I pulled him back, pushed his knees farther up, and got my cockhead in, and he asked me to stop and said he was scared of being fucked. You really can't fuck a guy when he's told you not to, so I stopped. He told me that he really doesn't get fucked and that his boyfriend mostly just fondles him. He'd previously bragged about his bf's huge cock, so I'm not sure what to believe. I'd had a pretty good time with the making out, nipple play, and rimming, so I wasn't particularly upset. Besides, if I decide he's worth the trouble, next time, I'll just get his agreement in advance, tie him down, and fuck him. I'm not sure he is worth the trouble, but he may be. In any case, the married guy was due pretty soon, so I went down on Kip. It's such a suckable cock, anyway. As always, he came very quickly, and I had time to change the sheets for the married sub.

The married sub was another fit older guy, maybe 50. I don't know why I find fit guys with white hair so attractive, but I do. Not necessarily more attractive than thirty-something Asians, or tall African Americans with bubble butts or stocky Latinos with uncut cocks, but very attractive all the same. This guy was a true sub. He didn't ask me to do anything, and he didn't refuse me anything. A couple of times I backed off on the nip work a bit when I could tell that he wanted to ask me to ease up but wouldn't. But he was a great and avid kisser, gave terrific head, and had an immaculate ass that responded very well to being eaten. In fact, after the making out, the intense nipple play, and the rimming him while he went down on me, I had to repeat the whole process again. I could tell that he wanted to be fucked, but he wasn't going to ask for anything, so it was over an hour before I handed him the condom and told him to put it on me. It probably would have been easier for him to do if I hadn't been eating his ass at the same time, but whatever.

The buttsex itself only lasted ten minutes. I guess I was pretty worked up from the other guys because I actually came in the condom in his ass. He appeared to have had a splendid time. As did I. He's not far away, so I think I'll be seeing him again, when our schedules line up. Lots of fun.

The fourth guy was another sub, but a sub of the more demanding variety. Fortunately, what he wanted lined up very well with what I wanted. Unfortunately, when he called to say he could come over, he said he would only have twenty minutes and just "wanted to get to know" me. Fortunately, you can do a lot in twenty minutes. He liked to kissed, loved having his nipples squeezed, liked being pushed around, and -- despite complaining frequently and loudly that my cock was far too thick to go in his "super tight" ass -- took great delight in lining my cock up with his ass, taking it halfway in, and yelping about the size of it as he pushed it back out. I semi-fucked him in at least five different positions. I can work very quickly when I want to. He e-mailed me afterwards to say that he wants to get together for a more extended session, but we'll have to see. He made an awful lot of suggestions, so he may be a little bit too demanding. The combination of liking to kiss and a truly (if not super) tight ass might be too much to pass up, though.

After I was done with him, I worked some more on the orange peel, then went to see Lions for Lambs (don't bother) with my buddy George and his #1 (of three) boyfriend, who was in town from NYC. I hadn't met #1 before, but he was a very nice guy. After the movie, we went to dinner, and then I had them back to the house for pecan pie and coffee. Not long after they left, b&c got back from visiting his mom in NJ.

So how was your holiday weekend?