At Last

The lack-of-sex situation had gotten to the point where it was beginning to inhibit my ability to function, especially at work, where assignments would sit on my desk while I pondered (or wallowed in, depending on one's point of view) my horniness. The blame is fully my own, of course, but I am assisted by working at a firm with a very porous content filter, so it's easy to surf the net for pictures and/or stories of hot men having lots of great sex. Anyway, I was at work today, and it was Saturday, and I needed to get a lot done, and it just wasn't happening, so despite my total lack of free time and ability to host, I figured that if I could find a way to hook up, I should. I saw an ad on craigslist from a guy who wanted a massage, and I thought, "Well, it's something," so I answered it. We went back and forth a few times, and the information exchanged made the guy sound very familiar, so I did some searches in my gmail accounts (I have -- in terms that my grandmother might have used -- more gmail accounts than Carter's got little pills.) and it turned out that the guy who wanted a massage was a http://theneighborswillhear.blogspot.com/2007/07/not-so-slick.html whom I'd last seen about eighteen months ago. Have I mentioned that I'm not always so good about keeping in touch with people?


Anyway, I called S. and asked whether he was still living in the same place, and he said that he was, and I said that I'd be over. I googled directions, and they seemed weird to me. In fact, when I was driving over there, I briefly wondered whether I'd gotten confused and perhaps I had confused S. and another guy, because the drive seemed more like I remembered the drive to that guy's house. (And that would have been a disaster: I'd have had to actually give that guy a massage; S., on the other hand, would just want a romp.) But once I got to the address, I realized that I had just come from a different starting point before and that I was, in fact, at S.' house. He'd been having it remodeled the last time I was over, so when he answered the door, after I'd kissed him hello, I told him how nice the place looked. Then I kissed him some more.

And, truly, that boy can kiss. He has solid technique: he uses the tongue, but he doesn't overuse the tongue; he is mostly soft and languorous with moments of urgency; and he's obviously into it. And he also has great equipment. I was reminded of the moment in Diva (still my favorite movie after all these years, where Jules places the headphones over Alba's ears and says, "Ecoutes," and Alba, after ecouteing for a few moments gushes, "La voix qu'elle a!" Halfway into the session, I was lying side-by-side with S., kissing him, and I thought, "La bouche qu'il a!"


He also has the perfect cock: small, dark, and uncut. I took my time getting to it, of course. I got him on the bed right away, but it was so much fun kissing him, pushing up his polo and playing with his small-but-sensitive nipples, running my hands down his back and inside his jeans to cup his ass, and lying on top of him and pinning him to the bed, that getting him undressed just wasn't all that much of a priority.

Another thing about S. that's near-perfect is his dark, firm, small, plump, immaculately clean ass. Reader, I ate it.


The things that aren't so good about S. are his lack of experience and lack of initiative. He's pretty much mastered kissing, but he's not all that anxious to try anything else, so there's no way he's going to, say, suck my cock. In fact, if I want him to play with my rod at all, I have to grab his hand and put it on my equipment, at which point he'll play with it diffidently only until he's distracted by something else. Which doesn't take very long.

But nobody's perfect, and while he used to not want to let me do anything with his ass, I can now eat it, slide a finger up it to massage his prostate, and shove my cock against the opening. I still can't actually fuck him, but then he's very thin and very tight, and I'm not sure any amount of patience, relaxation, and lube is likely to overcome his physiology. And while he's eager to have his ass stimulated, he's clearly not eager to be fucked, so there's no point in pushing it. I was very worked up this afternoon, so I did put him on his stomach, wedge my cock in his crack, and dry hump him aggressively. He seemed to like that.


I only had an hour to play, and forty-five minutes of that was probably spent making out. Towards the end, we lay side-by-side again, and I grabbed him with one arm and we kissed moderately aggressively while I jerked myself off. I just needed to cum, and I figured that a) S. might freak a little if I got him off first, and b) it wouldn't take long for me to bring him off. I was very worked up from all the great osculation, and I was excessively horny, so the ejaculation was almost overwhelmingly intense. Also excessively voluminous, but the bed linens were plenty absorbent. I could have used a moment to recover, but he was still kissing me, and that was still feeling great, so I started to play with his cock again, and, as I'd expected, it wasn't long before he was breathing hard and then murmuring "I'm coming" into my mouth. I got a nice load out of him, too. (Nothing like mine, but then my nuts are probably three times as big as his.) And then we kept kissing for a while longer while I played with his softening cock. Really, that thing is hypnotic. I should probably be grateful that I'm circumcised: if I had foreskin, I might never bother getting out of bed.


We chatted a bit as I got dressed, and I told him to keep in touch. I'm pretty sure that it's really up to me to keep in touch, and I'm pretty likely to remember to do that this time.

Anyway, the sense of relief is almost embarrassingly great. I'm sure other people go a couple of weeks without having sex with another person and without falling to pieces. Then again, maybe they don't. The world seems to be in an awful mess these days. Just imagine how much better off we'd be if the geniuses who gave us interest-rate swaps and collateralized mortgage obligations had instead spent their time hunting for cock and ass on craigslist. Let's hope the Obama administration gets right on that.

Sharky's Night

So when I'm not busy mourning the imminent collapse of civilization or, more importantly, my sex life, I've still got the full range of normal activities to tend to. That's how I found myself trying hard to be angry on Tuesday evening. As you must know by now, a couple of weeks ago, I had a particularly nasty case of influenza, and so b&c had rescheduled our tickets to see The Seafarer at Studio Theater. He'd reminded me Tuesday morning that we still had the tickets, but the weather was awful (the schools were closed, and our street was a sheet of ice in the morning), and it hadn't occurred to me that he'd want to walk the three-quarters of a mile from the Metro to the theater in sub-freezing temperatures through slush and wintry mix. (I love the term "wintry mix," even though it sounds like it should be a snack food, rather than precipitation that can't make up its mind.) So I hadn't bothered to pack gloves or a hat or appropriate footwear, so when I came up the escalator and opened my tiny umbrella (which b&c had brought along for me), I started muttering to myself, "eight long blocks dodging ice and puddles in this weather: I am going to be very angry." And, you know, I don't get angry very often, so I figured I should take the opportunity.


Alas, it just didn't work out. We walked about two thirds of the way there and then we stopped at our usual pre-Studio Theater Thai place, and my hands had thawed by the time they'd brought me my tea, and the soup and the Panang Gai were both so good that I couldn't keep from feeling good. Still, I held out hope for later in the evening because, after all, we still had to get to the theater, and the play we were going to see was by Conor McPherson, and just a year or so earlier, we'd seen Shining City, also by Mr. McPherson, and it was one of those humorless, pointless, monologue-laden affairs that I Just Didn't Get. Indeed, I couldn't see why Studio would want to put its audience through the harsh tedium of another McPherson play, but I thought it might work to my benefit because, I knew from the earlier summaries that it was some variation or other on Faust, and I figured that in just a few, short hours, I'd be able to seethe, "I can't believe you dragged me out on a Tuesday night through miles of slush to listen to Conor McPherson's Satanic monologues."


Alas, that didn't work out, either. In fact, my very last potential bone of contention disappeared when, after the play was over, we walked all the way back to Dupont Circle (ok, it's only a little more than half a mile, but it was very cold), and a train pulled into the station just after we got to the platform, so I had no wait at all. I was counting on having to stand on the platform for a good ten or fifteen minutes while my ire reached escape velocity, but some nights you just can't catch a break.


Shockingly, The Seafarer, a drama about the redemptive power of five-card draw poker, (And, really, the Obama administration has arrived not a moment too soon. With Dubya finally banished back to Crawford, I hope that we have seen the beginning of the end of the hegemony of Texas Hold'em.) was neither humorless nor pointless, and while Lucifer had a few longer speeches, they were nothing like the stupefying monologues of Shining City. I think that the Washington Post is probably correct in saying that the director didn't make the most of the solid play and talented cast that he had to work with, but the play was usually funny, sometimes touching, and always absorbing.


Most of the play is driven by a (literal) contest for the soul of Sharky Harkin, and the scenes between Sharky and the devil are the sparest and most gripping. Philip Goodwin was convincing as the Prince of Darkness, but even during his most animated speeches, I couldn't take my eyes off Sharky. That's in part because Billy Meleady is a terrific actor, but mostly it's because I spent the entire evening wanting to shag Sharky. Because Billy Meleady is also terrifically hot. Fifty-something, long, lean, and grizzled, he made me think, repeatedly, that what Sharky really needed to do was emigrate from Ireland to my bedroom. To quit the women and the booze and come up and see me sometime. I elected not to rise from my seat and shout, "Ditch the bitch and make the switch, Sharky!" but only out of an excess of politeness.


Anyway, despite the late night and the weather, it turned out to be a pretty good evening, so I wasn't able to nurture my bad mood, but tax season is starting, so I reckon I'll find another opportunity. I'll have to hustle before it's too late, though: the Washington National Opera hiked its ticket prices for next year, so b&c is not subscribing, so right there that's five lost chances to feel art-inflicted pain. Civilization may be on the verge of collapse, but at least I have been delivered from Wagner.

Fiddle, Burn

The impending collapse of Western civilization weighs heavily upon me, readers. I'm not talking about the financial crisis: it's clearly a symptom of the problem, but it's not necessarily the means of our destruction. It's perfectly possible, likely even, that we'll weather another two or three major recessions before the shit really hits the fan. I'm more concerned about my overall sense that the jig is up. For the past few centuries or so, we've been in a growth model whereby we consume now under the assumption that the next generation will find it easier to clean up our mess because there will be more of them. In fact, a few days ago, I was sitting in a stall in the men's room reading an editorial in the Wall Street Journal (always a mistake, whether you're in the men's room or somewhere else) wherein the paleocon editorial board argued that spending stimulus funds on family planning was misguided because it would slow the population growth rate, which would cause economic problems. The problem with this sort of thinking (aside from the self-evident truth that anything the WSJ editorial board says has to be wrong) is that it assumes a world of infinite resources. If, however, you live in a world of finite resources and you count on eternal growth for continued success, you will eventually come to a point where the resources can't sustain the growth, and then, well: Bernard Madoff.


But, as I said, it's not the financial crisis per se that has me concerned. It's the unrecognized moral/aesthetic crisis. And, believe me, I'm not talking about sexual morality here. Sexual morality needs to be a private matter: it needs to be entirely off the table when we're talking about matters of public policy. It's a great thing to talk about on your blog or with your friends when you're out ogling the fresh meat, but the last thing any of us needs is some diaper-wearing Senator telling us who to fuck. (Not Senator Huggies, by the way.)


The easiest way for me to discuss the real moral/aesthetic crisis of the early twenty-first century is through the example of reality television. I don't know whether our collective attention spans are long enough for anyone to remember the early days of, say, Survivor, but I'm pretty sure (or I'm just deluding myself) that people tuned in primarily to point and laugh at Richard Hatch and company. A million dollars was on the line, surely, because that was the minimum compensation required to allow someone to humiliate himself or herself so thoroughly in front of so many people. Schadenfreude is, to be sure, an ugly emotion, but if we're all pointing and laughing together, then we at least haven't lost our moral compass. We all know that there are plenty of idiots out there, but if we're all laughing at them, then we outnumber the idiots, right? (Don't answer that.)


I don't know when the shift happened. I first noticed it during the first season of The Apprentice, I think. We had people being every bit as rotten and ridiculous as the people being voted off the island, and a lot of people were still laughing at them, but it seemed that more people wanted to be them. And if you look at, say, The Real Housewives of Orange County, as the seasons have passed, the people being filmed have gotten more and more vapid and morally reprehensible, but they appear to be role models for a significant amount of the audience. When I first saw the series (and its spin-offs), I thought that perhaps Bravo was subtly undermining the excesses of capitalism, but it's become clear that it's now celebrating those same excesses.


Now I'll be the first to admit that the hero worship of reality TV subjects is personally vexing to me because I find it harder and harder to watch, for example, Bromance as harmless entertainment, when it becomes yet another example of people wanting fame for the sake of fame. (Though I suppose they also want it for the sake of wealth.) If everyone recognizes that Brody Jenner is ridiculous, the show is a guilty pleasure. When everyone wants to be him, the pleasure goes away, and there's nothing left but guilt. And maybe some outrage. But my personal vexation isn't really the point: the point is that we appear to have a full generation of people who think that it's reasonable to expect something for nothing. And that sort of person, no matter how many of them you have, can't be the next generation that pays for the last generation. These days we all seem to have consumption down, but if you never produce anything, consumption eventually becomes problematic.


All of which was an overly long prelude to the real issue I've been grappling with. I've always subscribed to the notion that it's better to light one candle than to curse the darkness. The corollary to that notion is that it's not okay to become part of the tidal wave going the wrong way and that it's not even okay to just move inland: we're meant to struggle against error. We're meant to do what we can to stop the lemmings from going over the cliff.

But at some point, it becomes hopeless, doesn't it? If you can't stop something bad from happening to everyone, surely you have the right to keep it from happening to yourself and the people you care about, don't you? If you're a tiny, tiny cog in the financial system, it doesn't seem to make much sense to try to do the right thing in the hope that you'll delay the collapse by a few seconds if you have the ability to insulate yourself from the effects of the collapse instead.


Indeed, if you have the ability to go your own way, then one could argue that you have the moral responsibility to do so. Or at least that to do so is a moral good. If, for example, you find a nice farm in some place like rural Virginia or Pennsylvania, move to it, and create the ability to sustain yourself on the fruits of your land and your labor, then maybe, when the world descends into chaos, you'll be in a situation to save some of our accumulated knowledge and to provide a haven for some who would otherwise starve or be forced into a sort of Mad Max sub-human existence.

And, heck, if it turns out that the collapse isn't imminent, then you've still got a nice piece of property, a quiet pastoral life, and -- if you've been industrious about gathering disciples -- a group of like-minded people to hang out with and fuck. Really, there are much worse existences, and if nothing else, you'll be thirty percent smarter for getting away from the reality television.

Hostile Work Environment

So, how was work today for you guys? The owners at my firm decided to bring in a consultant and make all the managers attend a full day of leadership training, so I spent my day being told how to be a more effective motivator and communicator.


The upside? Free lunch.


The downside? There are no words.


Enjoy the pictures.

I Reckon They're All Jealous of the Size of Its Trunk

I'm trying very hard these days to remember what sex is like. I get some clues in some of the details that the guys I (used to) fuck send me on text messages, and, of course, I still have pornography, but it's been an incredibly long time (weeks, maybe) since I've had sex with another person. This drought is all the fault of my recent run in with the flu, of course. I'm pretty much healed, and I have been for a few days, but I have a nagging leftover cough, and I don't really see how I can go around fucking guys when I sound like a consumptive, even if I'm entirely healthy.


Speaking of consumptives, I've never actually fucked one, but I imagine it would be quite an experience. On the one hand, you'd probably be afraid of catching something really nasty. On the other, if you're topping a guy and he laughs or coughs, it feels great. So I guess that if you could manage to plow a consumptive while wearing a hazmat suit, you might end up having a pretty good time.


Anyway, I estimate that the coughing fits (which, I'm told, are normal and harmless) will subside in a few more days, and then I suspect things will pick up. Until then, at least I have consolations of art. This past Saturday evening, b&c and I made the long trek to the Kennedy Center to hear an all French program at the NSO. Perhaps as an acknowledgment of the recent inauguration, before they got into the program, they played the national anthem. B&c had mentioned, on the drive down, that they'd been starting all the concerts this week that way, and I had wondered whether the instrumentalists stand while they're playing. Everyone except the cellists, who just sit there with their legs spread. My kind of guys.


The program itself was entirely unremarkable, but I did notice that the bass players were looking a little more butch than usual. Also, the acting first oboe is very cute. He was sitting next to the associate flute principal during the first piece, and I couldn't help thinking that the two of them, in any combination, would make excellent choices for the meat and bottom crust of a sandwich. Then again, I've always heard that players of double-reed instruments are annoying, so perhaps the flutist and I would be better stuffing Mr. Oboe from either end. Every once in a while I worry that the orchestra members are not as attractive up close and unclothed as they are in white tie and from the second balcony, but I hold firm to my belief that their breath control and/or fine motor skills would more than compensate. Besides, I'd have my glasses off.


Yesterday morning, I took YFU to church. Normally I only show up when I'm singing with the choir, but she wanted to go. The service was nominally about freedom, and it included, along with several uninspired and uninspiring hymns, three different congregants giving their personal reflections on freedom. This is the sort of service that we have when the minister isn't preaching, and I generally figure that the benefits, such as they are, of such services tend to accrue more to the people speaking than to the people listening. The desire to be heard appears to be universal. But one of the speakers yesterday actually had something moderately interesting to say.


He was talking about a book called The Happiness Hypothesis, which claims, perhaps among other things, that people have a misguided notion about how much power they can actually exercise over their inner natures. Plato gave us the charioteer metaphor, where the soul is powered by two horses of very different natures and guided by the intellect, i.e., the charioteer. The author of THH prefers another metaphor (I don't think it's his own), where our human nature is an elephant, and the intellect/will/whatever is the driver. You can't really wrestle the elephant into submission, so you have to train it and learn to guide it. There are, so the claim goes, three main tools for training your elephant: meditation, cognitive therapy, and Prozac. It wasn't clear to me exactly how all of this related to freedom, and I'm inherently skeptical of metaphors; on the other hand, I've always wanted to ride an elephant.


The guy at church explained the theory pretty well, and he did so very concisely. And, how and why we regulate our behavior is something that interests me, but I couldn't help sitting their thinking, "Dude, it's an elephant. Just let it go wherever the fuck it wants. At best, it's only pretending to let you control it because it's lazy." Maybe other people's elephants (No, seriously, did I just type "other people's elephants"? Pop psychology: just say no!) aren't as benign as mine, but I don't think my personal pachyderm is doing a lot of trampling. I get that you can't always give in to your desires and appetites, but mastering them is so much work, and for what? As long as the elephant doesn't run off a cliff, you're probably going to have a lot more fun if you just hang on tight and laugh. Maybe offer it a peanut from time to time.

All About Anal

Super cute Boston blogger Sean (I think he's a BU student; I probably could have seen his dorm from my dorm room window across the river, give or take twenty years) has a problem: he's a lousy top. I kid: the real problem is his bf (Who, I believe, is a student at Northwestern, where I got my master's degree. Everybody sing: "It's a small world after all.") is a lousy bottom. No, I'm kidding again. The real problem is that Sean is overly aggressive with the eyebrow waxing, but I have a unibrow, so who am I to judge? anal sex between Sean and Tommy is painful for Tommy, which makes it less fun for Sean. So we'll start off by giving Sean some credit for wanting to make sex as much fun for his squeeze at it is for him.

I was also going to give Tommy some credit for being willing to take the pain in order to please his man, but really, that's just whack. Authorities differ over whether some level of pain is inevitable in anal sex, but if after several tries you're gritting your teeth and bearing it just because you're head over heels (and, as it happens, heels over head) for your man, you need to reassess your priorities as well as your guy's technique.

But I'm not here to judge. I'm here to solve a problem. Not, mind you, that anyone asked me, but having introduced my share of virgins to the glories of anal sex, I'm pretty well qualified to offer advice on this particular subject, and, hell, what would the Internet be without unsolicited advice? Weather updates, pretty much.


Anyway, the key to successful buttfucking is pretty straightforward: relaxation. A guy who's worried about how much his partner's cock is going to hurt is going to experience a lot more pain than a guy who's relaxed and anticipating great pleasure. On the (blessedly rare) occasions where I haven't been able to make anal sex work with a would-be bottom, the problem has always been that the guy can't relax. Typically, he feels the cock coming, and he's afraid he can't take it, so he tenses up, and then he can't take it. It is possible, with enough lube and diffidence, to force yourself into an unwilling orifice, but it's wrong, and it's counterproductive. I reckon there are some guys for whom the physiological sensation of shoving their cock in and out of a very tight hole is enough, but for most of us, the sex is going to be an order of magnitude or two better if the guy is begging for more rather than begging you to stop. (Unless the guy gets off on begging you to stop, but that only works if you know in advance that it's going to happen. Besides, in those cases begging you to stop is really begging for more.)

Relaxation is something that you have to tackle on multiple fronts. Yeah, you gotta get the ass to open up, but throwing more lube at the situation (while important -- we love lube) is not enough. This is especially true in Sean's situation, where he's dealing with his main man, rather than with some random guy who answered his Craigslist ad.

(The approach I'm recommending in Sean's case is specific to situations like his: two guys who are already attracted to each other but are just having trouble making anal work. For obvious reasons, I'm not called upon to use this approach very often. I typically have two hours/one session to break in a new virgin, so I have to combine a lot of this into a single encounter. Dildos help.)

You begin the longer term preparation for buttsex by ignoring buttsex. There's a widespread perception, among both gays and breeders, that the only so-called real gay sex is anal intercourse. This is a misguided attitude for all sorts of reasons, beginning with the fact that if the only thing you're interested in getting to is the fucking, then you miss out on many, many things that can be at least as much fun. More to the point, if you're convinced that you're not really having sex if you're not fucking, you make fucking such a big deal that you increase the stakes and make it that much more difficult to relax.


So part one of Sean's strategy ought to be to experiment with other things. I'm pretty sure that he and Tommy have making out covered, but that still leaves a lot of erotic ground uncultivated. He might want to consider, just as an example, turning the heat up (literally) in his room and having the two of them sit at opposite ends of the bed while they slowly masturbate and tell each other about experiences they had before they met. The goal is to shoot at the same time. Or Sean might have Tommy close his eyes and lie on the bed while Sean slowly explores the entirety of Tommy's body, using only the tips of his fingers and tongue. This last activity works even better if both of them keep their underwear on. The particulars don't matter so much. What matters is an expanding understanding that anal sex is just one of the items on a very large menu.

Once the general relaxation is working, it's time to get going on the specific anal relaxation. Here again, long and slow preparation is the key. Anal play is, or at least should be, very hot stuff, but if you rush into it and make it all about intercourse, you run the risk of losing much of the eroticism. Before you can get to the pounding (and, let me reiterate that I am very much pro-pounding), you have to get to the point where the guy who's going to get pounded thinks of his ass as a highly sexual organ. I think there are two main tools to get this idea across to the potential bottom: rimming and massage. And, really, you want to use both of them, though it's not always practical to use both in the same session.

In either case, there are some necessary preliminaries. First, you need to make it clear in advance that there's not going to be any intercourse in the initial session. This is about eroticizing the anus, not about fucking. At least not yet. Then -- and this is always the case with any form of anal sex -- you need to make sure that the top's fingernails are cut close and filed smooth. Finally, everyone needs to be confident about the bottoms cleanliness. If at all possible, you want the session to start with a lengthy, steamy, soapy shower. Which, really, is so much fun that you ought to be doing that together all the time, anyway.

Now let's say that rimming is your approach. You've got your two guys who are scrubbed cleaned and relaxed from a hot shower. You make your way back to the bed, and you make out for a while and do whatever other sort of foreplay you like. Then you have the (would-be) bottom lie on his chest, and the top slowly kisses, nibbles, licks his way down the bottom's back. At the same time, he runs his hands slowly up the backs of the bottom's thighs and begins to spread the asscheeks. And then he licks. Slowly and very gently at first, and paying extremely close attention to the bottom's reactions. Eventually, the top can get more intent and hungry and can throw in some fingering, can spread the cheeks wider, can get the tongue in deeper, all to drive the bottom wild.


It's no secret that I love to eat ass. If you're squeamish and so have never tried it, you really need to get a nice clean ass and dive in. For guys who still have a problem with it, you might find it more palatable and fun if the guy whose ass you're eating is going down on you at the same time. With that approach, it's pretty simple: while the guy's got your cock in his mouth and/or throat, you pull his legs around and you slide around until you're in a position to get between his knees. Then you get between his knees, spread his cheeks wide, and begin to lick. Be prepared, though. Guys who haven't been rimmed before can find the sensation overwhelming and may suddenly forget to suck your cock. If that makes it harder for you to eat his ass, gently (or not so gently) ask him to continue sucking your cock. Then continue eating his ass. When you've been at it for a good long time and you're both really worked up, jerk each other off.

Massage is somewhat different, of course. You'll need (in addition to your carefully trimmed nails and your steamy shower) a bottle of baby oil, which you should warm. Put your man face down on the bed and get to work. Squirt a little bit of oil on him and begin by rubbing his neck and shoulders. You don't want to rush this part: you're trying to make the guy as relaxed as possible. Besides, it's fun. You can both be naked, and you can straddle his ass to increase the physical intimacy, but mostly you want to just work his muscles for a while. When you feel a particular muscle relax under your ministrations, move down. On your first pass down, you'll want to work the glutes, but not get to close to the asshole. Work the thighs, calves, and -- especially -- feet first. Then as you're working your way back up the body, it's time to concentrate more closely on the ass. Dribble plenty of oil into the hollow at the top of the cleft of the buttocks and let it trickle down across the asshole. Lightly spread the cheeks and let your oily fingers slide back and forth across the asshole.

When the bottom is nice and relaxed, then it's time to let a very oily finger gently penetrate his ass. Go slow, go slow, go slow. And use your other hand to massage his shoulders, back, glutes, whatever, to keep him nice and relaxed. With enough oil and patience, an index finger will always make its way into the ass. Your goal here is the prostate, which you are going to stimulate very lightly with a fingertip. Work your way around the periphery of the prostate before pressing gently on the middle of the button, then play with the outside some more. Again, pay careful attention to the bottom's reaction and continue to use your other hand to keep him relaxed. With any luck, you'll be rewarded with hard breathing and precum. Eventually, you should be able to get a second oily finger inside your guy, and then you should outline the prostate with both fingers, one taking either side.

When you've got him good and worked, very slowly remove the fingers from the ass, give the back and shoulders another minute or two of rubbing, then flip your buddy over and finish him off: work on his pecs and the fronts of his legs, then oil up his cock and make him shoot.


The goal of both rimming and massage is to make it clear to the guy you want to pound that his anus and prostate can be sources of great pleasure. Once he figures out how awesome it can be to have his asshole and prostate stimulated, he should be ready to relax and enjoy the more intense stimulation that a cock can provide. When he decides that he's really ready to try the cock, you'll want to start again with a shower (actually, you'll probably want to start with some booze, but we here at The Neighbors Will Hear do NOT condone underage drinking, so we really can't tell Sean that having Tommy pound a few shots before they head into the shower is really the way to go), then lots of foreplay, and then some oil-free massage and some rimming to get his ass nice and hungry. Then you get the lube and start in with a finger, then two, and then maybe three or even four, depending on how thick your cock is.

When you're learning to fuck, I think that face-to-face is the way to go. It's more intimate, and you're in a better position to know just how slow you have to go. If you've been kissing while you've been sliding your finger(s) inside your guy, you'll be in the best position to ask him if he's ready to try. Or to wait for him to tell you he's ready. Either way, you have to remember to let him set the pace. Put the condom on, make sure that there's plenty of lube both on it and on his ass, and then get ready for entry.

You have two good options here. Either he's on his back and you push his knees forward and get his ankles over your shoulders and you enter him that way, or you have him sit on you. The advantage of having him on his back is that you can get your face pretty close to his when you're starting to fuck him, and that increases the intimacy and can make him more comfortable. The advantage of having him sit on you is that he has total control over the pace of penetration. Pick one and try it, keeping in mind the other as a fallback position.

In either case, let penetration proceed very slowly. Some bottoms find it easier to get used to the cock if, once the head is inside, they push back against the cock for a time. It helps, obviously, if the top remains calm and looks like he's having the best time ever. When your cock is most or all of the way inside your partner's ass, wait for a while and play gently with other parts of his body until he relaxes fully. Then you can start with some slow and easy in and out. If the guy's on his back, and he's relatively flexible, you'll find that the more pretzeled he is (i.e., you want his ankles behind his ears), the better an angle you'll get on his prostate, and the more intense he'll find the sensation. Continue to accelerate and deepen your thrusts, but don't overdo it, especially the first couple of times you fuck him. A little soreness the next day is fine and hard to avoid, but you don't want to leave him feeling used. Just fucked.

Finally, a warning. Once he's used to (or both of you are used to) getting fucked, make sure you continue to do other things. Yeah, it's intimate, and yeah, he might love it, but eventually you'll get bored of a guy who sees you and immediately wants to bend over and take it. This is a serious risk with a guy who first discovers the joy of being fucked. For a lot of men, it's so much more intense than other activities they're used to that they lose interest in anything else.

Rational Behavior

Ugh, viruses. I spent four days in bed, alone, doing nothing but pushing fluids, taking ibuprofen and guaifenesin, and watching selections from my extensive DVD collection. On Friday and Saturday, I made it through Season Two of Angel and two liters each of orange juice and diet ginger ale. Today my boss asked me how I was feeling, and when I coughed at him in reply, he remarked that the last time he had flu, it took him two months to get completely over it. I told him that I'd put recovery on my due date list for March 15.


Fortunately, I don't get sick often, and I probably haven't had the flu in something like ten years. Unfortunately, when I do get sick, I feel like I'm never going to have sex again. Last night, I was standing in the kitchen, and it occurred to me that b&c was looking very fuckable, but then I was immediately overwhelmed with the dozens of reasons why pounding him would be a) impossible and b) a very bad idea. B&c doesn't seem overly troubled by any of this, which is odd. I mean, I suppose the fact that while I was stuck at home last week and weekend, he managed to get out three times for some slap and tickle might explain why he's not troubled, but normally no amount of outside activity keeps him from getting grumpy when I'm not also fucking him regularly. Maybe he just recognizes that at the moment I'm clearly not fucking him by necessity rather than by choice. I still occasionally expend the energy necessary to jerk off, but that means that I have to wait another half hour before expending the energy necessary to, say, salivate.


Anyway, I had downloaded all these pictures almost a week ago, back when I thought my hacking cough was due to the previous night's misadventure with a blunt rather than the onset of the Black Death. It was going to accompany a story (sadly, a story that involved no fucking) about Rafael, the cute bottom in whom I caused multiple intense anal orgasms without having to expend a lot of effort. I was a little put out with him at the time (at the time I was contemplating the entry, that is, not at the time he had the four anal orgasms within three hours), and I may have blown him off in a not entirely kind way, but now it's kind of hard to remember.


I was convinced that this story had the potential for a certain sort of recondite humor, but after I'd written it, I realized that to develop that potential clearly was not within the realm of possibility given my current diminished capacity. More to the point, when I looked at what I'd written, I kept hearing the immortal words of This Is Spinal Tap: "It's such a fine line between clever and stupid."


So I deleted all of it, except for the following paragraph, which I include now merely to demonstrate what you have been spared.

Other people would get pissed off at being handed a scoopful of mendacity, but I, of course, never respond emotionally to anything. My behavior is governed by a complex, but comprehensible, set of algorithms that are carefully calibrated to maximize goal fulfillment. The particular algorithm for deciding how to respond to a communication of this sort isn't even as complex as some: we identify the potential responses, then we assign to each potential response its probability of achieving each of several goals. Then we assign a desirability factor to each goal. Finally, we multiply the probabilities by the desirability factors, sum them up, and come up with an overall score for each response. It's really fairly simple, and if you don't understand the simplicity, that's only because I don't have an easy way to scrawl formulas onto a tablet and then have them appear on screen. I regret.

Yeah. Count your blessings and enjoy the pictures.