Mmm

Also known as: more mindful masturbation. By which I mean more blathering on about mindful masturbation rather than masturbation that is more mindful, though I guess that would work too, more or less. Less, really.

I think that too many people take wanking for granted. Which sort of makes sense when you call it "wanking" because "wanking" sounds like something you ought to take for granted, or even something you should be ashamed of. I would disapprove of using the word, but I love it (the word, that is, though I love the act itself, too, obviously) too much. Wanking.


I was rubbing one out last night, taking breaks from the action to exchange erotic text messages with the guy who was meant to keep me from wanking by playing with my cock. He'd messaged me on one of those hook-up sites, and he'd asked me to call him, and I had, and instead of calling me back, he'd texted me -- after 8pm -- that he was working in Rockville and would be getting off (ahem) in an hour. I was, as it happened, at a Staples in Rockville buying pens at the time, so I offered to stop by his place of employment and say hello. I knew, for a variety of reasons, that he wouldn't take me up on that offer, but I thought he might call me as soon as he was done work and that there might still be time for him to stop by the house and get fucked before b&c was due back from a concert in Baltimore. But then I didn't hear back from him for almost two hours, when I was lying on my bed, cock in hand, and he told me that there'd been an emergency at work. I have no idea what he does for a living, but his excuse didn't exactly ring true.


But I was playing with myself, and I was in a good mood, so rather than ignore him, I decided to tease him as best I could under the circumstances. Given his reactions, I'd have to say I did pretty well. He says he wants to try to get together again this weekend, and I really don't have time, but last night it was all about self-titillation.

A lot of people look at masturbation as something you do when you can't find so-called real sex. I think that masturbation is real sex. I might call it self-sex, as opposed to interactive sex (when another person is involved), but those terms are also imperfect. These days I have interactive sex more frequently than I jerk off, but that mostly tells you how precious little free time I have, though I suppose it also illustrates how little I like the quick wank. Masturbation is not an unfortunate necessity. It's not a cigarette for a nicotine addict.


If your interactive sex is anything like mine, the ejaculation is somewhere way down your list of priorities. Interactive sex is all about the give and take, the lips on lips, the lips on nips, the increasingly agitated moans of the man whose body you're playing like a fine instrument. I clearly have nothing against experiencing, or bringing another man to, a mind-bending orgasm, but I reckon that you out to have bent a guy's psyche well before he's approaching ejaculation. When your bed is your canvas and another man (and your own body) is your medium, your product is two (or more, I suppose) happy guys who are thinking over the entirety of the past hour or two when they say, "That was great!"

When you're jerking off, your work of art is a spectacular ejaculation.


That's not to say that everything leading up to the ejaculation isn't fun fun fun fun fun: the better time you have during the lead up, the more spectacular the ejaculation is likely to be. But wanking is about cumming. It's about cumming if you're the sort of guy who does it in two minutes in the shower, and it's about cumming if you spending an hour doing it while exchanging increasingly explicit text messages with some guy you know only from a few emails and a cock photo. Masturbation is the ultimate self-centered activity, and the center of a solo man is his cock.


I'm certainly not arguing that masturbation is superior to interactive sex. I'm not really saying that interactive sex is superior, either. From a physical standpoint, each has its pluses and minuses. Interactive sex, properly performed, stimulates more of the body, but in a more diffuse way. Masturbation, in my experience, has the advantage of more control which leads, in my experience (which, I recognize, is not universal) to more concentrated and intense orgasm. Interactive sex can be (and usually is, for me anyway) more spiritually satisfying because it's a shared activity, but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't avail yourself of every opportunity for a fully awesome wank.


I'm aware that there's a potentially ridiculous aspect to all this ruminating about jerking off. But I'm entirely sincere about it, and if I'm contemplative about wanking, it's because wanking encourages contemplation. Next to a hot shower, there's nothing more conducive to unfocused meditation and thousand-mile journeys of the psyche than a really good wank. Now I, for better or worse, have the sort of mind that would walk five hundred miles pretty much at the drop of a hat, and I am given to inappropriate reflection even when I'm plowing an ass. But, really, you can't go there. I have tried to tell myself -- and I tried in particular to make this argument to myself one time when I was prone on the bed with a bottom bouncing up and down on my cock -- that when you're fucking one boy, thinking about the other boys that you've fucked is a way of celebrating the vast collective unconscious. But it's not: it's just an inability to live in the moment. When you're fucking another guy, you have a responsibility to fuck that guy. I don't believe in sexual exclusivity -- OBVIOUSLY -- but when you're fucking a guy, you have to have a moment of sexual exclusivity: you owe it to the bottom. Even if the bottom's dumber than soot. (I do not, truly, think that bottoms are any less intelligent than tops: it's just that I've come across [and cum in] a few who needed a few years of education to get to the level of soot.) You owe it to yourself, too. Sex is one of the few places where it should be easy to live in the moment.


When you're wanking, though, you are free -- nay, encouraged -- to think about every single ass you've plowed, every throat you've penetrated, every nipple you've bitten, every asshole or armpit you've spent a quarter-hour eating out, every pair of plump lips you've kissed. That's the real purpose of porn. It's not the porn that makes your load hit the wall behind your bed, it's the flood of memories that starts: the recollection of the sensation of all those real bodies that begins when you see those idealized bodies approach and touch each other on the screen. Interactive sex should be all over the body with a focused mind. Masturbation is the opportunity to let your mind roam the cosmos while your pleasure centers firmly in your cock.

Think about all that, and then maybe give yourself an extra half hour the next time you want to crank one out.

This, That, and More of This

I was feeling a bit down yesterday because of a combination of allergies and work, but I got home just after 9, and ninety minutes later I was feeling a lot better because I could say, "Well, thank God at least I'm not Bobby Jindal."


If you combine a heavy work schedule, evening fatigue, a partner who goes to bed relatively early, being a light sleeper, and chronic horniness, you end up having a lot of sex at three in the morning. 3 am sex is great during busy season because it only takes about half an hour from when I wrap my arm around b&c and start to play with his cock to when I pull out of his ass and kiss him goodnight (again). And then I still get a few hours of sleep before I have to get up to go to work. Morning sex is probably better on days when you're sleeping until 8 or 9, but when you have to be up by 7, middle-of-the-night sex wins. This morning, though, it was a struggle not to fuck him again at 7, but I really didn't want to be late to work, so I just followed the bouncing erection to the shower, where it went away of its own accord in the hot water.


If I'm really beat when I step into the shower in the morning, I end the shower with a series of thirty-second blasts of cold water alternating with equally long blasts of very hot water. I invariably sing "La Vie en Rose" (in French, naturally) while I do this. It is very bracing. It is also an excellent cure for a hangover, but in that case I suggest you (because you are much more likely to be hung over than I: I have not needed the hangover cure for many years) choose different music. Something low, with a theme of repentance: a spiritual perhaps.


Mostly I spend my shower time daydreaming. I try not to daydream about sex, especially when I'm trying to get rid of the morning wood, but I don't always succeed. Often I dream about my notional country estate/monastery, which I have notionally relocated to rural Virginia, in light of how the state voted in the last election. There are a lot of things that I would like to grow that would be easier to grow in central or southern Virginia than in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania, where the notional country estate/monastery had hitherto been notionally located.


These days I spend a fair amount of time worrying about the national debt. I would have worried about it in the past, but then I had my own debt to worry about. I am currently about two weeks away from making the last payment on my car loan, after which I will have no debt whatsoever, at least until I buy my parents' Pennsylvania house (or the notional country estate/monastery in Virginia). But I still remember reading about haciendas in my sixth grade social studies class. The commoners who worked on the haciendas didn't have any money, so they borrowed from the haciendado and then tried to work off the debt, but all that happened was that they got deeper and deeper into debt. The analogy doesn't play out exactly with a country and its citizens, but it's nonetheless true that Americans now owe our collective soul to the company store, and that's very troubling. Please note however, that inheriting a huge debt is not a reason to not have a stimulus package, unless you're a moron. Doing nothing would be a lot worse, but in this case the less bad option is still plenty bad. It's no wonder that I want to retreat to my country estate/monastery to meditate, farm, and fuck, but even there I'd have to pay property taxes. Il faut cultiver nos jardins, but that doesn't mean we can escape the financial crisis.


Yesterday was Mardi Gras, which means that today is the beginning of Lent. I'm not a Catholic, but I still believe in giving up things for Lent, especially if it's others doing the giving up. For most people, especially bloggers, I typically recommend forty days without introspection, but that wouldn't be much of a sacrifice for me. I briefly considered giving up chocolate, but, in the end, I decided to give up moderation instead. Be very afraid.

Al Fresco

Oh, the weekend, it comes and goes so quickly when one has to work a full day on Saturday. After a while it seems like it didn't happen at all, but I'm pretty sure that on Friday night, I fell asleep after fucking Judd, and he fell asleep, too, and then he woke up, and I sort of woke up, but only enough so that every time he said he should go, I could pull him close to me and hold him and maybe kiss him so that he'd give up any idea of leaving, but then I fell asleep again, and when I woke up
he was dressed and I was objecting, but he'd spent three-and-a-half hours naked in bed with me, and I was too exhausted to fuck him again anyway, not exhausted from too much fucking -- no such thing -- but from too much working and too little sleeping. Saturday evening wasn't much better, and after taking YFU shopping with me at Ikea and Costco, we came home and I spent much of the evening cleaning the house so that when b&c got home, he wouldn't be in a bad mood. He'd called me to tell me that his flight out of Miami was delayed by almost two hours, so I wasn't expecting him until after midnight, but it was a little bit shy of midnight when I heard the door open and heard him talking to the driver, but I was tired, so I just sat in the easy chair in the den until he got in, and we chatted for a bit, and then I went upstairs and fell asleep, and then it was Sunday morning, and I had to be up early for choir, and church left me in a good mood, and I'd had almost seven hours of sleep the night before, so when YFU and I got home, I was both happy and well-rested, and after YFU started playing Sims downstairs, I went upstairs and sat behind b&c at the computer and kissed his neck and ears for a bit, and then he followed me to the bedroom, and we did all the usual things, and after I fucked him,
I spooned him, and we both fell asleep in that position, and we spent a couple of extremely pleasant hours in bed, lying together, then he got up to start making dinner, and I read for a while before nodding off yet again. Then it was evening again, and when YFU went off to bed, I turned on the Oscars just to see what was happening, and what was happening was some sort of god-awful tribute to musicals where Amanda Seyfried got to sing about eight notes, and I was sucked into the broadcast because it was like a train wreck that you can't look away from, even though you know you a) shouldn't be watching it and b) have somewhere else you need to be, and then -- poof! -- the weekend was over, and I'm back at the office, and I have no ability to sustain concentration, and the only thing I keep thinking is that the worst part about living in the suburbs is how hard it is to have a great picnic: if you live in the country, you can just go outside and eat somewhere on your own grounds, and if you live in the city, you can just go over to the boulangerie and the charcuterie and then walk over to the park and eat your bread and your cheese and maybe your rillettes with some wine that you bought on the sidewalk, and, okay, maybe this particular scenario works best if you live in Paris, but why would you want to live in any other city? Why? And I've been thinking about all that in part because I have a long-standing, continual interest in picnics, and in part because when I was in Ikea, I got to the check-out area, and I saw this totally awesome plastic picnic ware, and I picked up a set of six oblong plates, a set of six small bowls, a set of six tumblers, and an eighteen-piece set
of plastic utensil, and each set was only $1.99, and each set has one piece (or three utensils) in each of the six rainbow colors, so now I can have a totally gay picnic, but I can't have it until summer, and I still have to find the right place to have it, but right now I have to get back to doing other people's taxes, and all I can do is dream of Paris. And ass. And picnics. And of lying on a blanket in the late afternoon somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne sharing wine and crusty bread and pâté de campagnes and laughter with an attractive man as the sun sets and then watching him roll over onto his stomach and put his head on his folded arms as if to fall asleep but also spreading his legs into an invitation that I accept by climbing between his legs and eating his fine, full ass until the stars are bright.

Suck Big Cock

Well. Blogger has decided that I'm the sort of adult blog that requires a content warning. I could try to muster up some outrage about that, but it's really kind of hard to argue with their judgment on this one. It seems more reasonable to view my new even-more-not-safe-for-work-than-the-run-of-the-mill-not-safe-for-work designation as something of an accomplishment. Go me. Suck big cock.


On balance, I'd have to guess that the warning in question would encourage rather than discourage potential readers, except, perhaps, for the poor unfortunate soul who reached The Neighbors Will Hear by Googling "Elizabeth Futral." Oops. The only downside that's immediately obvious is that I can no longer tell where any referrals come from. So I guess that will make me seem twice as ungrateful to all of the kind people whom I was rude to for not putting on my non-existent blogroll even though they'd put me on theirs. Sorry, guys: I really am grateful. It's just that a blogroll is more responsibility than I can handle. Suck big cock.


While I'm getting all meta, I'll mention that a month or two ago I noticed that my average daily visit numbers were up significantly. And then over the last month or so, they stayed the same or perhaps grew a little bit. I couldn't really think of any reason why that should be so: the blog had what I assume is a typical growth curve in the first year, then readership leveled off or grew very slowly. But then I looked at the referral log, and I noticed that just under 40% of all my hits were referrals from a Google image search. And for a while, I couldn't figure out what the search terms were, even though it was clear that all of the hits were pointing to two different pictures in the same post. Some more digging made it clear exactly what the search phrase was: suck big cock.


The picture above is one of the three pictures that the search seemed to be retrieving. And he, like most Brazilian men, is certainly worth staring at. But there doesn't seem to be any particular reason to think that when he wakes up in the morning, his main goal for the day is to suck big cock.


That particular post is a mouseover post, and the picture above is what lies beneath one of the other images that comes up most often in the search. I couldn't find the original of the most popular image, but if you look at that post, it's the guy with the white pants halfway down his spectacular ass. There are a lot of things I could fantasize about doing with that guy, but they mostly relate to his chest or his ass. I certainly don't look at that guy and think, (from either a bottom or a top perspective) "Suck big cock."


The picture above is just a shot of a couple of random Brazilians. I don't know what sort of activities they might get up to with each other, but I will say that my (tragically limited) sexual experience with Brazilians indicates that most of them are pretty and hung. So you could do a lot worse than to go to Rio if what you're looking to do is to suck big cock.


I've never been anything like a size queen, and while I find some large penises aesthetically appealing, others leave me cold. Most of the truly huge johnsons that I've come across (sometimes literally) have been attached to dedicated bottoms. I remember in particular the very slender young black man who showed up at my apartment seven or eight years ago when I was still quite experienced. He was sporting a dick that was easily in excess of nine inches and also very thick, but I remember him, and his cock, principally because he was the first guy I ever fisted. The fisting I can pretty much take or leave, and I do it only very rarely these days, but he gave terrific head while I was working my fist into him, and then when I had managed to close my fingers into the fist, it was only a matter of a minute or so of twisting before he came without his cock being touched. Suck big cock.


Around the same time, I started to chat intensely with a guy from Pennsylvania (or maybe West Virginia). He suggested that we meet halfway between us, in Hagerstown, for an overnight visit, and he picked up the hotel bill and the tab at the restaurant. I attacked him in the elevator on the way up to the room, and, as he was a bit shy, that made him very happy. His screen name referred to a large endowment, but I'd only seen clothed pictures of him, and I was totally unprepared for the monster rod that I found when I got him undressed. It was probably in ten inches long and eight inches around. I had no idea at all what to do with it. He was, if memory serves, versatile, but I think that mostly we made out and he went down on me and I stroked him some. I don't even remember whether he got off (I assume that I did), but I do remember chatting with him online and apologizing for not having a clue as to how to approach such a huge piece of meat. He told me that most guys just licked it but that there were some bottoms who would go through fire and water to sit on it. He was a nice guy, but too far away to pursue, especially for someone who really doesn't like or know how to suck big cock.

Help! Help! I'm Being Oppressed!

As you well know, readers, I am generally not one to whinge about the hegemony of heteronormative values. I accept the fact that we live, for the most part, in a society of breeders, and I recognize that without the breeders we would soon run out of people to recruit to populate the planet. Typically here I would add a remark about how maybe the breeders are overpopulating the planet, but I have two kids of my own, so pot, kettle, black, and all that. On the other hand, my ex-wife and I only had two children, which is really just replacement value, and when you add to the mix the fact that she and her second husband didn't have any more children, and the fact that my ex-wife's second husband's ex-wife didn't reproduce either, maybe we're not doing so badly after all. And, truthfully, I mentioned that last bit just as a way to introduce a short anecdote that amuses me, when I remember it. Some years ago, I was singing with the Lesbian and Gay Chorus of Washington (lovely people, but more interested in their political agenda than their musical agenda, alas), and one of the sopranos came up to me and said, "We both know someone, and you'll never guess who!" To which I replied, "You're right, I'll never guess. Who?" "My ex-husband is dating your ex-wife!" That was a little bit surprising, but it shouldn't have been: the two of them met at a support group called something like Straight People Openly Mocking their Queer Ex-Spouses (SPOMQuES). Anyway, just a few days after this encounter, the ex called me to tell me that she was getting married again, so the next week at rehearsal, I found the soprano and said, "I hear we're going to be in-laws." It's a small world after all, people.


Anyway, where was I? Right, heteronormative hegemony (the Heteronormative Hegemonists would be a good name for a bad band). So, as you know the ball and chain (otherwise referred to in these pages as b&c, and it's an ironic nickname, ok?) is out of the country, and that means, among other things (Oh, wait, this is where you expect to hear about Tuesday night's romp with Judd, isn't it? It was an awesome romp. We played for about an hour, and I fucked him with extraordinary force and precision until he could take no more, something I never thought I'd see, and then we fell asleep for an hour, and then we smoked some weed he'd brought and canoodled for another ninety minutes, and then he left, and I tried to edge for a while, but I only managed to stay on the brink for about five minutes before I lost control and/or patience and shot. I know you want more of the pornographic details, but how many times can you read about fantastic Judd sex without getting bored?) that when I'm home at a reasonable hour (i.e., on nights when YFU is over), I have to answer the house phone. The calls are never for me, and when b&c is out of town, they're invariably solicitation calls for some charity or other.


I have some sympathy for anyone who has a job that involves calling people all day, so I try to be polite. In fact, I once had a conversation with a bill collector that went something like this:

TED: Hello?
Collector: Mr. Dude?
TED: Yes.
C: I'm calling about your credit card bill for the GAP. It's delinquent.
T: Oh crap. I forgot I got that thing, and then I only used it the once. Can I just pay you over the phone?
C: You want to pay the bill?
T: Yeah, I just forgot. I got the card to get a discount, and I'm not the most organized person in the world. You can take a payment over the phone, right?
C: Nobody ever wants to pay.
T: Well, I owe the money.
C: I've been making calls for almost eight hours, and you're the first person who's just offered to pay. Most of the people yell at me like it's my fault that they owe money.
T: Wow.

The poor woman was nearly in tears, overwhelmed by the simple fact that somebody who owed a bill wanted to pay it. It was a little embarrassing, but I managed to get her back on track and complete my transaction. Also, that's the last time I will ever get a store credit card for the one-time discount. Are we off topic again? Yes, I believe we are.


Anyway, back to the charitable solicitation telemarketers, who, alas, aren't required to respect the do not call list. What typically annoys me most about these calls is that when I pick them up, there's a delay while they route me to a telemarketer. It's like someone calling you and putting you on hold. But usually they're too quick for me to become annoyed enough to hang up on, so the conversation goes something like this:

TED: Hello?
[Short delay.]
Solicitor: Ball?
TED: I'm sorry, Ball's not here right now.
Solicitor: May I speak to Mrs. AndChain?
TED: There is no Mrs. AndChain. [Not entirely true: there is a Mrs. AndChain, but she's eighty-five and lives in New Jersey, and b&c likely wouldn't appreciate my referring solicitors to his mother.]
Solicitor: I'll call again later.
[Click.]

I guess that I'm notionally annoyed at the assumption that b&c would or should have a wife, but as long as I don't get more than two of those calls in an evening, they really don't deserve space in my brain.


Sometimes, though, the telephone solicitor's having a bad day or is just a jerk. Last night, for example, I received a call from someone with an attitude:

TED: Hello?
[Pause.]
Solicitor: Hello, Ball?
TED: He isn't home right now?
Solicitor: Can I speak to Mrs. uh Ampers...
TED: There is no Mrs. AndChain.
Solicitor: Then how did you know what I was going to say?
TED: Because that's Ball's last name.
Solicitor: Then where is he?
TED: He's not here.
Solicitor: I'll call back later.
TED: He'll be home on Sunday, but he won't be interested in what you have to say.
[Click.]

Fucking breeders.

How Long Is a Stick of Butter, Anyway?

A stick of butter (salted Land-O-Lakes, 1/4 pound, still in its wrapper) is approximately 4.75 inches long. The other two dimensions, for the sake of completeness, are each approximately one-and-three-eights inches. This information is not readily available on the Internet, so I figured I'd put it out there in case anyone needs to know.

I'd gotten an inquiry, on one of the hook-up sites, about possibly getting together with a hot Black guy (short, bald, muscular, hung) who wanted to spend some time sucking me off. He didn't want anything else, but I figured if he was half as good at oral as he claimed to be, I'd have a good time. He'd seen a picture of my business, and that was why he was interested, but when I read his profile, I found out that he was a real size queen. I'm perfectly happy with what I've got, but I recognize that while it's impressively thick, it's not much longer than average, and I wanted to be clear about that with this guy, so I emailed him. He emailed back asking whether I was shorter than, as long as, or longer than a stick of butter. He asked a similar question about my girth. I was pretty sure that I was bigger, in all directions, than a stick of butter, but I was at my desk, and I really couldn't remember how big a stick of butter was, and I simply could not find the information on the Net. Fortunately, I found an old butter cutter on Ebay, and by holding my ruler up to the monitor, measuring the handles and the overall length of the picture, noting the length of the actual object from the Ebay ad, and doing some elementary math, I was able to determine that a stick of butter could not be any longer than five inches. So I was easily home free. I emailed the size queen, and he said that he'd be happy to drop by at noon on Sunday.

I lied, apparently, when I said I was going to leave my Saturday evening sex life in the hands of fate. I answered a couple of CL ads, and I ended up in a lengthy (always a bad sign, unless your objective is just some horny correspondence, which is okay from time to time) exchange with a young'un who wanted to expand his experience with submission into full-on bondage. I grew somewhat weary after the twentieth email, and I told him to call me after 6 if he was serious about hooking up. I figured he probably wasn't, but he'd said that -- after some making out and sucking my cock -- he wanted to be gagged with duct tape. Ouch, but, hey, it's not my pain. There are probably no houses in America without at least a couple of rolls of duct tape, but I didn't know where ours was, and besides, I'll take any excuse to make a trip to Home Depot. And not even to cruise in the men's room, just to see all of those rows and rows of categorized hardware and other building materials. Plus the men in jeans. Anyway, I got my roll of duct tape. I also picked up a sturdy but inexpensive gray tote bag and a pair of knee pads. You just never know when you might need a last-minute hostess gift.


It was after six when I got home, and I figured I wouldn't hear from the young'un (twenty-seven, if memory serves), but I took a shower anyway. I was halfway dressed when it occurred to me to measure a stick of butter. And then it occurred to me to pull my cock out through the fly in my boxer briefs, jerk it off slightly, and take a picture of it with a stick of butter in front of it, just to demonstrate that there was additional cock showing around all sides of the stick of butter. I wasn't all that worked up, and the butter (I left it wrapped) was cold, so it wasn't an easy thing to do, but I did it. Then I sent it off to the size queen. I mean, why not?

I was finishing getting dressed when the cellphone made its text message noise. It was Nike: "Hey u wanna hook up asap??" Not really a surprise. I replied I could come get him right away, but apparently "asap" means in forty-five minutes. He also asked whether I could find someone else to join us. When you live in the exurbs, it's really helpful to have more notice than that, but I happened to be surfing through a site dedicated to more mature men, and I saw a likely candidate who had his webcam trained on his chest. And it was a gorgeous chest, too, all fuzzy and with very prominent nipples that he said, when I asked, loved to be worked over. He was also a submissive bottom. And he was old. I have a fairly liberal age range, but while I joke that I go from barely legal to barely breathing, I generally don't go as old as this guy. Still, the nips on the webcam were calling to me. Besides, I'm pretty much twice Nike's age, and this guy was nowhere near twice my age, so from a geometrical progression point of view, he was practically young.

Anyway, by the time I'd contacted this guy and chatted with him a bit, it was time to go pick up Nike, and older guy and I hadn't gotten around to sealing the deal, so I sent him one last chat message saying I have to leave now and here's my number and call me if you wanna come over. Then I went to pick up Nike, figuring that Mr. AARP probably would forget about the whole thing.


Nike and I had been playing (lots of making out, nipple play, and, of course, his going down on me) for over half an hour when the phone rang. I reached over to pick it up, and it was Mr. Almost-as-Old-as-John-McCain-but-Fitter-and-with-Fewer-Houses who said that he would like to come over. He asked a few other questions that he already knew the answer to -- just to get himself in the mood, I reckon. Nike was on his stomach at the time, and I was lying on top of him with my cock wedged between his thighs, so I leaned down to ask him whether he had time to wait for the guy to come over and play, and he said that he did, so I gave the guy my address and some directions.

Nike and I continued alternating between making out and oral, and he had my cock in his mouth when the older guy showed up. Frankly, older guy's chest was his best feature, but he still didn't look as old as he said he was, so -- as I lay there having my cock sucked -- I helped him get undressed and then I helped myself to his nipples. And I have to say, they were some of the best nipples I've ever bitten. He could really take it, too. Not a bad kisser, either.

So, you know how it goes. I kiss one of them while the other one sucks on my cock, then I kiss the other while the first sucks my cock, and I take turns on both of their nipples, mostly on the nipples of the older guy because they look like they go to the gym, by themselves perhaps, five times a week. Nike tries going down on the older guy for a bit, but he very quickly says that he's too close to shooting, and he clearly doesn't want to shoot, at least not then, so he goes down on Nike for a while, and I start to eat his ass, which is unobjectionable. A lot of guys never make it unobjectionable when it comes to ass eating, but it's not an ass that enthralls my tongue, so I pretty quickly move onto fingers, and older guy is getting louder and louder, so I suit up and start to fuck him, and he gets louder still, and I have him on his side, and I'm kissing Nike as well as I can manage while I'm pounding, and I'm pretty worked up from the kissing and everything, so I only have to fuck for about ten minutes before I fill the condom.

And, really, it's all pretty great up to that point, but I'm a little bit beat, so I collapse on the bed, and older guy starts talking about how cute Nike is and how much he loves my cock, and, well, I'm not in the mood for a lot of conversation, and his patter was probably stale back in the seventies, let alone now. But we all hang out for a bit, and Nike asks if I have any water, which gives me an excuse to get out of bed and go downstairs and get some, and when I come back, I tell older guy that I have to give Nike a ride home, and he asks if he should wait, and I tell him that I have to be up early in the morning, and, dude, have you never hooked up before and is that why you don't know that your job is to shut up, get dressed, and leave after the dom top is finished using your sub bottom bottom? I didn't say any of that last bit, of course. After all, the guy was pretty good in the sack, and he lives close to my office, so I could drop by for a late-night busy season quickie sometime. Nike heads downstairs to smoke his cigar, and I tell older guy that he lives pretty close to my office, and he tells me to call him. Then I see him out, and Nike tells me that "we need to talk for a minute." Apparently, he's a little freaked out by having hooked up with someone in his sixties, and he thinks that older guy was too enthusiastic (i.e., loud) when he was getting fucked, and I tell Nike some stories of some of my noisiest fucks, all of whom would make older guy sound like Sunday morning meditation. But Nike changes his mind quickly, and in the three minutes it takes to drive him home, he's decided that I need to call him if I'm going to hook up with older guy again. [Last night I got a text from him (Nike) suggesting that the three of us play. But YFU was over, so I didn't even have to come up with an excuse. I'd probably do a threeway with them again, but not two days later.]


When I got home, I had email from the size queen, and he was very amused that I'd gone to the trouble of taking and sending him a picture of my cock posing with a stick of butter. He said he'd see me Sunday morning and that he'd call when he was up. He did, and he said he'd try to be over by 11:30, but he was running late, and, after two more calls, he arrived just after noon. Cute, cute, cute, and entirely focused on sucking my cock. We went upstairs, and I took off my jeans and sat on the bed. He undressed but left his boxers on, climbed between my legs, and, whoa, serious wet vac action.

Truly awesome head. The first time I told him how great it felt, he stopped and said, "If you think you're getting too close too soon, tell me, and I'll back off." I chuckled and replied, "Oh, man, really not a problem. I'm a very slow shooter." He smiled and said, "Good. I will not tire."

Reader, he tired. But not until he'd given me thirty minutes of his very best. For a lot of that time, I was sitting on the bed with my back resting on the wall and my legs either stretched out or wrapped around his head. I kept sliding my feet down his torso and hooking my toes under the waistband of his boxers in an attempt to slide them down. And I got them down far enough to see half of his exceptionally well-shaped ass, but I never got them all the way off. In fact, when he finally headed to the bathroom, they were still halfway down his ass. Nice.

He didn't head to the bathroom until after he'd gotten me off, though. He'd stopped the vacuum action, but he was still licking my cockhead and jerking my cock hard with his hands. I moaned and writhed and jerked and, eventually, I started to shoot a load. He anticipated the climax and took the cockhead in his mouth and let the whole load flow. Then he hurried off to the bathroom (hello, ass!) to spit and rinse very loudly. It might have been a bit of a buzzkill, but I was feeling too good from the excellent blowjob.


Sunday evening, I had plans to meet up with my friend George for dinner and a showing of Milk, which neither of us had yet seen. I met him at the Barnes and Noble, and then we headed off to Austin Grill, where the service was almost painfully slow. I wasn't especially hungry, so I ordered a cup of chili and some iced tea. George was entirely taken with the waiter (cute, young, and with a thick accent), so he took his time ordering and then flirted with him at every opportunity. I mean, seriously, how many times can you drop a spoon on the floor and watch the waiter bend over to pick it up without it becoming obvious? Three, apparently. Anyway, the movie time was approaching, and since George once made me so late getting to a movie that b&c and I had to sit all the way on the end of the second row while George took a prime seat in the back, I was anxious to get going. We had the check, and I suggested that we just leave money on the table since it would likely take the waiter forever to actually process the payment, but George said he'd pick up the tab but wanted to use his credit card. I shrugged and told him that I'd head over to the theater and save him a seat. As I was leaving the restaurant, I saw the waiter bending over the table, his head right up next to George's, and then as I rounded the corner and looked through the window, I saw the two of them headed into the men's room, and I figured a) good for him, and b) they can't possibly spend more than five minutes in the men's room, and the movie doesn't start for twenty, so we're all good. But then George never showed up at the movie. Apparently, when they got into the stall and the waiter went down on him, everything was fine, and they were done in two minutes. But then George offered reciprocation, and the waiter turned out to be enormously hung with nuts to match. It took George almost ten minutes to finish the job (I'm told that something of a line developed), and then when the waiter was about to shoot, George mistimed, took his mouth off, and got semen all over his clothes (big shooter). He settled the bill and hurried off to the parking garage to fetch and change into his spare clothes, (it seems that getting covered in cum happens to him on a somewhat regular basis, but chacun a son gout, I reckon) but by the time he was again presentable, he was too late to purchase a ticket. Sadly, I had no idea what was going on, so when a few minutes before the show began, when I thought George was still coming (as opposed to still cumming), an attractive, unaccompanied man asked if the seat next to mine was taken, I had to tell him that it was unavailable. Oh, the humanity.¹

Anyway, I had a good seat to see Milk, and it was as good as most people are saying it is. I'll probably go see it again with b&c when he gets back from Haiti, if only to see whether he cries during the parts where I think he'll cry.

I understand that yesterday was a holiday for many people, but I had to work, of course, and then in the evening, YFU was over, so I got to bed early, as I very much needed to do. Judd is coming over this evening. He texted me all weekend to see what and who I was doing, and I offered him appropriately salacious details. He's fun when he's all worked up, and getting him all worked up is never any work at all, so I'm sure I'm in for a fun night.


¹Portions of this paragraph may have been embellished. But not the part about having to turn away the attractive young man who would otherwise have sat next to me.

Slow Drip

Judd was over for a quickie (just over three hours) last night, and in between rounds of pounding and making out and all that other good stuff, we were chatting about his recent, ill-fated, month-long relationship with a twenty-four-year-old bottom ("I really don't know why it didn't work out." "Dude."), and then he mentioned, as if in passing, that he'd been at Starbucks at around 7am that morning and had been cruised by a guy whom he groped quickly in the bathroom and parking lot and then took back to Judd's place for a bit of slap and tickle. Or whatever the kids are calling it these days.


Naturally, I was in awe: "Man. You are bad ass. Bad fucking ass." Even though if any ass got fucked in that encounter, it was much more likely Judd's than his, um, date's. Then we spent a while discussing the details of the pick-up (i.e., everything between walking into the Starbucks and driving out of the parking lot), but we got off topic when I asked him what he usually gets at Starbucks, and he tried to explain to me what a quad was. It's tax season: I'm intimately familiar with the quad, though I'm impressed that he fits his quad into a grande. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given how eager he always is to take a grande between his quads. (Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week.)


Apparently, Judd hadn't cruised anyone in a public place in some (many, perhaps) years, and I gather that Starbucks isn't as popular for anonymous hooking up as is, say, Home Depot, but perhaps I should be a trifle less oblivious when I'm next ordering my venti. But I only go to Starbucks when I'm in desperate need of caffeine, so being alert to the possibilities of dark-roast love seems unlikely. One of the afternoon baristas is awfully cute, and I may have fantasized about what he and I could do after hours with a locked door and the whipped cream canister, but I generally daydream about that sort of thing when I'm back in my office, after the caffeine has kicked in. That is, if it works at all. One of my associates stopped by my office the other day to ask if I was ok. "You look sleepy," she said. "Listen," I replied, "at this time of the year, I only have two looks: sleepy and asleep."


Last night may have been the first time when I didn't fall asleep while lying with Judd. Normally, we have sex for ninety minutes, we fall asleep, we chat for a while, we fuck again, and then I hold him while we chat some more until he finally follows through on his threat to get dressed and go home. But last night, as happens a lot lately, I pounded him intensely and thoroughly for an extended period, but I couldn't cum. So we chatted and made out some more, but I didn't fall asleep. I fucked him a second and third time, but I still didn't cum. He wanted to cum, but he was having some trouble making it happen, so I had him lie next to me, his head by my feet, and we jerked each other off while I told him about how I used to do the same thing with my best friend when I was thirteen or so. I managed to make it very erotic, but he still didn't cum until he took matters into his own hands, and I put three fingers from one hand back inside his ass and pressed his prostate as hard as I could. It was intense.


I had already worked his nipples nearly as hard as I've ever worked anyone's. He responded very favorably to that, but after an extended chewing, it finally got to be too much. I have, though, received several texts from him today telling me how horny he is and how he keeps rubbing his sore nipples, which is making him even hornier. He asked me what he should do, and I gave him the obvious response: "Go to Starbucks." And when he texted back that he'd tried that already, I gave him some additional advice that's always sound: "Wear tighter jeans."


I hope he wasn't angling for a return invitation tonight. I mean, I'd invite him back, but if he wants to come over, he should just come right out and say so. He's usually busy Saturday nights, so I assume he's not free unless he tells me otherwise. Also, I'm a little bit exhausted today, and another night of extended pounding (I mean, seriously, why can't I just cum after ten minutes, like everyone else?) might be more than would be good for me. I think that tonight might be a good night to make some soup, read a book, watch a movie, and not chase boys. Besides, Nike texted me three times last night while I was fucking Judd. He's probably spending tonight with one of his girlfriends, but if not, I can always have him over for some head. Not making plans is the closest I come to leaving my sex life in the hands of fate.

Oral

I hooked up with Dan a few months ago. It wasn't the most exciting hook-up ever, but he really liked sucking my cock. He wouldn't kiss, but he's the kind of guy who'll hang around for half an hour after he's cum, and the conversation will be good and funny. Plus, his wife is Brazilian and lives in Brazil, so even though he's nothing like Brazilian (and he's married to a woman), you know that he's spent a lot of time in the company of extreme hotness, and it rubs off, at least in the attitude. Anyway, he's been asking, intermittently, for a return engagement ever since, and last night we finally got together. He was due to arrive at 9, so I left the office at 8, got home, showered, texted him to say that I'd left the door unlocked and that he should come upstairs, put on a pair of long johns, put Broken Sky in the DVD player, and idly played with myself for the five or so minutes I was waiting for him to arrive.


Dan didn't waste any time. Before he took off any of his clothes, he bent over and began to lick my cock through the long underwear. After a minute of that, I told him that he could get comfortable, and he stripped down to his boxers, which gave me the opportunity to play with one of his nipples. He came around the other side of the bed, climbed on it, and began taking off my drawers. He said something very appreciative of my cock, and I said something very much like, "Yeah, I know, that's why you're here." "You don't think I drove an hour for your personality, do you? Actually, I did, but for this first." "I'm entirely comfortable with a guy thinking of me as nothing but a nice cock." And then his mouth was full.

Dan is a very good cocksucker. He's not as good as, say, Nike, and Nike kisses (really well), but it's hard to have much of a conversation with Nike. Not that Dan and I were having much of a conversation at first. He did stop sucking my cock long enough to warn me that if I played with his cock any more (i.e., twelve seconds instead of ten, I suppose), he was likely to cum, so I decided to just lie back and enjoy. He crawled between my legs and sucked me from that angle, and all I really had to do for the next half hour or so was occasionally grab his head (shaved) and shove it up and down on my cock occasionally, just to show that I was still involved.


After that, I figured I should get a little more involved, so I put him on his back and started to suck on his nipples. That got him very excited. I climbed on top of him and tried to kiss him once, but he told me, as I knew he would, that he only kissed women. So I went back to his nipples for a bit, and I teased his cock with light touch and moderate strokes, and he moaned and whimpered some. Then I put him on his stomach and put my cock in his crack and rubbed it up and down. He started to tell me that he never got fucked, but that maybe next time he would think about it beforehand and get himself in the mindset to bottom. I just rubbed my cockhead closer and closer to his asshole. I didn't have any intention of topping him, but I wanted to get him a little bit worked up. "Seriously, man," he said, "You can't top me. I'm married." Oh, honey.


I put him back on his back and resumed stroking him and sucking on his nipples. He told me that he was close. "I'm not like you. You stay hard forever, but do you ever cum?" I told him that I did, but mostly when I fuck my partner. "Oh, that must be because you love him." "Well, I do love him, but I think it's more that he's the only person I fuck without a condom. I'm not sure there's all that big a link between love and orgasm." As it happened, I wasn't hard just then. I had been very hard while he was sucking me and while I was on top of his chest and on top of his back, and I was still very interested in what I was doing, but without the cocksucking or any kissing, I'd gone soft. Not that I really cared. I mean, there are times when I would care, but Dan's all about sucking on my cock for a while, then a switch flips, and his only concern is getting off.

I kept teasing him for a good while longer, until he was nearly begging for release, and then I released him. He had warned me that he was going to really cum hard (he hadn't sucked any cock for two weeks), and maybe he did, but his version of cumming hard is not as, um, productive as mine.


I gave him a towel, and he wiped himself up while I took a call from my ex about finding some shoes for EFU (no, really), and then I started to play with him again. He has a short but thick cock that isn't really worth sucking on when it's hard, but it was fun to suck on him for a bit while he was soft. (He's very verbally appreciative.) It's also fun to carry on a conversation when I've got a soft cock or a hard nipple in my mouth. We hung out in that manner for another half hour, and it was fun. It's not as erotic having a guy laugh when you're sucking on his nip as it is when you're fucking his ass, but it's still very pleasant. He made a comment about how intense my nipple work was, and I had to tell him that on my ten-point nipple work scale, I had only barely gotten to three with him.

Anyway, it was all very nice. As fuckbuddies go, he probably does a little better on the buddy end than on the fuck, but it was a cool way to spend the evening. After he left, I watched part of Broken Sky again and jerked off. I was almost unbelievably hard, but it took me a very long time to cum. On the one hand, I wonder why that was, but on the other, I just figure it is what it is.