Utter Depravity

There's a lot of construction going on in my office building and on my floor. That's a good thing for several reasons:

1. The overcrowding in my firm will be eased, and I'll get back a nice office like I had when I first got here.

2. There's a really hot guy here overseeing some of the construction. He's about 6'1 and fit, with very close cropped hair (#1 clippers, I bet) and a goatee. Gone are the days when his earring would automatically have meant that I could hope to trap him in one of the men's room stalls and have my way with him, but he's still nice to look at. His ass isn't everything it should be, but I reckon he can do some squats.

3. The workers have covered most of the hallway outside the door I use with thin plastic sheeting, to protect the carpets. It forms little air pockets that makes walking on it like walking on bubble wrap. Except that the bubbles don't pop: they just move, so you can walk back and forth over it again and again and again (and again). Some of the bubbles get broken up into little tiny bubbles, and when you walk on those areas, it's a crinkling in a higher register, as if you were walking on rice crispies or, perhaps, the small souls of the damned.

More of the Same

The kids were over this weekend, and that meant no sex for me, but just before the weekend hit, I got an email from one of my massage buds who said that he was really stiff and needed some work. Sadly, I don't even think he meant that as a double entendre, but there's no way to be sure. I had to be pick up the kids by seven, but it's a slow(ish) time at work, so I left a little early and went to G.'s place in Northeast DC.

My guess is that G.'s about fifty, but it's hard to tell. He has a full head of (big) salt and pepper hair but a mostly unlined forehead. And he's got a nice body. There's a slight thickening in the midsection, more indicative of age than anything else, but he's decidedly fit.

He greeted me with a hug, and I asked him how his massage training was going. He told me that he was halfway through both the current semester and the entire program (it's a three-semester program) and that just then he was working on a paper on the anterior pelvis. I suppose that could have been his way of flirting with me, but I doubt it.

We went upstairs, and while I used the facilities, he got undressed and on the table.

G.'s the only guy who's ever offered me any constructive feedback on my massage technique. What he said, essentially, was that my work on the dorsal body was great, but that because I didn't know what to do with the front, I went right for the cock and missed some opportunities. He certainly wasn't complaining, but I had determined that this time I would treat all of his front with the same care that I give to the rear. But I always start on the back, and when I got out of the bathroom, he was lying face down, ass up on the table, so I knew the front would have to wait for a while.

Because he'd mentioned that his neck was especially stiff, I started there. It didn't take long for him to be sighing contentedly while I moved onto his shoulders. His shoulders were seriously fucked up, probably because one of his hands is injured, and he has to rely on the other one. In any case, the knots in his shoulders were multiple and stubborn, but I got them worked out, and he was clearly relaxed.

The massage went as expected on his lower back, glutes, and legs, but when I went in for a little prostate massage (which I hadn't done the last time), his whole body tensed. It was tough work to get a finger in, and I said, "You really don't like that, do you?" and he allowed that he didn't. I guess that means he's a top, which ruins a few fantasies that I'd been harboring, but whatever. I did some more work on his shoulders to relax the tension that I'd (inadvertently) caused, and then I flipped him over.

By now he looked decidedly happy and peaceful. Sort of like a sleeping child, but a sleeping child with salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee. I worked on his head first, with a two-handed symmetrical massage of his forehead, temples, and jawline. Then I alternated a bit between the fronts of his shoulders and his head, and he seemed to relax even more, which, frankly, hadn't seemed possible.

I decided to work one side at a time, and I took my thumb and outlined the front of his shoulder. Then I held his hand up against my shoulder while I worked all the way up his arm and then massaged his hand. Hand massage is usually very intimate, and this time was no exception. Right about then, I noticed that his erection was becoming more pronounced, and I went over to do the other arm.

After the arms, I used both hands to work along his collarbone and along his neck. That made him smile, so I did that for a while before moving on to his pecs (and, naturally, nips). He was leaking just a little bit at this point, and when I poured a little puddle of massage oil into his bellybutton, he sighed. I worked along his ribcage and then his stomach, carefully outlining his anterior pelvis.

I spent a fair amount of time on his upper legs, using a motion that combined a squeeze with my fingers and a push with my thumbs.

I'd tried pretty hard, up to that point, not to look too much at his face because I knew that looking at his face would make it impossible not to kiss him, and I'd wanted to really work on his anterior muscles before I started with any making out, but after working his thighs, I could resist no longer, and I rubbed his nips with my two thumbs and kissed him softly.

As it happened, G. was pretty worked up, and the kiss seemed to uncork his passion. He moaned while the kisses got deeper and deeper. There wasn't so much tongue but our lips were deep within each others' mouths, and he was chewing on mine with barely controlled (but painless) exuberance.

I grabbed his cock and started to stroke him, and he got even more carried away. After another minute of deep and agitated kissing, he grabbed my head with his arm and clamped me down tightly so that the side of my head was against his shoulder. His breathing was fast and deep, and my head felt good against his lightly oiled pecs.

After a couple of minutes of stroking, his grip got even tighter on my head, and he started to cum. I kept stroking him until he released his grip slightly, and then I freed my head and started to kiss him again while I worked out the last drops of his load. He was breathing pretty hard, but he was still kissing me deeply. It was very intense, for both of us.

After I toweled him off, I put him back on his stomach and worked the orgasmic tension out of his muscles, making sure that his shoulders were still free of knots. When I stopped, he told me that I'd improved significantly and that he felt great. He put on some shorts and walked me downstairs, and we chatted some more. He said something about getting lunch sometime, but we'll have to see whether that pans out.

I'd gotten pretty stiff during the massage, too, but on one level I felt like I'd achieved some sort of release. On another level, though, I really, really wanted a cheeseburger, which I got. It was one of those times when I really wished I could run home and fuck b&c's brains out.

I need to get some more regular massage buds, I think. Every time I do it, I like it more. But I think I've decided that it has to remain an avocation for me. It's so much like having sex that I think it would lose its appeal if it became a professional activity.

Bits

1. Sometimes I think there's a group out there running a contest for the best CL missed connection ads. How else to explain the gems among all the you-are-hot-but-I'm-too-much-of-a-wuss-too-say-so-to-your-face refuse?

Anyway, here's an honorable mention:

I think the pseudo-mullet suits you - m4m - 27

I couldn't help but notice a small fleck of red wine on the liner of your Jack Spade messenger bag. You seemed the type who would take his man-bag seriously. I tried to catch your eye to let you know, but you were speaking German very loudly with an accent that sounded like you were from the San Fernando Valley. Maybe we could meet up at the dry cleaners?

At first I was going to answer the ad to tell the writer that it might not be a good idea to post so soon after dropping acid, but then I thought a) right after you've dropped acid is probably the only time to post an MC ad, and b) I've never dropped acid, but whatever this guy was on was obviously some good shit, so I should write him to ask for his supplier: I'd probably be sure not to have a bad trip.


2. Last night I was at choir practice (I live a complicated life: deal). We're auditioning potential replacements for our current music director, so we all show up early, and the auditioner rehearses us for forty-five minutes and then we discuss his or her performance with the search committee. Last night's auditioner was a very cute, mid-thirties guy who until now appears to have been an itinerant assistant conductor for opera choruses. And a vocal coach. Every time we did something right, he'd say "Bravi."

Musically, I was very impressed with him. He made us sound terrific. He may also have been the gayest man I ever met. I don't mean swishy, I just mean gay. I enjoyed singing for him, but most of the time I was wondering whether the fact that he's a choral director for a living means that in his personal life he prefers a more submissive role. What our choir really needs is a director whom I can fuck to get a solo. Mind you, I'm good enough to get solos without tying the director to the bedposts, but doesn't it seem like a win-win arrangement? If I had to guess, though, I'd say that he's probably got a partner, and the two of them are monogamous, except for the threeway they have with a hunky Italian baritone after their annual trip to La Scala. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I mentioned to some of the other basses that he was one of the gayest men I'd ever met, and they gave me disapproving looks and said, "that doesn't matter." I replied, "A) I'm allowed to say that, and b) who said it was an insult?" When we were discussing his vita after the audition, one of the altos asked why someone so accomplished would want to lead a church choir and then said "Is he married," and I piped up with "Not in this state." Another alto smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up. She's a lesbian, and she and her partner are both in the choir, and they're pretty cool.

Later when we were having coffee, someone opined that I couldn't be sure that the auditioner was gay. After giving him a "puh-leeze Maria," I gave him the standard joke:

Q: How many straight male choir directors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Both of them.

This jokes works equally well with organists.

3. My stalker keeps calling me. The frequency has gone down to once or twice a week, but I'm amazed at his persistence. For a while, I just didn't open the phone if it said "private number," but after a while I figured that it couldn't always be him, so now I do answer it, and about half the time it is him.

It might be annoying if it weren't so funny. And, ok, a little bit sad, but mostly funny. I'm thinking that maybe the next time he calls, I should get into a hot phone kink scene with him. Tell him how I'm tying him to the bed and getting out the whips and candles to punish him for, well, something. Maybe I can punish him for using the greengrocer's plural. He and I don't communicate in writing (we communicate by him saying "Hey" in about three syllables and me hanging up on him: it works for us), but he certainly seems like the type to abuse apostrophes.

I suppose I could go old school and punish him for touching himself, but how fucked up is that? Really, if we (not we personally perhaps) went into the middle schools of America and taught the students that a) masturbation is good, and b) the greengrocer's plural is bad, we'd have a significantly better country within forty-eight hours. Imagine my eighth grade English teacher sending a note home to my parents: "Teddy abused an apostrophe today; consequently, he should not be allowed to abuse himself tonight." Not, you understand, that I would ever have erred in punctuation.

Understated Writhing

B&c is currently doing some consulting in Addis Ababa. He's semi-retired with a generous pension, so now he takes temporary assignments helping foreign governments with something or other. Actually, I know exactly what it is that he helps them with, but it's kind of uninteresting, so I pretend like either I know but can't say, or like it's something I'm not even allowed to know. That way it sounds like maybe he's a spy, or at least an unsavory character. There is, really, nothing at all unsavory about b&c, unless it's been too long since he showered, and he's pretty good about that sort of thing.

Anyway, he was in Mexico City last week, and he was only home from late Friday night through Sunday afternoon, and he had a lot of things to get done during that time, and I had to be at church on Sunday morning, so we really only had Saturday afternoon to get busy.

I don't write a lot about sex with b&c because when you've been fucking the same guy for four years, there's not a whole lot of new to say about it. I'm not saying that the sex is bad or boring, but if you have lobster three times a week for years on end, you run out of ways of saying, "The lobster is good tonight." I mean, it's lobster, and it's always going to be good, and it's better to have more of it than less of it, but if you only had it once a year, it would be more remarkable.

But there are occasional surprises and occasional reminders that as much as I preach open sexual communication and asking for what you want, there are times when, apparently, my own communication has been lacking.

Take Saturday afternoon. (Well, no, don't: I want to keep it.) We were on the bed, making out, and we'd been making out for maybe half an hour, and suddenly b&c shoved his tongue in my ear. I moaned and shifted a bit, and he pulled it out, and I said, "Dude! I wasn't complaining!" and he put it back in, after saying something about how I'd complained about it before, and I said, "No, that was your other boyfriend."

A few points:

1. "Your other boyfriend" was, obviously, a joke, but sometimes I think that we should each have our own boyfriend. We'd still be partners, of course, but why not have both? More is better.

2. The next morning, I thought long and hard to determine whether there was ever a time when I complained about having anyone's tongue in my ear. The very idea seems ludicrous, but then I remembered a time, maybe two or three years ago, when b&c was poking my ear with his finger, and I asked him to stop because it was awful. There is a huge difference between being poked with a finger and being licked. In general, I dislike being poked. In general, I like being licked. But obviously what b&c heard was that I had some issue with my ears. As a result, I missed out on a couple of years of high quality aural action. Oh, the humanity.

3. Just because you're a gay man doesn't mean you shouldn't know anything about cars. Every man, gay or straight, should know how to change a tire and how to change the oil. Being able to change a tire is an important safety issue. You can't always afford to wait for AAA to come. Besides, it looks really butch. Knowing how to change the oil (and, I hasten to add, you can still have a car place do it for you; you don't have to actually change the oil yourself: you just have to know how to) is crucial, because if you're saying that you don't know how to change the oil, what you're really saying is that you're a gay man without an intimate knowledge of the importance and mechanics of proper lubrication. Need I say more?

4. I realize that last point wasn't terribly relevant to the rest of this post, but I'd said that I had "a few points," and I didn't feel like going back and changing it to "a couple of points." Deal.

So the tongue came back, and it was great. I am, for the most part, a fairly sedate fuck. I may have you bent over the bed and be pounding away at you hard and fast, but there remains great stillness in my motion. My hands won't be flailing all over the place, and I won't be jittery. I don't make a lot of weird noises. Generally, I make other guys get jittery and make a lot of weird noises. But with b&c's tongue in my ear, there were some definite guttural utterances, and there was a fair amount of movement. Not wriggling, certainly, and not quite writhing. Understated writhing.

Anyway, after a whole lot of that, I was really worked up, and I gasped "Lube." B&c got up, lubed himself, lubed my cock, and had a seat. I grabbed his nips, and he rode my cock, and -- considerably sooner than usual -- he grabbed himself and pulled out a load. He wanted me to keep fucking him until I came, but I could tell that would take a while, so I pulled him down on me and just held him for a quarter hour or so, and both of us were happily still. B&c can be a little twitchy from time to time, and he often wants to start rubbing me when I just want to be touched, but this time I told him to relax and be still, and he did.

Eventually, he got up to make dinner. I'd wanted to take him out for his birthday (he'd been in Mexico City on the actual day, and on Friday, he'd eaten a lot before he got home), but he wanted to stay in, and he'd already bought some nice veal chops, so I figured why not. I was lying there, deciding whether I'd doze off and then jerk off or jerk off and then doze off, when he noticed that he had a text message from his friend K., who said that he wanted to get together.

I asked b&c whether I'd met K., and he reminded me that the three of us had had sex after our last holiday party. "Oh, him. You should call him back." K. is a very nice (and cute) Filipino nurse who loves to get fucked.

A few couple of points about Filipino nurses:

1. Although the country is spelled "The Philippines" (one l, two ps), the nationality is spelled "Filipino" (one l, one p). I have to look this up every single time (which, admittedly, is not that often) I have to write either of them. Consequently, I bear a grudge against all of Southeast Asia.

2. A few years back, when I was living alone in an apartment in a different suburb, I knew a Filipino nurse with whom I occasionally hooked up. He was also an accomplished pianist, and he lived in the basement of a house that had a full-sized grand in the living room. He would never come to my place, and he would only invite me over when his landlord was out. Then he'd sit down at the piano, pull out music, and make me sing for an hour. I have a good voice and a strong voice, but singing nearly constantly, by yourself, at a high volume (boy loved to play big and couldn't bring himself to use the soft pedal) for an hour is vocally exhausting. When I couldn't sing any more, I would pull him off the piano bench, take him down to the basement, and fuck him in his bed. He had a nice body, but he had a tendency to cum pretty quickly after I shoved into him. And he was always rushing the foreplay: I reckon he figured that was what all the singing was. He was still a good fuck, but as far as demanding bottoms go, he was sui generis.

B&c called K. back, but he had to leave a message. He was downstairs a couple of minutes later when K. returned the call, and I heard them chatting a bit, and b&c mentioned how I was at home but how I might be kind of tired, and I called out, "No, no! I'm ok. Be hospitable and invite him over."

I pretty much wanted to stay in bed and tell b&c to just send K. up when he got there (and then join us, of course), but I decided to be polite and get showered and dressed, and when K. arrived just a few minutes later, we each had a glass of wine and chatted for a bit before we jumped him. I grabbed his ass all the way upstairs. When we got there, K. said that he thought he needed to clean up a bit. B&c told him he was probably fine, but I told him to go ahead and take a shower, and when he went to do that, I looked at b&c and said, "Dude. I'm going to be eating that ass. Can we make sure it's clean, please?" Somehow this had not occurred to b&c. I think all of the blood had gone out of his brain, but, of course, he has always given new meaning to the designation "intermittently clueless."

K. got back from the bathroom, and b&c went in, so I pulled off K.'s clothes and put him on the bed, and we started making out. Mmmmm. B&c got back and joined in and started sucking on K.'s cock (which, like K., is little and cute) while K. and I continued to make out. Then I started in on K.'s nipples. B&c sucked my cock for a while, and I started to eat K.'s ass.

Details of the next hour are somewhat fuzzy, but everybody had a pretty good time. After working my tongue and (separately) a few fingers up K.'s ass, I was ready to fuck him, but after I got the condom and lube on, I could only get about an inch into his ass. I tried for a while, but then he pushed me back and pulled the condom off me. I figured that was it, but after a couple more minutes, he asked me whether I wanted to cum inside him. I said, "but you just pulled the condom off." B&c was pretty sure that K. was asking me to bareback him. I'm not entirely sure, but that was never going to happen, and I didn't feel like trying again with another condom and the same extremely tight ass. So we played more, and it was plenty of fun. Eventually B&c. sucked a load out of K. Then he tried to suck one out of me while I made out some more with K. (great, great lips), but after a while I decided just to finish myself off by hand while kissing both of them. The threeway kiss is never, in my experience, all that helpful, but I was already plenty worked up, and when I shot, I shot with great force, volume, and distance. There may have been a standing ovation, but I can't be sure.

Anyway, it was a great time. B&c and I have become somewhat wary of the threeways, but I think that we'll be doing more of them in the future. Apparently the key is for me to fuck him first, before the other guy arrives. It's a tough job, but I reckon somebody's gotta do it.

Evited

You knew it had to happen, didn't you? I was all set to post some decent filth today, but then I got something in the (e)mail that I had to post about. This is why people shouldn't have blogs: instead of posting about sex, I'm now posting about the uninteresting details of my life. I've started down the long, slippery slide (remind me to tell you a story about a long, slippery slide sometime) towards total curmudgeonry.

Anyway. Late this morning I was checking my e-mail, and I saw an Evite, and my heart sank.

I'm just going to say it up front: I hate Evite. I've gotten plenty of them over the years, and there was only one case (my buddy A.'s fortieth birthday party, where he'd invited a reasonable number of people, all of whom he knew well; also, he had told me he'd be inviting me) where I thought using Evite wasn't a dreadful idea. And even in that case, while I did rsvp by email, I didn't put a response up on Evite.

I believe that if you're going to invite people to a social gathering, everyone deserves his or her own invitation. If I'm inviting a large number of people (say to a holiday party), then I think it's okay to write the text once and then copy and paste it into individual emails. I also think it's okay to send one email to two recipients if the two recipients are a couple. I will often, but not always, further personalize the text of the email, but that's entirely optional. In other words, your e-invitations should in some way mirror the invitations you would have sent had you not had e-mail available to you. Party invitations are often mass printed, but they go in individually addressed envelopes. Your friends deserve no less if you're using e-mail as your delivery vector.

But, of course, this Evite wasn't really from any of my friends. It's from a couple, one of whom I've never met, and the other of whom I've chatted with four or five times and met in person once. For years I would get Evites to this couple's parties. At first, I'd dutifully decline via Evite. The parties were usually held when I was busy, they live a long way away, and I don't really know any of their friends. (I was going to say that I never knew anyone on the guest list, but part of my problem with Evite is that you see the whole guest list, and I always imagine people waiting to see if so-and-so is coming before they reply, and that is just so incredibly junior high that I'd like to pretend that I never thought of it, so just ignore this entire parenthetical: that should be easy, given the lack of filth.) I thought that I'd gotten myself off their mailing guest list for good when I didn't receive any Evites for over a year, but apparently they dug deep for this party.

Anyway, here (heavily redacted to avoid a ghost of a chance of identification of the hosts) is the Evite that was sent to 381 (I only wish that I were making that number up) of their closest friends:

Memorial Weekend Nude Swim Party

Host: [Redacted]
Location: [Redacted] Private Gay Resort
When: Saturday, May 26, 3:00pm
Phone: [Redacted]

Come join us at [Redacted] and [Redacted] fabulous private gay resort, [Redacted], for an all nude swim party and cook out. The party will begin at 3 pm and officially end at 8 pm with an after party from 8 pm to ?? There will be pleanty [sic] of food and drink and is all inclusive of the $20.00 donation we request to cover the high cost of food and drink. (Correct change appreciated)
Please bring your own towels and a gym bag to store your clothes in.

A few observations:

The "private gay resort" is their personal residence. I went to the webpage for it, and it's certainly a very nice and very spacious personal residence in the far, far, far out suburbs, but it is still a personal residence. It's not like they've got Julie McCoy on staff there. I'm pretty sure that they're attempting to turn it into a "private gay resort" as a means of gathering additional revenue to support their drug habits exorbitant lifestyle that is far beyond their means unjustifiably large egos debt burdens drug habits.

Who the fuck invites 381 people to a party at their house? Are they trying to get on the circuit?

If you're charging admission, it's no longer a party: it's an outdoor bathhouse. Not that there's anything wrong with having an outdoor bathhouse, but there is plenty wrong with charging admission to a private party. If you can't afford to have guests over, then don't have guests over. Or don't serve so much liquor. Besides $20 is a bit steep. Sure, liquor is expensive, but none of these guys is going to eat anything, and I'm sure they're all bringing their own drugs. Buy some cheap vodka, make some strong punch (I have recipes), carve a few watermelons, and set up the garden hose: party for 300 for less than a grand, and you'll be a legend in your own time. (It is entirely acceptable to expect people to bring their own condoms, but hopefully they already know that.)

God bless anyone who's comfortable going to a nude party in full sun with 300 other guys, but anyone who knows me well enough to invite me to this sort of party should know that I wouldn't attend. I'm entirely comfortable hanging out naked with people I've had sex with and/or with people I'm about to have sex with. Sadly, I'm pretty sure that I haven't had sex with 381 people, and I'm equally sure that I haven't had sex with more than, say, ten (a wildly liberal estimate: I do have sex with a lot of guys, but I really don't know this crowd) of the people invited to this particular party. That means that, in order to be comfortable (and leaving questions of sun damage -- among other questions -- aside), I'd have to plan on having sex with an additional 370 people. Granted, this is the DC area, so probably 350 of them are bottoms, and I could just make out with the other 20, but there's only so much of me to go around. And since I'm really not much into quickies, I'd probably have to be there until Labor Day to get through the entire guest list, and some of those people probably don't want to hang out there for that long. It's an interesting logistical problem, though. I reckon I'd have to hire a security guard to make sure that no one left the party until we'd been properly, um, introduced. And I'd need a rubber stamp and an ink pad so that I could stamp the ass of all the guys I'd done so that security would know they'd be allowed to leave. It just seems slightly impractical to me.

"Correct change appreciated." For $20. Do I even have to explain how much of a WTF that one is?

Anyway. The silver lining here is that an Evite is not an invitation so much as an announcement. And since I haven't been invited, I am really under no obligation to accept or to send regrets. In the past I've replied just so I wouldn't get the nasty, hysterical why-haven't-you-responded-you-ignorant-galoot-don't-you-know-that-we-need-to-know-how-many-people-are-coming? follow-up Evite, but then you get the cloying reminder Evite anyway. And since none of them are invitations, they can all be safely ignored.

A Conversation with the EFU

Today, on a Very Special Episode of The Neighbors Will Hear, I recount a conversation with my eighteen-year-old daughter, aka EFU (aka world's biggest fag hag). I apologize for the lack of filth. There was filth in the last entry, and there'll be more filth in the next entry.

The scene: Teddy has picked up EFU from her mother's house, and they are on their way home.

Teddy: How was your weekend?
Elder Filial Unit: I did a lot of stuff.
T: Did you have fun?
EFU: Yeah, some of it was fun.
T: Am I allowed to know details?
EFU: Well, on Friday night, I went with D. to the gay dance at Churchill.
T: Wouldn't the point of a gay dance be for him to go with a guy?
EFU: Apparently I'm more fun than other gay men.
T: If you only knew how true that is.
EFU: And then on Saturday, I went to Youth Pride with the RYA [Rainbow Youth Alliance].
T: I see. Were there any heterosexual-related activities?
EFU: No. There never are.
T: Well, I'm sure you'll meet some suitable straight guys at college. What's the male-female ratio?
EFU: I think it's 60-40 female-to-male. And half the guys are gay. I'm doomed. I may as well keep hanging with my gay peeps.
T: I guess. But maybe you'll get lucky and meet a nice straight boy who hangs out with lesbians.
EFU: A girl can dream.

Sling, Slang, Slung

So I guess you really do learn something new every day.

I, for example, was under a complete misapprehension as to what it means to "milk" someone. (I do, however, understand exactly what it means to milk a dairy animal, so if you were about to explain that to me, there's really no point. I have a fair number of relatives who are farmers.) I had thought that milking typically involved restraining a guy and then masturbating him to orgasm and continuing to stroke him after he had ejaculated so that all his ejaculate was gone.

Not so.

Milking aka prostate massage apparently involves draining the seminal fluid (known to us common folk as precum) by rubbing the prostate. As you can see from the aforementioned links (and more: just google "prostate milking"), there is some ambiguity as to the eventual goal of milking, but the technique appears to be relatively well defined.

Lest you think that I sit at my computer all day and research sexual variations (not that it wouldn't be a sweet job if I could get funding for it), let me explain that I was chatting with a sub with whom I play from time to time, and he asked me if I knew about milking and whether I was willing to milk him.

This guy is something of a demanding bottom, though I suppose that's as much my fault as his. After all, if I said, "fuck no" to any of his requests, it's not like he'd refuse to put out. And he does do pretty much anything I ask, within certain broad limits. (As with almost every sub I know, his limits are a lot less restrictive than my own.) But I often gratify his requests, if only so that I can say that I've done something.

Anyway, I wasn't sure that I was right about milking, so he gave me a url which wouldn't pass the office's content filter. So he emailed me the information from this page, and then it all made sense. This guy's first request is almost always that I don't let or make him cum during the session. When I'm in a petulant mood, I punish him by shoving a dildo in his ass and pounding hard until he shoots. I don't reckon that he's too upset about that since he invites me back. Besides, whether I deny him an orgasm or I deny denying him an orgasm, he's still being denied either way, so he's happy. I really can't say that I empathize with the mindset of a submissive, but I reckon that I understand it, at least on an intellectual level.

This guy proposed having "a buddy" install him almost entirely in his sling before I got there. (I'm pretty sure that means he does it himself.) Then when I arrived, the door would be unlocked. I'd lock it behind me, restrain his free hand in the sling, milk him, and fuck his holes.

I haven't always had the greatest experience with this guy's sling. It's because I'm short. Well, sort of. I'm six feet even, but I have the body of a guy who's 6'4 and the legs of a guy who's 5'8. (I hasten to add here that I don't think of 5'8 as short, or, at least, that I find guys of that size almost unbearably sexy. Though I suppose the same could be said for guys ranging from 5'4 to 6'9. I'd go farther, but I don't think I've ever fucked anyone taller than 6'9.) The last time I was there, I'd told him to three-quarters tie himself to the bed, but I told him he could have the sling set up and we'd move him to the sling after I'd fucked him on the bed. But he'd set the sling up for someone of my height, so I had to stand on my toes to fuck him, and it was kind of tedious and tiring. I managed by grabbing onto the top of the sling and sort of hoisting myself higher, but it's hard to fuck like that for long, and, frankly, this guy's not so tight that I'm likely to cum without fucking him for a long time.

Anyway, I told him he could be in the sling, but he had to set it lower than before, and after we negotiated the correct height, I gave him a time that I'd show up. Miraculously, I found a parking space near his home (he lives right on Logan Circle) and made it in time.

I hadn't bothered to give this guy the usual instructions this time around. I always tell him to be naked except for a blindfold or hood, and I assumed that he'd remember, but when I got there, he was hooded, but he was strapped into the sling, wearing some camouflage boxers (with the bottoms cut to allow easy access to his hole) and a gray ribbed tank. I was a bit annoyed because I'd planned on taking a picture of him in the sling, but the room was probably too dark to get a decent picture anyway. And, after all, I could still reach underneath the tank and pinch his nipples hard. He also had his ball gag in (he lives in mortal fear that I'm going to insist on kissing him), and he was wearing some white ankle socks that weren't all that clean. They didn't smell all that great, and that was a bit of a nuisance to me, but I decided to go with the moment. He is, after all, an eager and fun fuck, and he never complains about hard nip or nut work. Or if he does, he's got the gag in, and I can't tell.

He was, comme d'habitude, already lubed, and I'd trimmed my nails on the way, so (after securing his free hand) I grabbed the DVD remote and started the porn that he'd cued up on his massive TV, and I pushed a finger in and started to rub it around the periphery of his prostate. Every once in a while, I'd hit the center of the prostate pretty hard, and his body would go rigid, and the chains in his sling would rattle, and he'd make some sort of noise.

After four or five minutes of this, I'd gotten a lot of incoherent moaning through the gag, but I wasn't seeing much precum, so I pulled the gag out and replaced it with my cock. Naturally, since I was now at the other end of the sling, I couldn't easily massage his prostate, but I could tweak his nips pretty hard and rock him back and forth on the sling, sending my cockhead in and out of his throat. That did get the precum flowing, and it was fun besides, so I kept that up for a while. When I'd swing him too hard, my cock would come out of his mouth, but he'd root around for it hungrily, so I assume he was having a good time, too.

I guess that the head pulled back position gets tiring after a while, and he asked, between gasps for air, if I could come around to the side where it'd be easier for him to suck me. Ever the gentleman, I complied, and started bumping into him and swinging him from side to side rather than back to front.

When we were having our milking discussion, he'd said that some people use ice to keep the bottom from cumming when he's being milked. Accordingly, he'd laid out a small bowl of ice. It was the half-moon shaped ice that comes out of home freezers with ice makers. While I was fucking his face from the side, I grabbed one of those pieces of ice and rubbed it on his nuts and then around his hole. That made him moan some more, which was nice for my cock. Finally, I took the piece of ice and pushed it inside his ass and left it there. There was a lot of noise when I did that, but since I kept my cock in his mouth, I couldn't really be sure what he was trying to say. I decided it was easiest to assume that it was "thank you, sir!"

He had most of his toys out, and I grabbed a dildo that I'd probably call a silver bullet. It was metal with a handle, and I rammed that against his knob for a while, which caused a lot more muffled exclamation. But the silver bullet falls out if you don't hold it in, and I was tired of holding it, so I found a more flexible rubber dildo with a handle on one end and a rubber ball on the other. It did a good job of bumping up against his prostate, but it also stayed in when I let the handle drop. Unless I pinched his nipples really hard, and then it would plop out and I'd have to reinsert it.

I left the ball-ended dildo hanging out of his ass and started fucking his face from the end again. It was fun, but I'd already been there almost forty minutes, and it was clear that he wasn't going to get totally milked, and we'd arranged for me to be gone within an hour (B&c was coming back from Mexico City that evening, and I had to get over to Lambda Rising and buy him a pornographic birthday card), so I figured it was time for me to fuck him. I put on a condom and lubed it up a little then stepped up to his ass and slid in. Fortunately, he'd set the sling to the right height (and the ice cube had fully melted), and he never really requires (or wants) a gradual entry, so I pushed right in and started to plow. I pushed forward a few inches so that gravity would bring him back towards me, and then I stood still and pushed the chains forward so that I could fuck him without moving much. He started moaning more loudly (the gag was back in) and nodding his head up and down. Every so often I'd grab his cock for a few seconds (he never gets soft when he's in the sling) and stroke him just to make him think that I might make him cum, and occasionally I'd just rub my finger tip against his frenulum to make him writhe, but mostly it was just a nice, hard, rhythmic fuck.

When I was at the fifty-five minute mark, I knew that I wasn't going to blow a load within the hour by fucking him, so I pulled out, pulled off the condom, lay down on his bed, and stroked while watching the porn. He couldn't see me, and I stayed pretty quiet, but he must have known I was still there since he would have heard the bedroom door open if I'd left. I got pretty close pretty quickly, so I stood back next to him, made a little bit of noise, and let fly with five or six stripes of cum, all the way across his tank top. It was a good look for him, and he didn't cum, so I think he must have been happy.

I went to his bathroom and cleaned up quickly, then dressed silently, released one of his hands, walked out of his bedroom and then out of his townhouse right at the one-hour mark. I hadn't said a word to him the whole time I was there.