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A Dozen Resolutions for 2012 & A Dozen Reasons Why 2012 Will Be Better Than 2011

2012

12. Porn Star Fuck…

Surely 2012 is finally my year to get some porn star ass, don’t you think? Hint hint porn stars. You know who you are. And I know you read me. So offer it up to me.

11. Meet My Meat

Looks like I’ll be doing my share of traveling in 2012, not just to Northern California. While I’m around, I want so make sure some of the people out there who read me (and who I read or follow) meet my meat. No particular number. Just a goal to make sure that I spread my DNA wide and far.

10. More Asian Invasions

I love Asians. Well, let me be specific. I love fucking Asians. I want to fuck more Asians. My goal is to make that happen. More. A lot more.

Here’s the thing… if I’m lucky, I could get resolution 12, 11 and 10 in one shot. But I doubt it. I only know one half-Asian porn star. But I’d fuck and breed him twice to make it count.

9. Shape It Up

I’ve been doing good but I need to get started back at the gym. I will. More work to do. More muscles to gain.

8. Something Kinky

I need to shock myself. If anyone can come up with something that will shock me (and in the process, turn me the fuck on), hit me up.

7. Tattoo Time

I know, I promised myself last year. But the tattoo I want requires a good artist. Okay, not just a good artist. A great one. And someone with that talent isn’t just someone you find at the corner shot. You have to find the right one. I hope I find him or her this year.

6. Curb the Curmudgeon

Perhaps a reader has a point. I know there’s exceptions to every rule. Fuck, I know straight men take cock. I need to start believing more men. So maybe they will drive to meet me.

Interestingly enough, I like to consider this part of myself a pragmatist and not a curmudgeon or pessimist. I’ve been told I was a pessimist, most recently by an 18-year-old who really, really was just curious to know my age. This Grindr cutie claimed he would still very much be interested in me, no matter my age. Of course, the oldest man he’d ever dated was two years my youth — and a doctor.

We’ll see if he follows through in the new year. Okay, so in curbing… I HOPE he follows through…

5. Roll on them Rollercoasters

I have a passion for rollercoasters but the past few years has kept me away from amusement parks. Not this year. I’m hitting them and going for a ride.

4. Occupy the Obvious

The Occupy moment had its moment and, at times, my support. Not always. As the movement said they were the 99 percent, I suggested that I was the 9 percent — the 9 percent unemployed who simply couldn’t find a job.

That story goes further. I could find the most basic work. Even Target or other hourly positions turned me down. I just wanted a chance. I finally got that chance and got a job. I got two job offers.

However, one job offer came with stipulations. It came with a three-month trial to determine whether or not I was “compatible with the culture” in the company.

With both companies, I’d been forth coming about my sexuality — not in an obvious way, but inquiring about support of same-gender partner benefits. One answered my questions professionally and neutrally. The other — well — needed time to figure it out. Then questioned whether I would “fit with the corporate culture.”

This was later in the process, so as not to look homophobic. But it didn’t fool me.

Fuck fit.

I didn’t occupy the job, especially when I left them know that I recognized their homophobia, no matter the subtly. I called them out on it.

They backpedaled and tried to get me to take the job, but emotionally, I just knew I couldn’t commit myself there. Which leads me to my next resolution.

rage3. Punch Back

Look, as much as we like to suggest, IT DOES NOT GET BETTER. We just learn to deal with the crap better. And after the last couple of years, with “FAG” carved into the side of my car, my shit stolen, bullied at work and eventually fired by a homophobic boss and the hatred I confront from the Gay community, I’m done being Mr. Passive.

I’m punching first, asking for clarification later.

2. Mentoring a Man-Boy

I have hoped for a while to find someone worthy of learning what I know. Occasionally I find someone who has promise and I begin speaking with him. But as with most of these young’uns, they fall off the planet when it means a little work. This includes the Seattle bottom who’s cheating on his boyfriend and learning to be a cum-loving slut, the Midwest Asian frat boy who thinks he’s not all that hot but he breaks all the molds with a big cock and the big-dicked black Florida Military boy who keeps skipping around on me like a fairy.

If you’re worthy and will truly dedicated yourself without being a flake, hit me up: iblastinside@gmail.com. And include a fucking photo.

1. Connect

Vague as it sounds, I know what it means. I have been sans a best bud, a wing man, a co-conspirator for a little more than a year now. I have good friends but when friendship is tested, few pass the test. I wouldn’t mind it if someone just starts out and we don’t test anything other than whether we can get a good drink on together and travel some.

I’ve even had buds who have been straight and with whom I’ve never fucked. Used to go with one to pro hockey games, getting drunk before and after. He’d check the girls, I’d check the guys and we’d fucking scream our heads off at the checks on the ice.

Miss that.

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2011: Bareback Brotherhood & Other Raw Revolutions

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How to quantify 2011? For me personally, I find it a reprehensible year, kicked off by being fired for being gay and spending almost the entire year looking for work. But when it comes to barebacking, this community I so love (and fuck), we made tremendous strides.

#1, more than anything else, we are visible.

Not that we were not visible before 2011. But our visibility prior to 2011 happened to be via porn and hook-up sites. And, quite frankly, that might be our goals. However, it’s beginning to blossom well beyond that. Evidence?

  • Of course we can point at the Bareback Brotherhood or #BBBH. I’m a proud co-founder along with my good friends @GaPozAthens and @CH4SUK, all started on Twitter. It formed February and, now with more than 2,500 members at http://bbbh.me and on Twitter using the hashtage #BBBH, the Brotherhood shows that bareback isn’t just about the hookup but also about making this choice legitimate.
  • Along with other bareback advocates, I’ve been included in European academic works discussing the Bareback movement and how its momentum is gaining legitimacy. American academics may still be afraid of the right-wing backlash, but it’s increasingly apparent that Barebacking isn’t just about the fuck but also about the choice.
  • Of course, mainstream news outlets still negatively cover Barebacking, but an uncensored look made a podcast during the year.

We had our share of setbacks, mainly with the porn industry still producing a chasm between the two realms of bareback and condom, exemplified by the switch of hottie barebacker Chris Gabriel to condom-user Mark Dylan. Why we can’t peacefully coexist still baffles me.

So pro-Bareback is growing. And I am glad.

That doesn’t mean the hate is over. It continues. But we’re moving in the right direction. Years from now, the Bareback Rights movement has a beginning (not the only beginning). 2011.

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Good Top, Bad Top, Evil Top, Glad Top

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Morality is a funny thing. I’m so used to being told that I’m bad, evil and going to hell by the radical right, it just seems to roll off me like I’m coated in Rain-X and it’s a light shower. It doesn’t even bother me. So when some members of the Gay community — even barebackers with their own questionable place to stand on a position of greater morality — begin to question whether I might be “good” or “bad,” one is left with a little Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged in your soul.

Sometimes I feel like the slut about to be stoned.

Nonetheless, it’s not anything like the OTHER 99 PERCENT or a goodly chunk of the unemployed — of which I am one. We attempt to find work, fill out countless forms online, write, rewrite, rewrite, recast, alter, edit, reformat, update and rewrite our resumes again only to go on job interviews that look promising then some fucktard in the 1 percent decides his gold parachute needs more diamonds and platinum encrusting so he decides to announce a hiring freeze.

Sex is one of those things in which we have completely under our control. It’s not the color of our skin, our birthplace or luck. Sex isn’t a roll of the die. It is a choice whether we engage with a stranger or date for a time.

We have to remove the morality from fucking. It just simply doesn’t work. What does is personal accountability. Now you can run to a dictionary and splice terms with me but I’ll give you my basic lesson difference between responsibility and accountability.

Responsibility is being able to answer for one’s conduct and obligations to another person, group or entity.

Accountability is being able to answer for one’s conduct and obligations to oneself. 

We need not rely on anyone else. The choices are our own. With sex, you are accountable only to oneself.

If you’re fucked up enough to turn your back on someone holding a loaded gun who swears they won’t fire it into your backside, then you need to have your head examined.

Hate me if you want, but there’s a lesson to be learned here. Better you read and learn than fuck and regret.

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There Is a Distinct Difference

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It pains me to find Cristian Knox in a bit of a row with me over stealthing. He offers his feedback to my previous entry with his “Spot the Difference” game, in which he compares me to a purse snatcher, a mugger, a bad repairman, etc.

Cristian misses the point so very much.

  1. I don’t wander the streets seeking people to stealth. Quite the contrary. I make the distinct point of stating I invite these people into my lair or fuck them at an adult bookstore or sex club. This isn’t some miscellaneous place. It isn’t rape. The sex itself is quite consensual. Both parties agree to the sex, unlike the mugger where one party doesn’t wish to be robbed but the other does.
  2. A repairman coming into your home to fix plumbing or some other aspect (in his second example) is an implied contract or an actual contract. As I so explicitly stated, no such contract exists between the two of us engaging in sex. I never explicitly agree to engaging in safer sex.
  3. Cristian further makes the assumption that I am the source of any exposure of disease. This is a further problem that condom Nazis often assume about all barebackers. We are all puss-filled, infected zombies full of the worst diseases with intent on bugging everyone around us. This simply isn’t so.

But by the same token, Cristian did remind me of the fable, The Scorpion and The Frog.

A scorpion asks a frog to carry him across the pond.

“But I am afraid you will sting and kill me,” the frog says.

“Of course I won’t,” the scorpion replies. “I cannot swim. If I sting you, you will sink and we both will die.”

The frog thinks about this and finally agrees, figuring it’s safe enough. The scorpion climbs on the amphibian’s back and the two begin the journey across the pond.

Halfway across, the frog suddenly feels the sharp prick of the scorpion’s stinger. As he feels the poison begin to numb him and his body slow, the frog asks, “Why?”

“Alas,” the scorpion says. “It’s in my nature to sting.”

They both sink into the depths of the pond and drown.

I am a top. I am driven by a force I cannot describe to breed. You don’t want it, don’t fuck with me.

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Be Afraid… And Say Goodbye to the Softer Side of iBLASTinside

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If you go all the way back to my first entry in this blog, it begins with this line:

Don’t know when I stopped caring, but I don’t.
It’s all about the fuck.
It’s all about feeling good.
And I don’t fucking care any other way.

Over the last couple of years — call it my mid-life crisis or call it a mourning period after the passing of my parents — I’ve gotten a little soft. Okay, more than soft. I dabbled in relationships and considered the alternatives. I also got fat, lazy and complacent. Sure, I did some good shit, like starting the Bareback Brotherhood, kicked off the Sleazy Atlanta Guide and maintaining a good, mostly pornographic photo blog.

Inside, though, I know I’ve been wishy washy.

I attributed it to depression. I blamed it on job loss and loss in general. Well, here it is 10 months after the fuckers fired me for being a faggot and I still ain’t got work.

I’ve been a kitten too long. I’ve cuddled with the pussy cunt boys. I’ve been nice.

No more.

I avoided writing entries to tell everyone just how often I’ve stealthed men to prevent the hate mail.  Truth is at least once a month, I slip off a condom or use one with a hole in it.

 

Stealthing is what I do. It’s how I fuck. Funny, the little Latin fucker at the gloryholes downtown no longer bothers with a condom with me because he knows I’ll take it off. He tries to predict when I will cum to avoid my load, but he can never tell.

It’s a game we now play.

He knows I throw a good fuck. And if there’s nothing else there that I can find with ease, I’ll fuck his ass. He’ll slide off on occasion, suck me some and try to lick my load out. But he lacks the oral skills to suction out my spunk. So he’ll go back to the ride and end up with another load in his ass.

Just the other day, I had a guy come over. He insisted on a condom. I had one ready, its tip sliced open just in case. But after eating his ass for a good 20 minutes, I teased his hole with the tip and he arched his back and pushed it in on his own.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he said. The 26-year-old ass opening up to my throbbing cock, I pushed deeper in but he matched my pressure. “But it feels so goooooood.”

I fucked him. I came quickly inside him but said nothing, continuing to fuck him to his complete enjoyment. “Just don’t cum inside me,” he said. “Okay?”

I smiled. “You have nothing to worry about,” I said, keeping my rhythm up, knowing that I was pushing my already deposited DNA into him deeper and deeper.

Eating ass seems to be the trick. That compromised condom has been at the ready for a while, but if I go at an ass with my tongue, they let me in raw. Married, straight men or Gay men. Doesn’t matter. Please fuck me raw.

Problem is, eating ass takes time. And I actually have to pretend like I give a shit. And speaking of shit, sometimes I have to taste that shit. The young bucks, I don’t mind as much but sometimes I purposely get a good glob of that bitterness on my tongue and kiss them deep so they can taste their own uncleanliness.

Look dude, clean the backdoor thoroughly. And I’d rather not kiss your ass.

I’m returning to my roots. Returning to not giving a fuck. Returning to getting my cock off.

I’m not saying I’m back to my old self. But I am saying I’m almost back to my old ways.

Watch out.

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