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The Lies Men Tell… Photos (Part 2)

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Read Part One

Whether it’s a decade old photo or the time of our meeting, lying is the constant in the world of fucking. I have honed my own skills at determining who will be truthful and who will not.

For example, the veracity of photos provided by someone can be found in the details. A mole is here in this photo, can it be found there? Or does this photo include a Rubik’s cube and a cassette tape player in the background, indicating it’s clearly from the 1980s? Are the photos from a sequence (leading to further suspicion) or from different times and places? Do they look candid or professional?

Lately, the photo thing had struck a chord with me. I think the proliferation of Grindr, Scruff and other such sprouted more camera mavens insisting on evidence of legitimacy. One face pic is no longer adequate. I must provide multiples. Same with cock pics. Even more, to prove my prowess with fucking, I’ve been asked for video.

Not kidding.

Yes, more than once of late, people have insisted on video proof that I’m worth driving five miles for a fuck. I imagine soon I will need to begin to record myself throwing a few into an ass before anyone will believe I’m good at it.

Believe me, I have heard all the possible excuses on why some poor fucker doesn’t have a photo. No excuse. No more. If you’ve got a cell phone that doesn’t make photo, you’re a fucking idiot. Camera phone save lives and document moments that will forever be discussed on CNN. Your computer did not crash and destroy all your photos. And you can pretend you’re at work and have no photos there, but if so, what-the-fuck are you doing on Manhunt.net at that same company? Please. You’re just some self-hating fag.

Moreover, everyone in the photo trade had been burned one time too many. Some asswipe’s stiffed us and not sent us a pic, left us holding the bag and we, in turn, feel foolish for trusting. But that does not mean now you have the right to always go last in the trade.

All things equal, he who asks first, send first. No exceptions. If someone has posted an ad on Craigslist with a self-photo, that counts as a “sent photo.”

Otherwise, the bottom should send first. I don’t give a fuck if the bottom is 19 years old and hot as hell (or at least says he is).

  • If you unlock without any previous conversation, I’m under no obligation to unlock for you, even if you ask nicely. The whole unlock trade occurs with conversation, not independently.
  • If you show X-rated photos in your profile photos and then “unlock” photos, those unlocked ones should have a clearly available face pic. Else, I’m not obliged to unlock mine. If I unlocked mine first, you should e-mail me a clear face pic. Vice versa as well. If you show face, your locked pics should clearly show cock and/or ass.
  • The only time you have a right to “break the code” and not trade photos is when someone has egregiously lied. This means the following: A 20-year difference in age, a different race or completely different appearance. Otherwise, if you get a pic, you must respond with a pic. You’re welcome to tell the guy you’re not into him.
  • What you send is what you get. If you send me a tiny photo where you can’t see shit, I have the right to send you back a tiny photo where you can’t see shit. If your photo is blurry and you’re wearing sunglasses, I’m welcome to do the same.
  • Just because we both unlock photos does not mean we are meeting for a fuck. I believe in being fair. But my unlock doesn’t mean I’m suddenly into you.

I do study photos (as has been proven) and I can recognize when people lie. And most do lie.

On to Part Three, Test Results

The Lies Men Tell… Smokers (Part 1)

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Have you ever watched the television show, “House”? Dr. House on the show offers up a kind of mantra or philosophy: “People lie.”

Occasionally, he adds to it: “All people lie.”

It’s true. Very true. As much as anyone wants to pretend that 100 percent of everything in their lives are true, lies might be the one constant that a human being can find and if you deny that, you’re simply lying to yourself. And that is the most powerful lie of all.

I find, more often than not, many people lie to me. Dishonesty is honestly the one thing I can count on more than anything else.

My favorite lie men like to tell me is the one that’s my own issue — and I admit as much.

It’s smoking.

I simply cannot fuck smokers. I know. Those of you who indulge this somehow think you don’t stink at all. Even without kissing me, I can smell it. It’s on your saliva and breath. No amount of toothpaste, mouthwash or gum can cover it up. It permeates your clothing and comes out of your pores as you sweat. Ask any man who’s tasted your cum. He knows the flavor of nicotine.

We all have that one thing and that’s mine. I’ll lose an erection so fast — if I’m lucky enough to manage to work one up.

I know when men lie about it. I know you’ve done your best to cover up your addiction. I don’t fault you for it. I simply won’t fuck you and send you on your way without calling you the liar you are when I asked about it. I usually do ask. Some men attempt to find out why I’m asking or the response I want.

Like that matters.

I know. I go with my gut. If you tell me you’ve quit recently, I know it’s bullshit.

So if you’re wondering why I’ve blocked you on BarebackRT.com or I didn’t hook up with you that time we met or the reason why we kissed only once then I came fast and left. It’s because I know the truth to this simple fact.

These are life’s speed bumps, things we just can’t get over. And this is mine.

On to Part Two, Photos… then Part Three, Test Results

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Virtual Words and a Vibration

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Nothing more than the feel of vibration. The notion of an arrival of a text message. Your stomach gets a little knot. Could it be? Is it from?

No. Just a friend checking in.

Returning your iPhone to your pocket, it vibrates once. It’s just an e-mail. You relax. But then you think, it could be an e-mail from him. Naw. He’d text me. Not e-mail.

Still, it bugs the back of your mind until you check it later.

Finally, on a bathroom break, you send the obligatory, “How’s your day going?” message.

Not much communication during the day. Sporadic bursts of intense messages with long delays in between. Then that night-time, battery-draining flurry.

The night-time. That’s what you live for. That’s what you wait for. That’s what you wish for. That’s what you hope won’t stop.

For the day the vibration stops is the day you’re afraid he’s moved on to something more real. Something that’s not virtual. Something that won’t fit into a pocket. Something not cold, metal and plastic and glass.

Something flesh, warm and pliable.

And even then you’re afraid he’ll return to the promise of the other choices that are virtual and vibrational. The things not connected to you.

Travel Diary: Trio of Cum Dumps in San Fran, But Barely Remarkable

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As I continue my visits in the San Francisco Bay Area, I’ve been attempting to get closer to the Castro as much as possible in order to attract a larger crowd. This time, I stayed just across the Bay Bridge in Emeryville. But I might as well had stayed in the Silicon Valley as the bottoms insisted I proved to be much too far for them to venture forth from the city itself.

I’m beginning to comprehend the mentality that the Bay is a great divide and few dare cross it. It’s similar to Atlanta and the Interstate loop around the city proper known as the Perimeter or I-285. People here refer to life “ITP” or “OTP” as in, “inside the Perimeter” and “outside the Perimeter.” Those inside dare not step outside for fear the air isn’t breathable. Many outside won’t go in for fear of rape, shootings or worst of all, paying for parking.

During my stay I fucked and bred three holes — a Latin, an Arab and a half-Asian. One crossed the divide for me (thanks), I crossed for one and the other happened to be on my side of the Bay.

Arab Ass

Arab ass is hot. Not metaphorically. I mean it’s temperature hotter than normal ass. I’m sure somewhere along the way I’ve fucked some Arab ass, but I just can’t access that index file at the moment. He was a late-night stop-by and I figured, what-the-fuck, here’s something new, I’ll try it. He wasn’t hideous but I’ll be damned if he wasn’t all that. He made up for it with enthusiasm, even licking my ass that I’d not exactly prepped for rimming (yet he lapped it up with gusto).

Let’s just say I was just there to breed him. He kept begging me to hold off so we could play some more but I didn’t. I injected hot sperm into his steamy ass.

Gotta had in to the Arab, he licked me clean, put on his clothes and said, “I go now.”

He slipped out into the night.

Half-Asian

On my way to the airport, I stopped by his place. His photos on BarebackRT.com were hot, hot, hot. The photos were accurate but the attitude went a little more prissy than I’d hoped. We got down to business and his skills were okay as long as I pinched his nipples — damned bossy bottoms. Perform and I reward. Don’t expect me to reward so you’ll perform.

Anyway, this ass had been well-used many times and once I got into it, he opened up like a Morning Glory Bloom at dawn, making it impossible for me to cum. So I stopped being polite and started getting real, pushing him down to his stomach so I could fuck him like I meant it. He protested and resisted, but I finally got him where I needed. I went into top mode and lost how long it took, but I had to go harder and deeper to get my cockhead somewhere in his ass where it felt a little tightness. He just grunted. I finally buried it and pumped out a few squirts.

Latin

I save the best for last. Short and looking like a Marine, he stepped inside. When he kissed me, his mouth opened and he started with the tongue, from top to bottom. Sloppy. And sexy. Great chest with just a little hair. Hardcore angular face. And the fucking started almost immediately after I got hard. When he rode me, I got him close to the edge fast and we had to slow down.

Didn’t matter much. When I had him on his back, I fucked his ass hard and he grabbed his cock. Two jerks and thick, milky cum flew out.

He endured me fucking a little longer, beginning for my load and I let him have it.

Obviously, his thick cock was a top cock and this was a top fulfilling an itch that came along on occasion. But he let me finish off, which I appreciate.

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

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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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