All posts in Smoker

Ignore the Fake & Listen to the ‘Real’ Interview with Co-Founder of the Bareback Brotherhood

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A webcast and podcast is out claiming to be hosting an interview with the “founder” of the Bareback Brotherhood, a confederation of more than 8,000 men worldwide who believe bareback sex is a legitimate option for them.

Unfortunately, it’s actually a parody. Using a poorly impersonated voice of Smeagol from the “Lord of the Rings” movie trilogy and “The Hobbit,” the hosts of the show imply a variety of erroneous statements both about myself, the Bareback Brotherhood, barebacking in general and the practice of stealthing.

This sensationalistic effort to get their little piddly podcast off to a start might work, especially since they’ve inundated Twitter with the #BBBH hashtag and seem to be legitimately interviewing me or my fellow co-founders, @GaPozAthens Follow on Twitter and @Ch4sUK Follow on Twitter.

Had these assholes bothered to e-mail me (since they based a chunk of their so-called comedy routine on my Top 10 Stealthing Tips Opens new window of a page on this blog), I might have actually spoken to them. I have done interviews before with podcasts, namely Distorted View Daily Open-New-Window-External, which you can still listen to my controversial conversation.

But they were afraid of having a real conversation where I might ask them the hard-edged questions I ask of every condom Nazi who seems to disapprove — especially the one former “HIV educator.”

Oh, the tales I could tell you of fucking men who work in HIV education. If I were to go on BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External and simply highlight all the HIV educators, my friends at BBRT would lose so much money from loss of membership.

Ignore the current claims of an interview of a “founder of the BBBH.” There’s only Co-Founders. And the only one with an interview right now can be found with Distorted View Daily Open-New-Window-External.

 

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

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This entry isn’t sexy at all. You might want to skip it entirely.

I scolded someone today about missing a post regarding the death of my Mother and, when I went back to find it, realized it wasn’t there myself. I apologize to that reader since several places throughout my blog, I do refer to my Mother’s death but the recount of it seems to be missing.

I had debated writing about it when it happened in January of 2010. In fact, the gap of my posts seem almost invisible now looking back, covered up by Q&A posts that seemed popular at the time. Truth is, I probably did post something but along the way to this platform or in some cleaning frenzy, I deleted it as too overly sentimental or not sexy enough.

Yet that incident has significant bearing on two things in my reportour of posts these days: My extraordinary dislike of smoking Opens new window of a page on this blog and my intense disdain of catfish Open-New-Window-External.

By the way, the photo included here is actually a real photo I told of me holding my Mother’s hand one long and painful night and texted it to the catfish.

flower_white          flower_white          flower_white          flower_white

A Second Hospital Visit

My job at the time had me travel throughout December through March. I’d returned home in January after another string of visits and my uncle, who’d just left, suggested I go immediately to see my Mother, as she wasn’t feeling well.

About six years earlier, I’d moved back to Georgia from Washington, D.C., to help care for my elderly parents. My father had passed in 2005, all of us by his side. But he was at home in hospice care. I’d been his primary caretaker during his final two weeks, administering the painkilling medicine that eased his discomfort and helped him ultimately make the transition as easily as possible.

To be honest, his passing was almost one of a miracle, as we’d talked about a month before about his wishes at his funeral. As he breathed his last breath, all of the family around him, hugging him, crying and saying good-bye, the television began playing the one song he’d asked to be played at his funeral.

Compared the the gentle but stoic nature of my Father was the truly steel magnolia Machiavellian matriarch that was my Mother. I loved her dearly. But at 78 years old, she would ignore every doctor’s advice (and my orders) and do as she wished.

From almost 42 years of smoking, her chronic obstructed pulmonary disorder made the most simple tasks brutal. Yet she would insist on housework, fixing dinner, driving herself places, and more, her little portable oxygen tank in tow. And I’d drive her all over the family gatherings, with her often upset when I deviated from the old routes to take quicker, new highways.

I’d been travelling all over the country — three cities this last nine-day tour — and I wanted to sleep and rest because the next week I would be off for two more cities. But instead, I dragged my fat ass over to see Mom.

She’d been sleeping on the sofa across from the hospital bed I’d had in her home for the last six months but she refused to use because there wasn’t a lamp close enough to it.

More petite and frail, her hands and arms dotted with bruising from whenever she’d bump up against anything, she insisted “something was wrong.”

I struck a bargain with her: We’d go to the hospital but when she came home, she’d have to learn to do what I said. After all, I reminded her how she bossed around her Mother (my Grandmother) for 10 years before her passing. I told her she needed me let me get a little bossing in.

Now that I look back, she agreed too quickly.

It was the second time I took her to the hospital but the first time she would be admitted.

Nothing Out of the Ordinary

Mother had bronchitis. When I moved home, I went to the doctors with both of my parents and spent time with their primary care and any specialist, learning as much as I could about their chronic conditions. I also learned what to expect when the time would come.

For Mother, it would be a series of lung infections that would get steadily worse over time until essentially, she could not get enough oxygen and would suffocate.

“The process is beginning,” I told myself.

When I moved home, Mother’s lung capacity was at 23 percent of normal. Even though she’d quit smoking about five years before I came back to Georgia, her lungs would never heal. That’s one of the myths about smokers. If you quit, your lungs don’t get better. Actually, they continue to deteriorate — just at a much slower pace.

Each year, Mother would lose between 1 and 2 percent of capacity. She currently hovered around 17 percent.

She began making a rebound quickly with the antibiotics and everything seemed fine. But one afternoon, she told me something was wrong.

“What is it, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

My Mother’s eyes contained sheer terror in them. I noticed the her oxygen saturation in her blood on the monitor suddenly dropping. I hit the nurse call button.

In the next 30 minutes, we were in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctors wanted to intubate my Mother — that is, put a tube into her lungs to breathe for her. And in her fear, my Mother consented. But I overruled her, pulling out my power of attorney. One of the healthcare directives she’s insisted upon in it was to never be intubated and the doctors agreed, saying if we did, she’d likely never be able to be taken off since her lungs would never be strong enough.

She was put onto a machine that strapped an oxygen mask onto her face so tight, it made bruises all over her face. It would force her to breath.

She cried through the night, hating that machine. I was there the whole time, holding her hand. She asked constantly for it to be taken off. But I asked her to bear with me just a little longer to see if it would help.

But in 24 hours, her condition didn’t improve.

My only companion other than some family and friends who would stop by was a words at the other end of texting. The person was comforting in so many ways. And I was at my most vulnerable, here, next to my dying Mother, feeling the most alone in the world.

The reassurance of his care and love for me seemingly helped. But later, I would discover it was all a lie. He didn’t exist. And I’ll be honest — what that person did, the betrayal just reaches so deep into places where I’m still scarred and hurting that I can’t even begin to explain or even discuss it. It’s actually easier to talk about my Mother.

Relief at Last

With no improvement and really no hope, I spoke to all the doctors the next day to assure that switching to palliative care would be the right choice. I wasn’t prepared for this decision so early. I’d expected to take Mother home and have a few more hospital visits before this event. But that wasn’t to be.

I then spoke to my sister and my aunt to make sure they agreed. Turns out I was the late one to the decision, but I had to be there. It was time for me to talk to Mother.

We turned that horrible machine off and took it away. My Mother was so relieved it wasn’t working on her now and she could breathe at whatever pace she wanted. I went and sat down, alone, next to her, put my hand in hers, feeling the warmth and the knotted knuckles from the arthritis. Her poor body was just so battered and bruised, but through it all I could see that beautiful woman who cared for me through all my years, kissed my boo-boos. She guided me kindly and occasionally spanked me. I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it, feeling that rough skin that still contained a softness. I brushed back her gray hair from her bruised forehead and looked into the dimming brown eyes.

“Mother,” I said in a quiet tone, managing to keep it together.

“Yes,” she said.

“We had a choice and I want to know what you think,” I said. “I know you hate that machine but it’s your only hope of getting any better.”

I paused, as I could see the recognition come across her face.

“We can put you back on it and try to make you ask comfortable as possible,” I continued. “Or we can leave you off of it and you can go see Daddy.”

A single tear streamed down my left cheek.

She didn’t answer immediately. But she did finally speak.

“I think I’d rather go see Daddy. I really miss him.”

My Mother and Father were married 53 years before he passed away. Of course she missed him.

I hugged her.

The Rebound

Over the next few hours, Mom seemed to feel better than ever, visited with so many people. It’s one of those miraculous gifts we get before we die and we get to say goodbye. I have a precious video of her time with my nephew that just would tear anyone apart to watch.

She laughed so much. I was so glad to see that. I hadn’t seen her with that much joy in so long.

It was then I began to realize just how sick she’d been.

And if on schedule, as the final people left and the last prayers were uttered, she slipped into a silent, fitful sleep. With all the paperwork signed, I had the nurses begin to add morphine and other calming drugs to make her sleep more restful.

Just after midnight, she stopped breathing in this world. But she got a lung-full of air somewhere else.

I screamed, not in pain, but at the top of my lungs, “She can finally breathe!”

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What’s Killing People … It’s Not Sex

Causes of U.S. Deaths in 2009
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“It’s good to see a DDF guy on here. There aren’t that many in Atlanta.”

His message popped up on Scruff following a common, “Hello, How are you?”

Of all the things. My profile on Scruff calls myself “healthy, non-smoker” but doesn’t really plunge that much further into the “drug and disease free” issue. As I read the guy’s profile further, he said he was looking for a man who “didn’t think monogamy was a type of wood.”

Funny.

But this fortysomething asshole was alone for a reason. He hadn’t figured out some fundamental truths.

“You, sir, need an attitude adjustment,” I replied.

“Oh,” he replied. “You must be POZ.”

“I have too much to live for than to waste my life with someone who will kill me.”

What the fuck?

“First,” I replied. “I never said what my status happened to be.”

“Second, you need to get the facts about what’s killing Americans.”

I began to cite the statistics included below here. He messaged the word, “nut” before blocking me after the first couple.

Let me tell you some truths:

Causes of U.S. Deaths in 2009

Red Bullet HIV/AIDS: 17,000
Red Bullet Heart Disease: 599,000
Red Bullet Cancer: 468,000
Red Bullet Smoking: 430,000
Red Bullet Gunshots: 298,000
Red Bullet Stroke: 129,000
Red Bullet Alcohol/Drinking: 85,000
Red Bullet Alzheimer’s Disease: 79,000
Red Bullet Diabetes: 71,300
Red Bullet Flu and Pneumonia: 53,700
Red Bullet Drugs: 38,300
Red Bullet Suicide: 34,000
Red Bullet Vehicle Accidents: 33,800
Red Bullet Murder: 15,200

Even though 100 percent of all HIV/AIDS cases are not Gays, you could attribute all 17,000 are to Gay men and assign the 10 percent to the other diseases. It’s not until after gunshots and before stroke that there’s less deaths from HIV/AIDS.

No one has an uproar over processed foods or smoking. Just consider the facts.

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Older than a 40-Year-Old Virgin

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When I post on Craigslist, I’ll often get messages from virgins. Generally, that doesn’t bother me. Popping a cherry can be enjoyable in more ways than one.

More often than not, I’ll be the “first” to break a hole in bareback. True that I don’t believe this. While I’m out about my stealthing Opens a new window from this blog, I believe many more tops do it and don’t confess their sin (and I’ve heard from them).

Among the weirdest requests I’ll receive: Break in my 50-year-old virgin ass.

I got such a request today.

First, I cannot fathom someone denying themselves the urge to fill their carnal desires for what amounts to 36 or so years (depending when puberty really kicked in). There’s a societal norm that urges men toward marrying a woman and fucking her pussy, but if you’re a bottom (or a top), I just can’t see keeping your ass (or dick) dry all that time and not experiencing it.

Second, denying yourself that urge through your teens, twenties, thirties and forties to end up in your fifties and beyond, when your ass sags just seems wrong (FYI, my ass is starting to sag, so don’t give me shit about saying that). There’s something mentally deranged about now, in your fifties, thinking, “I’m ready to get fucked.”

Third, do you think I’d think you’re serious after denying those urges for so long that now you’re really going to let some anonymous Craigslist hookup breed your ass? Some guys tend to respond to almost everything. And after a minute, I recognize them so much, I employ filters to weed out their replies. One such replier I did today. He was in his mid-forties, asking for his first fucking. Over the past few years, he’d replied to my ads over a dozen times. I’ve engaged him a few only for him to disappear.

While he might not be into barebacking, between 2009 and today, he’d likely found someone in the Atlanta area to fuck him. He’s not a virgin (unless he’s pretending). I think it’s more likely he’s jerking off to the fantasy of being fucked and not going through with it.

In the end, I have a policy on men older than 40 asking for their rotten cherries to be popped: Hire a hooker. I’m not available to teach you.

It’s nothing to do with being ageist. As I’ve indicated, I’m an equal opportunity fucker Opens a new window from this blog  and, if you match my basics Opens a new window from this blog, I’ll breed you. However, I don’t want to teach old men how to take cock because at their beyond ripe years, they’re probably not serious about it. The only way to prove seriousness — pay for it.

               

I do have one unusual note here. I knew a man who waited until his wife and kids were dead before starting his Gay life. In his seventies, we called him the “lizard man” because of the lizard boots he wore. He had the most horrible smell since he smoked so much. How he made it so long, we never knew. We also never quite figured out what happened that his kids were dead before him.

Nonetheless, the lesson here… don’t wait. Fuck now.

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Hot or Not? Can’t Fucking Tell!

Hot or Not? Why do gay men fuck around with you on photos?
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I’m getting frustrated with online hook-ups.

Look, I get some fucking hot ass on occasion. But truth be told, it doesn’t have to be the bomb-diggity to make me happy Opens a new window from this blog. I’ll fuck you if you don’t smoke, your ass is clean with decent hygiene and we’re somewhere around height-weight proportional (and I’ll allow for a few extra pounds, but my cock just ain’t big enough for the junk-in-the-trunk chubs.

The rash of crappy photographs has me just fucking pissed.

A bottom makes me promise to send my face pic to him if he sends his. I agree. His face pic arrives. This is it. I didn’t need to blur anything. This is it in 100% glory:

Sunglasses and it’s fucking tiny. Sure, he looks like he’s got a decent body. Technically, he did send me his face pic. But what the fuck?

I actually purposely sent him a photo of someone else. But it was a face pic. I just didn’t say whose face pic I would send. I did fulfill my promise.

Speaking of great bodies, here’s one that arrived from a bottom asking to get fucked.

Now sweet as hell that looks. Muscular and perky. Great legs and back. Who wouldn’t want to fuck that?

But is it him? A few e-mails later, here’s the front side at a more appropriate size (I’ve blurred his face):

Now he’s not horrible looking but the legs are too thin and the waist too wide and obviously it’s not him in the original photo. What did he think? He could fool me? Or anyone?

Here’s the other kind of photos that are driving me fuck-nuts bonkers:

Can you see a fucking thing? Use a flash! Turn on some lights! Take the photo again. Of course, this disabled fucktard didn’t know how. I took care of it for him.

A little more work and I could have make it look a little more natural but you can see this hairy bear well enough to know whether or not he’s worth your time.

Finally, here’s one of my favorites. This one arrived also…

Um, too good to be true, right? Yup. I’ll tell you a secret: Did you know you could search by image? Took me two seconds to discover the commercial porn site this came from. Pretty much you can take any image and see if it’s posted somewhere out there or if someone is using it.

Stop fucking around with me. I’m tired of the bullshit. Be who you are or jerk off somewhere else (hey, this blog is a great place to do it, but I’d rather you click one of the ads).

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