All posts in Mid-Life Crisis

47 Is a Prime Number

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I am turning 47 and that is fucking scary.

I’m on that downward slope to 50. My fucking isn’t on a downward slope, though.greetings-from-north-carolina-nc-postcard

Sure, I can’t cum in an ass 12 times a night. I made it four times about a year ago (he was a special bottom). But when I shoot, I still shoot plenty. Not too long ago, a massage therapist was jerking me off and I stopped him just in time.

A massive amount of what I can only call “pre-cum” came spilling out.arkansas-postcard

Before I actually shoot, I always have a this massive shot of spooge. Sometimes I time it right, shoot it and allow it to be my lube for a time before injecting my actual load.

My massage therapist is brand new and I’m learning he loves my cum. He’s always amazed at how much I shoot and now I was teaching him how my body reacts to stimulus.

maryland-postcard Over the next 10 minutes, I let him edge me. He was fascinated as the white stuff just continued to spill forth from my cock.

Then I went for my load, which added to the gunk already massed in my belly hair and shot even further on.texas-postcard

It’s rare that I see my loads any more. I always inject them in some hole. This new therapist is giving me an opportunity to train him on the best ways to please me. He’s doing well.

Nevada

I know it satisfies bottoms. I hear from them all the time how much I shot. It disturbs me a little when they tell me it’s running down their leg as they drive home. Even when I bottom, I have the awareness and control to keep the DNA inside me and maintain it until it’s gone — absorbed by my body, so that the man who I allowed to fuck me is forever integrated with me.

I enjoy the fucking. It’s getting better all the time.

What I’m disappointed in seeing among the bottoms is a lack of dedication to the craft.

Cleaning up (and out) isn’t all one must do.

I get some of the most satisfying cums from a massage and that’s because the guy knows how to hit my buttons.

I wish bottoms would attempt to satisfy a top that way. Sure, offering up an ass is great. But working at finding each spot that turns a top on is perfect too.

It’s rare to find a bottom who doesn’t do the porn scenario. Suck cock, spit on hand, lube ass, sit on cock.

Lick my balls? How about my ass?

I still stand amazed at my boy in Philadelphia who could suck my cock and lick my balls at the same time. His tongue was so long, he could almost tickle my asshole.

He wanted me to be satisfied and feel good. He WORKED at it.

Yes, I know you bottoms who want the top to take control. But I like bottoms who anticipate my needs and goes for it.

I’m 47.

I’m not dead.

It’s official. I’m in my prime.

Bottoms. I am starting a national tour. In the next three months, I am visiting the above states. Get ready.

This prime number wants to fuck some ass.

 

 

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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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Becoming…

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A muscle god, I shall never be. Let’s admit it. I am 44 years old with hair that’s now growing in odd places no matter how much I pluck and shave. However, I am changing.

After nine months out of work, I needed to force more changes upon my life. So for the past month, I’ve shifted my focus from professional to personal development.

After all the effort to give the professional folks what they expected, I decided to switch to being more myself. The goatee is back and a faux-hawk hairstyle is in place. I’ve been going to the gym and working out with a personal trainer rather than spending money on websites like LinkedIn.com and TheLadders.com. Because my extraordinarily hot but tragically straight trainer is also a nutritionist, he’s got me on a diet. It’s not the easiest diet, but it’s working and my body is transforming more quickly than I even expected.

This past month hasn’t seen a lot of weight loss as my fat is converting over to muscle. I’ve leaned out and my strength growth impresses even me. My jerk-off arm started so much stronger so a benchpress proved almost impossible when I started, so we began with dumbbells. Fifteen pounds each seemed too tough for three full sets my first time but now I’m up to 45 pounds each arm. I hate squats, yet I’m successfully pushing through them as well.

And I have biceps. They’re hidden under a layer of fat, but you can feel them.

I may not have a job. But for once, I am finding some satisfaction and seeing results underneath something of which I have control.

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Slapping Some Sense into a Senior

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@PositiveLife tagged a Tweet with the Bareback Brotherhood’s hashtag (#BBBH), getting my attention today and sending me into a bit of a tizzy. The heartfelt piece, written by Charles Walton, a man in his 60s who became HIV-positive late in life, indeed tells a compelling story. (It’s something that should be read, but in April 2011, the site took it down so you can’t.)

But what I find despicable is the conclusions to which the author comes.

In summary, the author visits his doctor and gets Viagra, begins a three-year period of indulging in unsafe sex (in other words, barebacking) including visits to bathhouses that includes a gorgeous man named “Dave” who he singles out among all his dalliances to conclude, 18 months later when symptoms appear, caused him to seroconvert.

The implication in this story that “Dave” might be the culprit or Viagra causes HIV bothers me tremendously. Neither Dave nor Viagra did anything. The author’s justification that the temptation brought on by a turgid cock or a handsome man (who he’d seen numerous times at a fucking bathhouse, hint-hint) can be linked to seroconversion is circumstantial at best.

Every man — straight, gay and in between — finds himself tempted. And obviously, “Dave” was not the author’s “just this once.”

The author took a risk knowing the possible results but not willing to accept becoming HIV positive. Or thinking he might remain negative.

Furthermore, the author waits 18 months, failing to get regular blood tests with his physicals — if he had any. I am in my 40s. I visit the doctor at least four times a year and he’s always taking blood but not for HIV. It’s to check cholesterol, hints of prostate cancer and a dozen other indicators that come along with being older. If this man failed to follow basic protocols of visiting his doctor for regular visits, come on.

After all this, the author attempts to turn this into a safer sex morality tale. While heartfelt, this story isn’t about safer sex or condom use.

Condom use is not the end-all and be-all of safer sex. Using seroconversion as “wake-up call” for safer sex seems like closing the barn doors after the horses have already bolted. Now he’s going to become an activist and get involved in his community.

WTF? Seriously?

It reads like some religious conversion rather than seroconversion. He learned that condoms fucking suck. They lessen sensitivity and make for difficulty in maintaining an erection, especially as the plumbing starts to rust. So what do we need? More condom use? No.

The barebacking movement won’t back down. More effective safe sex messaging to resonate in the community won’t work. Believe me. I know. I’m in marketing. Nothing resonates with a cock other than the tingling sensation of another human’s skin. The intimate connection of that touch cannot be duplicated no matter what plastic flesh created in a lab.

The scientists need to figure out ways to kill HIV transmission in lubricant or absorption through inoculation. Our prophylaxis needs to be the “gay pill” to allow fucking the way it was meant to be.

As for the author, he has sampled the fruit of barebacking. As he adjusts to life as a poz man, the shock will wear off and, I will bet, barebacking will return to his menu. Oh, he will deny it as he has written this online article despite covering his face and likely obscuring his name. But fuck raw he will. He can’t deny that hard cock and how good it feels to touch another human without plastic between two bodies.

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Did I Fuck? No. No Birthday Breeding. Just Blue Balls for My 44th!

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Someday, when the cash is flush and the time is right — perhaps when I turn 45 — I will get to have a birthday bash someplace interesting with warning and get a few more guys to show up.

Fuck.

Get someone to show up.

No one came up to me, if anyone who knew me was there. Now I might not have expected it, but it would have been nice to meet someone. Maybe next year, as I said.

Alas, I still had a terrific time at Swinging Richards, as is my thing. I think it’s the mindfuck of it all where these straight guys all pretend to be interested in gay guys. That’s not the mindfuck mind you. It’s where they’re fooling themselves that they really don’t enjoy guys.

I just imagine them, twenty or thirty years from now, married, no longer gorgeous, paunchy men in these loveless marriages, teenage kids, jerking off in their mancaves late at night, bored with their lives, wishing something would change, watching porn on those huge-ass virtual screens.

Then they wonder why they’re paying more attention to the cock going in the va-jay-jay.

If they don’t start molesting their sons, blessed with the same beauty they had, they’ll seek out cocksuckers at first. Not finding too many, they’ll start sucking the cock themselves.

And they will like it.

The secret enjoyment of those moments in the VIP rooms with strangers who were decent looking will fuel jerkoff sessions and even more.

Of course, a few of the men there “get it,” including one of my favorites, who legitimately seems to be bi leaning on the gay side.

Oh, and for those of you who might recall I started a bit of fiction a while back. Last night, after years of visiting, I met the man upon whom the elusive character Djon is based, which just might cause me to resurrect writing The Company. Who knows?

After my time at Swinging Richards, I went to Inserection.

Double fuck.

The place was packed. Filled to the brim. With tops.

For more than two hours, I wandered the halls and rooms and booths only to get a bunch of nothing. I think two men touched my cock. No blowjob. Nothing. I went home, a burrito from Taco Loco next door and crawled into bed around 5:30 a.m.

The funny thing, I actually had a great time. So I’m building up a big load. And a case of blue balls.

Anyone want it?

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