All posts in Mid-Atlantic

47 Is a Prime Number

47
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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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The Brotherhood of the Traveling Fucks

Fuck Fuck Fuck
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I’ve been traveling a lot. And it doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon. And I’ve been fucking lucky.

Literally.

The ass in each city ends up being hot, hot, hot.

If I tried to write about every ass and each encounter, you’d all love it — I know. But I don’t have time. I’m just that busy.

Allow me to summarize some of the highlights.

Mid-Atlantic Tropical Hot Ass

I usually advertise my arrival in advance of my arrival. My ads usually announce that a top blogger is coming to town, looking for some bottom inspiration. I require some basic information from those who want to learn about the blog, since a vast majority of people just want the jerk off material.

I don’t mind. But I want to get a glimpse of who’s going to see it.

Occasionally, some people know who it is. Or they figure it out quickly. These are my fan fuck plans. Some people can be dedicated fans, who read up on me in great details. Others are just the guys who read me when it’s time to jerk off.

This young, very tan man hits me up and begins begging.

Now you have to understand. The younger the bottom, the less reliable. Young men in their twenties are notorious unreliable. I’ve made plans with hem in cities only to end up with a dry dick in hand.

This one really seemed genuine.

And not to bore you with details, he worked out well considering that this time, I ended up running late. He arrived after I finally got into my hotel room. Without hesitation, he worked into an embrace and kiss.

A good kiss.

His sucking worked at getting me hard. But when I finally got into his hairy ass, the fucking tight ass proved to be phenomenal.

Too phenomenal.

It’s been a while since I’ve bred someone three times in a row. But this little fucker kept me hard through all three. I never really slowed down. Of course, I’d been saving up a little. His exotic mixture of Latin and native tropics. A little hair on his chest and these juicy nipples.

His ass never truly loosened up.

If I ever slipped out, this bottom would let out an exasperated plea to put it back in.

I never went soft. His talent seemed unending to keep me hard. He’d read about where to touch me, how to keep me interested and what to do to arouse me.

He is someone who will be fucked again.

University City Slut

It’s summertime, so most of the college kids are at home, screwing around there and not at school. Just my luck I get to go to the midwest and a town that’s pretty much nothing but a university-supported town.

There’s a small contingency of college kids around — too many of them catfish (fakes who claim to want fucking). I’d just about given up.

I’d messaged a guy on BarebackRT.com before my arrival and, well, he pops back online. I invite him over and, 30 minutes later, this thirtysomething is sucking my cock on my hotel room bed.

We went into fuck mode and his neg hole is just begging me to squirt my load inside him a coat his insides fulls of my DNA.

I do.

All you have to do is beg. And this bottom does.

It’s after all the fucking, with us winded on such an intense session, that he admits to having known who I was, loving my blog and basically wanting to find out if he could really feel it “blast inside.”

(Yes, he could feel it.)

He’d gone to dinner with friends and ditched them between the restaurant and the club to swing by and get fucked by me. But we’d promised for a more extensive session next time.

My Boyfriend Doesn’t Know I’m a Slutty Bottom

Occasionally, one of those 20-year-old guys with an impossibly smooth body e-mails me. I figure the photo has been Photoshopped until there’s not a freckle, not a blemish and no stray hairs.

I’m in Texas and on BarebackRT.com when this little fucker e-mails me, volunteering to come take my load. I tell him the hotel. He asks the room. I give it. He says 15 minutes.

And in 17 minutes, there’s a knock at my door. A gorgeous boy walks in, lithe, tall, Latin and beautiful. His shirt is coming off as he steps into the room. He isn’t hesitating.

His chest is perfect. Just barely definition but no imperfections. Anywhere.

The lights are down low because I fucking hate the harsh lighting of hotels. He flips an end-table light on, its florescent yellow blinking into cold existence. But this boy’s skin is still perfect, reflecting the seamless skin with just a peach fuzz of hair that tingles as I run my fingers over it.

He’s naked now and grabbing for my pants.

He sucks me. I was already hard. He slobbers all over my cock. He thumbs his huge uncut cock a little as he comes up and kisses me with the perfect thick lips and then turns around and lines up my cock with his perfect little pucker.

And he pushes.

I’m inside him.

This insatiable boy just begins to ride. But I can’t be a passive top. I move him into a few positions and I pummel him.

He begs for my cum. He says he wants it bad. Please give it to him. I do. I load him up deep.

I lay in the glow afterward, letting my fingertips run over this perfect boy’s skin.

As we talk, it turns out I’m the fourth load in him tonight, although he’d cleaned out for me — I jokingly scold him for doing that. He assures me I’m the first of many loads as he leaves me for a few more.

His boyfriend is working tonight. He’s out for as many loads as possible. And he takes all loads. Doesn’t matter. Oh, he’s a little picky. Hard cocks only.

Never heard of my blog. Couldn’t care less. He just wanted my cum. He just wanted me to blast inside.

Straight Boy and Gay Bottom

In a southern city, I’ve chosen a ginger to fuck. He finally arrives. When he walks in, I recognize him immediately.

He’s straight. He’s a straight bottom. (Yes, they exist.)

He walks in and basically gets to sucking me. Nothing nice about it. He’s not very good, but it’s enough to harden me up. I step behind him and slick my cock up when he mentioned he has a condom.

I don’t protest. I put it on. At least, that’s what he sees. He lines it up with his hole, feeling the condom on it but after it goes in his hole, I pull it out and pull off the condom in a single motion and slide back inside. As soon as I’m in him bare I feel it.

His asshole is throbbing.

Damn inexperienced bottoms.

He’s shooting his load all over my bed.

Pisses me off a little, but I’ve been inside him raw and he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and that’s why he shot off so quick.

He liked it raw.

He’s out the door and I’m on the prowl again. I don’t find another taker until the next day… this a gay guy who just had this terrific body. I didn’t see a face. I get a little concerned when I don’t see a face at all.

He walks in an angel, with these stunning eyes.

We get to the act quickly, although I wanted to take my time. And we fuck for longer than I intended because I want to give him the best I can.

He enjoys it.

We finally kiss as he leaves a load lighter and a load heavier.

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

My-Mothers-Hands
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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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Dune… Desert Planet… Dry Spell While I’m Working to Find a New Job. Anyone Care to Help?

I've been on a bit of a dry spell
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Coincidental that I’m rereading the Frank Herbert classic Dune and experiencing a dry spell at the same time.

Truth is I could get more ass if I tried but here lately, my focus as been finding another job — not that any of you give a shit about my mundane life. If you want to read about sex, go search some sex term or skip to another entry.

Help Me Find a New Job

For those of you who don’t know, I’m in marketing with a digital emphasis. I can do it all and am at a senior level. I’m just about ready to jump into a vice president role somewhere. If you know of anything out there, please let me know Opens a new window from this blog.

My career includes extraordinary work and let’s just say I know what I’m doing (after all, I am the man who established the #BBBH hashtag on Twitter). This blog is about my sexual escapades and I wouldn’t mind working in the sex industry or along the fringes. That said, I never have and I enjoy working in a more traditional medium. In fact, I’ve worked in computers, electronics, media, healthcare and manufacturing.

If you’ve ever heard the overly trite phrase “thinking outside the box,” I don’t even see a box. My creative ideas take great risks and almost always come with phenomenal rewards. Some of my results were so astounding that the manufacturing company for which I worked had a six-month backlog after a two-week promotion I ran. The company also went from no presence in social media to first place in its marketplace in less than a year.

Other highlights of my work…

  • Strong branding development and strategy throughout my career.
  • (Obviously) terrific writing, communication and adept at presentations (PowerPoint, Keynote, etc.).
  • Built multiple mobile applications for smart phones with fun and practical applications to further the brand.
  • Integrated the use of QR codes in retail point-of-presence materials and print advertisements.
  • Built and launched more than 500 websites — from tiny sites to blogs to personalized, database-driven, mammoth sites; always made sure those websites work with mobile browsers on tablets and phones; many websites are content management system-based and I’ve trained personnel how to best use the website.
  • Developed international websites with multiple languages using automatic detection of geographic location for best possible visitor experience.
  • Provided guidance through the basic discovery and design process including information architecture and search engine optimization (SEO) for websites.
  • Created strategies, especially for online growth. One consumer website grew from 1.1 million to 2 million visitors in one year using a combination of SEO, search engine marketing (SEM), microsites and social media.
  • Trained thousands of retailers in online marketing techniques to further their relationship with current consumer trends, bringing more consumers onto websites and into stores, significantly improving sales.
  • Developed and executed massive campaigns with multi-tiered aspects utilizing several third-party companies and hundreds of personnel successfully.
  • Ran public relations efforts including national satellite media tours.
  • Cast television personalities as spokespeople for brands successfully, maintaining multiple years in developing television commercials and online presence.
  • Developed YouTube channel for brand that now draws more than 300 viewers every day only two years after establishment.
  • Created unique social media approach taking a company from non-existent to first place in its marketplace category in about six months.
  • Flawless execution of events and convention, maintaining branding and delivering excitement.
  • Creative SEM and online advertising including conquesting and other strategies to best deliver new potential customers.
  • Developed web and social media syndication systems for major brands to help allow multilevel messaging from corporate to local.
  • Integrated all digital marketing aspects with traditional advertising for maximum boost to any campaign and seamless unification.
Okay, maybe that’s plenty to highlight my work. I’ve done a lot in my career and I’ve got a lot more I can do.

Sexual Harassment Positions Welcomed

You want to be my boss and get my cock and cum on occasion? I don’t mind. I’m glad to provide.

We can be colleagues and I’ll even fuck you.

I’m someone who doesn’t let sex get in the way of work. In fact, it would be great to have an on-site fuck or someone I travel with on occasion and we can fuck around together or just be each other’s wing-man.

I’m also willing to move practically anywhere in the U.S., Canada or the U.K. for a job. I’ll consider other parts of the world like Australia but not sure about non-English speaking or intolerant parts of the planet like the Middle East (for some reason, a lot of marketing jobs seem to be opening up there). Still, if it’s the right opportunity and the right fit, I’ll take it.

Now, Why I’m Looking for a New Job

Venting Here, So You May Want to Skip This Part

You might recall I was out of work for just three days short of a year when I finally got this job. A position with much promise and a fuckload of travel including visits to the San Francisco Bay area. That part I loved.

However, promises made to me were not promises kept.

Here comes some venting… something I really can’t put anywhere else.

My direct supervisor is not well liked among colleagues, although the C-level seems to approve. All of those colleagues — to whom I had responsibilities — made my work a living hell since they dislike my supervisor. One of my staff members appears to have had an inappropriate relationship with my supervisor and therefore refused to report to me.

Despite gallant efforts on my own part, I could never seem to get the management group to align with any concept on the most basic level. This meant that I couldn’t get all the managers to agree to a single branding message.

I made superb headway with the company website in a short period, increasing qualified visitors and decreasing a lot of the folks who came by mistake. The company purchases a lot of Google pay-per-click ads and I’d made significant headway in improving those results, making sure the clicks resulted in legitimate, potential customers rather than wasting between $2.50 to $14 per click. Before I arrived, some months more than 90 percent of the monthly online ad budget was wasted on bogus clicks. In two months, I’d gotten it down to less than 53 percent and it was dropping further.

Despite this empirical evidence, all the managers began freaking out when less people were clicking through — even though each click turned out to be a more qualified person. In other words, they’d rather see 1,000 clicks where less than 10 percent would be a potential customer instead of 600 clicks where 47 percent might make a sales inquiry.

Between that and the pure hatred between my supervisor and pretty much everyone else, and I had no chance to survive.

I haven’t lost my job, but I see the handwriting. It’s funny how everyone outside the situation can see my competence and respect my skills and experience. Seems to me anyone who has two decades under his or her belt brings something to the table. Everyone within my circle of influence doesn’t give a shit.

Therefore, yet another refresh on my resume and pinging all the recruiters again. Keeping my finger crossed this won’t be another 12-month ordeal since the handwriting is pretty damn plain and I likely won’t last that long.

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3… 2… 1… BLAST-OFF! The Countdown to iBLASTinside’s Birthday (2 of 3)

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Forty-Five Random List…

…for Mark Bentson’s Forty-Fifth Year (Part 2 of 3)

You can catch up by reading part one.

30. I need a protégé.

It’s something I have wanted for a long while. A paduwan.  Someone to take under my wing, nurture and teach the secrets of fucking. I’m not going so far as to suggest I’m the bottom whisperer or anything, but I do have a talent for reading men and finding a way into their pants and eventually their asses. Of course, getting into their asses means I fuck them raw.

I want a willing, dedicated participant who wants to learn. So many folks take the first bit of advice and then move on, thinking they’ve got the key. But learning is a process that takes a little time.

So I still await someone with endurance and patience.

29. Make some fantasies cum true

Believe it or not, I still have a few fantasies in the darkest corners of my mind. These twisted little flights of my sexual imagination require that protégé or someone like him to become synchronized with me and be willing to waltz into the lion’s den where it’s not a controlled environment, like a dungeon or a bedroom. It requires quick thought on your feet, persuasion and a certain Joie de vivre.

28. Spread my seed farther, wider, deeper

Travel isn’t the only reason to spread my seed. Implanting my DNA in men just is my mission, my passion, the reason for fucking. And I find as I can reach more men farther afield from home — whether that’s literally geographic or figuratively in some other means like culture, age, financial status or otherwise — I find it more of a turn on.

27. Negotiate Middle East Peace

Short of that, I want to fuck more straight and bi ass.

26. Take one down, pass it around…

Where is the Gran Marnier?

25. Breed on my birthday

Any Atlanta asses want to volunteer to take my load?

24. Speaking of birthdays…

My wish list remains open at Amazon. Anyone wishing to send along something nice is always welcome to do so. It’s welcomed.

23. More strippers please

I don’t mind putting dollar bills in armbands or socks and paying for a lap dance. In fact, there’s a little bit of a turn on. That’s why one of my favorite places to visit in Atlanta happens to be Swinging Richards.

As I travel more places, I wish there were similar clubs worth my time and attention. For example, in San Francisco, I’d hoped that the Nob Hill Theatre might be the perfect cross between a Swinging Richards and a gloryhole destination. It’s far from it (I’ll get around to offering my review soon). And I’d thought Sin City might offer me a few options. But no. Women naked, yes. Men (for men), no.

I know Canada is known for some good strip clubs and a few in South Florida, but are there any more in the U.S.? Come on guys, let me know!

22. I’ve converted

Long-time readers will know my affinity for Diet Coke. When I wrote the impossible fantasy, The Company, Diet Coke features prominently in the story, as it’s provided to my character (I know, lots of you want me to continue the story and I appreciate that; read the next entry).

Well, folks, Coke Zero now features prominently among my beverage consumption as well. In fact, I drink it much more than Diet Coke and much prefer it.

Truth is, who the fuck cares? But writing 45 things about yourself can become daunting halfway in.

21. Finish it

I have a tendency to start a lot of projects but never finish them. I love watching those hoarding shows on A&E or TLC and sometimes those mentally ill folk have the same ideas but with physical world items. And the hoard overtakes their storage.

Good thing my hoard is virtual and on a computer. And good thing I don’t grow emotionally attached and can let them go. I’ve still got goals but I just can’t seem to find an opportunity to finish the books or the online projects. And often money is a barrier. It’s like The Company, which apparently had a few people enthralled. I know where the story goes and where it ends, but I just couldn’t get around to finishing it. I need to finish things more often.

20. I still want to write and direct a porn movie

Recently, I noticed the fine folks at Treasure Island Media posted its first attempts at stealthing. In the end, I believe someone felt it “too controversial” to go on the DVD, but having watched the scene, it simply lacked the spark.

When Hollywood does big films about the Navy, they bring in technical advisers from (get this) the Navy. Part of the problem I saw was bottom could easily tell the top clumsily took the condom off. The fucking went on. It didn’t “read” like a legit stealthing.

That, among other controversial themes, are things I might explore. Should someone ever give me a chance.

19. I have no tolerance for stupid questions

For some reason of late, I’ve been getting more and more visitors who find this whole “blog” thing foreign to them. Among the young men in Las Vegas who said he might be interested in being my bottom, he liked my “page” but started asking a dozen questions about me. This here blog contains more information about me than you’d ever want to know. I referred him back to the blog, for which he said he did not want to invest the time in reading.

In fact, the little prick sent just one tiny faceless pic (as you can see) then responded with the following: “Thanks for the website and the warnings, but I did not really get to see what you look like or what your stats are. After hunting around the website for about 20 minutes I came across a few stats that could be you or someone you described as 6ft and 180lbs.”

Okay, as a little help, dumbass. In the future, look at the top of EVERY FUCKING PAGE and you’ll see something called navigation. It happens to have an entry called “About Me.” If you click it, you might find that for which you’re looking.

I hate it when someone who thinks he’s good-looking, young and full-of-himself somehow thinks himself special enough for me to mindmeld and figure out what the fuck he wants from me. He kept insisting I send him a variety of photos of myself and he would consider going bare, as he was usually a safe sex Nazi.

18. Despite how it reads sometimes, I’m a nice guy

Yes, I can be an asshole. But most would attest I am a nice guy. Anyone? Bueller? Please post your “yes Mark is a nice guy” in the comments if you’ve met me.

17. Fuck it

I know this is a little offensive, but occasionally fucking the younger folk less than half my age makes for fun and, well, makes me feel a little flattered. On the other hand, people closer to my age aren’t quite as flattering, no matter how good their shape.

16. How am I going to figure out 15 more?

I’m struggling for 30. What the fuck am I going to write for the next 15. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow, my birthday, when I turn 45. Maybe early Alzheimer’s will set in and I’ll just repeat myself.

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