Tag Archives: Birmingham

#CloseGhost

#CloseGhosts and My Recent Travels

You can’t see them. You can’t touch them. You just knew that one moment they were there and the next, they were gone. Is it a mystery? Some phenomenon worthy of Bigfoot, the Bermuda Triangle and what pills Paula Abdul takes before going on air?

Probably not.

I call them #CloseGhosts. And I’ve recently had close encounters of the plentiful kind them on recent travels.

With the conviction of a serial killer who proclaims his innocence, these lovely bottoms in far away cities and town lurk upon websites (like BarebackRT.com or this blog), Twitter or other online hook-up destinations, assuring traveling a top when he arrives in their town, city or other geographic region that an ass will be ready to fuck at his demand.

Alas, a phenomenon occurs when that top arrives and is in close proximity to the bottom. The cum dump vanishes into thin air, often with some wispy excuse similar to “the dog ate my homework” or “the check is in the mail.”

Case #1: London Twitter Twink & the Quickening

london-postcardWe all know that London is notoriously known for all the ghosts that wander its streets and waterways, its old buildings and strange little alleys. However, having had men upon men beg me for my load for years, I figured one might be legit among them.

My BBRT exploded. I had more than 300 messages at one time and maintaining control of it via my iPhone came close to impossible. One gentleman who seemed legit got pissy because I’d not responded to him immediately upon arrival in town, so he crossed himself off the list. The rest where the normal lot. I waded through them all, trying to invite someone over for a breeding to my centrally located hotel near the West End, not far from Trafalgar Square.

Too far. Apparently, Londoners go to bed early on Bank Holidays and weren’t interested as I attempted to find someone to fuck about 21:00 to 22:00 (that’s 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. for us bloody Americans).

Then a tweet came in from a twink. How’s London, he asked. I replied. It became a conversation of sorts that moved to direct messages and a bit more privacy when I mentioned my trip would be so much better if I had an ass to breed.

“I can help you out there,” he said. “I’d love for you to load my ass. Big fan of your blog.”

He asked when I was leaving. Told him this was my last night. I asked where he was. He said, “Covent Gardens.”

Boom. That’s the neighborhood I’m in. I’m over at the… I listed the hotel.

Pause. Double pause.

“Oh, it’s too bad I’m not at home tonight. I’m staying with a friend in the country.”

Poof.

Case #2: The Early Alabama Bird Misses the Juicy Worm

greetings-from-Birmingham-Alabama

I’d started on BBRT with this hottie and turned to text messaging. We were getting ready for some good fun, all planned out in Alabama. I’d let him know that it would be a late arrival for me and he’d told me we’d have “several hours” of play.

I’d even arranged a nice corner room, away from everyone in the hotel, because I had a feeling this fuck might get a bit out of control.

I don’t usually trust bottoms. Bottoms in general are not trustworthy. But I’d grown to trust this one.

I arrived just after 9 p.m. and texted. No response. Another text. No response. Around 9:30, I get a response saying he’d fallen asleep. Then, “he didn’t know I was going to be so late.”

Late? It’s 9:30!

We’d been setting this up for a month.

The shitty little cocktease went on to berate me for almost an hour about being “late.” Of course the little fucker didn’t get off so easily in this from me.

Obviously, he loved the chase, but actually fucking… well, I’m guessing his balls hadn’t quite dropped yet. My timing was never the issue.

POOF

Cases 3 & 4: The Revolutionary Missing Men

Bareback top visiting New HampshireIn this history-rich part of America just north of Boston, finding fuckable asses aren’t easy. I knew this. I planned for it with a backup ass. I found them both and, as it turned out, both claimed to want it.

One said he’d be online on BBRT. Te other asked me to text. My #1 choice, the textable ass, got a text.

We pinged a bit before I asked him to come over.

Pause. He then, for some reason, told me his actual location. In Maine. And invited me over.

Baffled, I asked what was up.

“I don’t have a car,” was his response.

Now it wasn’t as if both of us were in downtown Boston. This little hottie claimed in the middle of bumfuck Maine, he had no transportation, after knowing I was visiting from out of town.

WTF and POOF

Back-up plan into action. Logged onto BBRT. Sure enough, he was there. Message. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait longer. And more. I’m tired. Just go to fucking bed.

POOF.

This ghost responded when I was no longer close, in Boston, about to fly home.

Just the Four?

No. I have so many more stories. But these are the four most recent. I did debate divulging Twitter names, BBRT handles showing a photo or two, but I’m going to leave it alone. After all, these #CloseGhosts could be #Catfish for all I know.

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That was a bust or how not to host an orgy

That Was a Bust (or How Not to Host an Orgy)

Caligula would be disappointed.

The Roman Emperor rumored to host debaucherous orgies during his reign would be so disappointed at the scheduled orgy I attended yesterday. As I mentioned in my post Opens new window of a page on this blog, I thought I’d hit up my favorite local adult bookstore Opens new window of a page on this blog where a top had posted on BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External he was hosting an orgy at noon. Lunchtime on Fridays is a good time in Atlanta to find cum Opens new window of a page on this blog. I was optimistic.

That said, I also had my doubts.

The online party had 33 invited. I knew a few of the confirmed. When I texted a fellow top to check whether we’d be able to finally share a bottom together, his response: “Oh… I thought it was later. Sorry.”

I did think the host had made it clear it was at 12 noon, although the original posting on BBRT might have made it a little vague between 12 p.m. (noon) and 12 a.m. (midnight). The e-mails from the host did state “noon.”

However, the host’s e-mails weren’t clear about what was going on. After my prompting, he finally sent out this message:

poztopnow-orgy-email

I’d also suggested he included a link to my guide and review to Inserection Opens new window of a page on this blog (the correct spelling) for the folks coming out of town (the guest list included men coming from as far away as Birmingham, AL). You can see from my guide’s layout that upstairs includes four hook-up rooms. PozTopAtlanta, the host, never said anything further regarding the play area. He never unlocked his pics (at least to me) so I knew who he was.

The (Open Air Quotes) “Orgy” (Close Air Quotes)

I arrived at 12:06 p.m. The parking lot was packed so I had to park at the adjacent taco restaurant (you won’t get towed from there, it’s allowed). Paid my fee and went in.

Men were cruising like crazy downstairs. The sun had been particularly bright so I needed a moment for my eyes to adjust to the rather dark interior. After my half-hour drive, I also wanted to hit the bathroom.

I was upstairs by 12:10. All four rooms were occupied, doors closed and locked. Now surely I didn’t miss the “orgy.”

I’ve checked the definition of the word orgy Open-New-Window-External and, indeed, it means multiple people engaged in sex together.

Over the next two-and-a-half hours during my attendance, the men exiting the hook-up rooms were always in pairs. The doors were locked. I checked the darkroom downstairs.

I used the geolocation feature on BBRT to discover a few people there and messaged them but both were not at Inserection but lived nearby. Both Scruff and Grindr didn’t net me much of interest.

Eventually, I went into my usual cruising mode. I actually saw one of my bottom buds (who originally came for the orgy also but, like me, found nothing). He’d just committed to another top but promised to catch me a bit later. I occupied myself finding what I could.

The place turned out to be a bit top heavy. I ended up in booths across from tops three times (one I did suck for a bit; he was cute and had a great cock). After a bit, my bottom bud became free.

After our fuck, we compared notes.

He couldn’t find PozTopAtlanta either (he’d been hoping for a fuck) and, despite being a cute 23-year-old, couldn’t seem to find tops who would go bareback.

I headed on and he went off to grab a drink since the lunchtime crowd had died down.

Postscript

I’d hear from someone who missed the orgy that PozTopAtlanta, who’s profile lists himself as a top (obviously), actually got fucked and took 10 loads. I’m not sure where that happened. Perhaps that was his goal all along was to take all the tops and loads for himself and, if I’d arrived on time, I’d been in line to be load 11 or so.

Too bad for the bottoms.

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Travel Diary: Double It Up

Travel Diary: Double It Up

Gay Raw Double Penetration

Washington, D.C., will always be my kind of town. Having lived there for more than a decade of my life, I still miss it terribly. So when I get a chance to return — even for an overnight trip — I leap at the chance. Back in the summer was such a chance and I wasn’t quite in the funk, having not yet met the bi Birmingham boy.

At the time, this youthful, smooth 22-year-old blond guy from the University of Maryland had been begging me to breed him, asking for me to set up a session with other “top friends.” Generally, I’m not quite trustworthy of such unless I’ve fucked them first and find them worthy of such an effort. He caught me in a giving mood, I guess, and he’d pursued me for a couple of months, so having set a time about an hour away, I went to seeing if I could get a few other tops and versatiles to join in the fun.

Since I’m familiar with D.C., I chose a good location, on the edge of Dupont, Adams Morgan and not too far from Logan Circle. With less than an hour from the blond’s arrival, I’d given out my lodging location to five or six men, not expecting them all to show.

The first candidate turned out to be a less-than-enthusiastic tweaker, grinding his teeth and nervously pacing the room. When the second guy showed — a non-traditionally hot-as-shit top — tweaker bailed. Good for us. The top, in his mid-30s, gave the classic look of a slightly beefy legislative assistant on Capitol Hill. Probably once in a fraternity in his day at college, his brown wavy hair still pressed down from the motorcycle helmet he’d worn over riding some high-powered bike over. He didn’t look like a biker. Yet, even my pussy got a little wet and I figured he could fuck me if blondie didn’t show.

He was easy to chat with anyway and didn’t put on any pressure. Soon there was a knock at the door.

In walks a six-foot, 40-something baldy with a fucking-rocking body. We’d find out later he was a bike messenger, which would explain how he had the perfection of no fat. Two minutes in the door, after I explained the U of M boy was a few minutes overdue, baldy had us all stripping down anyway.

Dynamics of a three-way can always be questionable, but baldy had it down pat. He’d just look at one of us and say something like, “Are you going to make me suck your big cock?”

So you made him suck your cock. Not that it was difficult. He turned out to be rather willing. Bouncing back and forth between the two of us, we soon began tag teaming him. My buddy started off, as he had a respectable six-inches, tapered at the top to open him up with a nice curve. Mine proved thicker and harder to manage.My Cock The poppers, of course, helped open him up and we all were enjoying ourselves. Soon we forget about blondie (who never bothered to show up).

Soon the bald guy started one of his submissive taunts: “You both aren’t going to fuck me at the same time, are you?”

Former frat guy and I looked at each other. We cracked a smile.

Within moments, I’d maneuvered myself to flat on my back and the bald bicyclist sat on my cock and leaned forward, beginning to kiss me. Within a moment, I felt the poking and prodding of the cock, finding the right place to enter the tight hole.

Kissing stopped. And the grunting began. Then it turned into just pain as he really put on the pressure. But I have to give it to the bottom. He never pulled away as he left himself there and waited for his sphincter to give way.

Finally, it did as the tapered head of my bud’s cock came in and pressed against my shaft. After a moment, the other top began pushing in and inching his way inside deeper. And the bottom grunted more. Soon the painful noises dissipated and the fucking began in earnest. The kissing started again and I was in heaven.

In a tight ass, raw, another hard cock, rubbing against mine. The sensation just seemed too much. Of course, the bottom was tight and I kept slipping out. We’d adjust, shoving me back in going back to it. But the intensity, I slipped out at the right moment at my top buddy unloaded into baldy’s ass. I hated missing it, but there’s nothing better than sloppy seconds.

So I repositioned, this time behind him. Egged on by Mr. Motorcycle, I began to breed his ass, feeling the cum inside and fucking in earnest, I left a huge load inside him, pushing my new bud’s load deeper.

Since I remained hard, baldy then rode me until he pumped a nice load across my chest.

And who the fuck needed a 22-year-old blond boy, who despite all be begging for months, never showed the fuck up? Instead, I had something much hotter.

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Stealthing, Stealth, Stealth Fucking

The Fucking Point

I appreciate the correspondence — messages, comments, etc. Some people have asked what brought me to this point where fucking isn’t the point in my life.

Well sit your ass down and drill this into your large and small heads. Fucking never really was the point. As much as I went for ass, I never really fucked for anything other than the conquest and fun of it. My pleasure, not yours. And never the bottom’s pleasure.

Among my conversations recently, a top spoke of his prowess to make bottoms pop their loads, fucking it out of them with his hard eight inches — oh, bigger if he really liked you. If I were someone who enjoyed the fuck, then I might do that. I’m not that kind of top. Oh, I enjoy the fuck. The sensation of the fuck for me. Not the bottom. The only ways that I’m a giving top is the fact I’m putting my cock inside someone and that I’ll give them my load. That’s about it.

I think that might be why I stealthed for a while. Just tricking the bottoms and then, having them come back for more even after they shit out a load. I found that amazing. But they did. Every time. I stopped stealthing, not because of morality but because it was too easy. I didn’t need the condom. Men would take my cock bare. Fuck, I could tell them.

A few months ago, I was fucking this Latin guy. Raw of course. He’s protesting about it being raw, how he doesn’t fuck that way. He’s also upset because it’s too big. I’m not so happy cause the chulo didn’t bother to clean his brown cunt out. When I changed position, he protested and finally pulled off, insisting on a condom. Instead of doing my normal act, I went opposite.

“Did you bother to bring a fucking condom?”

He looked up at me shocked, “No.”

“Well I don’t fucking have one and I don’t want one,” I spoke with an even tone. I didn’t yell. “If you’re the one who wanted one, why the fuck didn’t you bring it with you?”

He looked at me silently, “I don’t know.”

“You can leave now,” I told him, the wood leaving my cock.

Could I have convinced him to take me and my load? Yes. But why deal with the whiny little bitch? I didn’t want him to run home to his wife (yes, he was married) all satisfied. I decided, in that instant, rattled and still horny was better.

Fucking hasn’t been the point. It’s always been the conquest of the bottom, taking his ass, making it mine and marking my spot by leaving that DNA inside. Yea, it’s like I’m a dog pissing on a tree. It’s mine bitches. Whoever else comes into this hole will find it used later and this ass will always have a little of me left in it. And in the case of the chulo, well, I gave my deposit in a little precum and spit.

Every year I get older, the accomplishment would be to get younger ass. Is that really an accomplishment? No. There’s always a way to get ass. It’s easy for the willing. And every opportunity will allow one to exploit weakness and access that orifice for my pleasure.

I need my next destination. Is it physical? Geographical? Emotional? Spiritual? All of the above?

A few of you have reached out, inviting me to your town, to your homes. I’ve actually (finally) been invited on a few dates. No one local, mind you, and I have to fly myself across the country to different destinations in order to get a meal and a movie.†

So I’m still struggling with the fucking point.

Mid-life crisis…. keeps on rollin’.

So look, I’m not saying I won’t take anyone up on the three or four invitations I’ve received. I’m still trying to figure out who’s legit and who’s fake, as I’ve visited some destinations only to discover men who disappear (Birmingham, Dallas and Las Vegas, you all know who you are).

So you might be appalled to discover that I wrote about things here, thinking I wouldn’t dare write about you, but I’m a blogger so I write about a lot of shit in my life. But if you carefully read what I wrote, I never bothered to identify who you were.

Travel Diary: The Eye Stared Back

Travel Diary: The Eye Stared Back

Strangely, it seemed to stare back at me, through the thin wisps of hairs that covered his back. Normally, I’m not much of one for back hair, although I do like tattoos. But that eye. Unblinking. Watching. As I unloaded in his ass. A second time in as many days.

The Egyptian Eye of HorusThe Egyptian Eye of Horus. A mathematical symbol. One of royalty. A symbol of the sun god Ra.

But for me, as I bred this 28-year-old, overly tattooed fatty, it just seemed dead.

In Birmingham on one of my travels, I didn’t feel particularly like begging too many of the assholes to come over to take my load. Literally. So when a dude seemed willing without offering up a photograph (and claimed not to have any, which seems unlikely in today’s cell phone camera world), I took him up on the offer.

He arrived, venturing into my darkened hotel room and sucking my cock with gusto after having stripped naked. Indeed, he proved to have a “football” build. Not particularly in shape. More like the shape of a football. But as he eased his ass onto my cock, I found myself happy that I invited him.

There are asses and then there are talented asses and there are naturally talented asses. This dude had a naturally talented ass.

Smooth as silk, warm and wet. I found my cock throbbing inside his very clean chunnel of love. And I found myself ready to unleash a torrent of cum.

But I held off, relishing the time I had inside him and shifting position. His body, not impressive, with big hairy tits and a missing cock sucked into the fat that happened to be his pelvic gut.

As I fucked him from behind, that’s when through the adjusted darkness, I found myself staring at the eye the first time and, the following night, a second time. I like fucking ass, familiar when it’s good like his, even though the rest of him lacked. But his ass had a sensation unlike any other. Usually those with a “swimmer’s build” — meaning they’re built like a beached whale — have too much junk in the trunk. When you’re plunging inside that cushion for the pushin’, you find yourself unable to plunge deep due to the massive amounts of blubber between you and the sphincter.

Not in this gentleman’s case. I found my cock buried to the hilt with no difficulty. I enjoyed myself immensely.

Except for that all-knowing eye that stared back at me, just below the collar on the back of his neck.

Horus watched as I unloaded twice in his ass.