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Official Endorsement: DeepHole4Loads in DC

Official Endorsement: DeepHole4Loads in DC

broken-virginity-seal-of-approvalThe latest addition to my very small list of “Broken Virginity Seal of Approval” is officially DeepHole4Loads.

After my initial encounter which I wrote about this Velvet Vice, I got another opportunity to breed this remarkable bottom.

It’s rare for words to fail me.

There’s conflicting evidence if you search for it on the web, but some sources indicate there’s more than 4,000 nerve endings in the male penis (scientists are still figuring out what each does).

Truth is, however hundreds or thousands there are, this bottom has an ass that can overwhelm every single one.

As I fucked him the second time with five loads already deep in his ass, his hole felt honestly fresh. His sinewy muscles moved deftly under my touch and he knew exactly which way I wanted to go. I never had to do more than slightly move one direction or another before he anticipated my need and responded.

His intuition was on point and ready.

When I fucked his ass deeply with my cock, the smoothness of his hole glided open and closed around my rock hard cock… no matter the pace of my fuck. Hard or soft, easy or rough.

And he kept his ass positioned ready for me. He didn’t back up or try to derive more pleasure from me. He knew it was about giving me pleasure. So he focused on what would bring me easily to another massive load in his hole.

I did. I buried a huge fucking load in his ass.

My cock throbbed for an eternity and his pulse quickened, enjoying the feel of my sperm splattering the insides and mixing with the other men’s juice already deep in his guts.

Later, I would get a message from another top on BarebackRT.com how he breeds DeepHole4Loads regularly. After a little exchange, I’d churned up his load among the five in his guts.

When two tops agree a hole is great, it’s great.

I’ve bred him twice. I would breed him again. And that’s unusual for me. I’m a hit-it-and-quit-it sort of top.

This is an ass I’d never quit.

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Prepared Statement in Response to the So-Called “Lindsey Lohan Sex List”

The following is a prepared statement on March 15, 2014, from Mark Bentson, aka iBLASTinside, regarding recent statements that a certain Hollywood actress may or may not have made to a certain weekly magazine.

First, I want to thank all my friends for standing by me during this overwhelming time. 

Second, I wanted to take this opportunity to make some clarifications.

It has come to my attention that an acquaintance of mine may have spoken to a magazine regarding multiple sexual incidents that occurred in my past.

Each of these occurrences did happen while I was not in a monogamous relationship and while the other party or parties was completely sober and chose to participate willingly.

Unlike the actress, who has chosen to sell her story at this time, I cannot in good conscious name any person or persons in regard these incidents.

To better assist those covering these events, I have chosen to offer these further clarifications.

At this time, I cannot confirm or deny that I had sexual relations or witnesses sexual relations with between any of the following and the actress in question:

      • Adam Levine
      • Justin Timberlake
      • Zac Efron
      • Evan Peters
      • Garrett Hedlund
      • Tom Bergeron

Further, I refuse to confirm to deny that the actress in question used a custom, nine-inch, strap-on- double-headed dildo to fuck the ass of any of the following:

        • Zac Efron
        • Tom Bergeron
        • Drew Carey
        • Justin Timberlake
        • Wilmer Walderrama
        • Jamie Dornan

I want to make it perfectly clear that all parties involved that in any sexual encounters between the actress in question and anyone who may or may not be on this list always acted responsibly and employed the use of a condom or Plan B the following day, although I cannot confirm or deny that what I just stated occurred or that I accompanied the actress to multiple Walgreens, CVS stores and/or Rite Aid stores over the period of several years to purchase between 40 and 50 pills.

      • Wilmer Walderrama
      • Jamie Dornan
      • Morgan Freeman
      • Taye Diggs
      • Fifty Cent
      • Zac Efron
      • Justin Timberlake
      • Former President George W. Bush
      • James Franco

Finally, I can neither confirm or deny that I, myself, with my own very penis, inserted it into the following people, or had them insert their penis into me, at any time:

      • Channing Tatum
      • Val Kilmer 
      • Jamie Dornan
      • Zac Efron
      • Alan Thicke
      • Jonah Hill

Thank you for this opportunity to clarify or not to clarify the events of the last few days.

#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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Fuck Fuck Fuck

The Brotherhood of the Traveling Fucks

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 Catfish Phenomenon

The Catfish Phenomenon

Manti Te'o ShirtlessPoor football player. A big athlete falls in love with a “girl” and gets fooled into a three-year “relationship” over the internet and phone, then we all discover it’s fake. The humiliation of this isn’t enough, but to find out later the jock’s been fooled by a male “Christian singer who tried out for ‘The Voice.'”

Shocking?

Fuck no.

It just finally happened prominently, in the public eye. And Manti Te’o, the Notre Dame football player eventually to turn pro and hoping to save his career, got forced to admit his ignorance publicly.

He’s just a dumb jock.

I’ve had catfish galore. You would think I have a catfish farm and raise them.

Here’s a pic of the most recent attempt to dupe me. When I told the little fucker that no, his picture was all over the Internet and that it first appeared on a particular website, this was the porn name it appeared under, etc., the guy admitted the truth.

That’s not always the case.

My Most Recent Catfish Attempt

Catfish are, for the most part, dedicated to their craft. The most recent one that really caught my attention supposedly lived in Washington, D.C., with a Pennsylvania phone number. He served as a hooker, allowing older men to pound his ass mercilessly or some would pay simply to beat the shit out of him — according to the stories he would tell.

He was introduced to the world of escorting by, none other than his father, who taught him to take cock around 9 years old. Now at 19, he was a cumslut. Men would come over and pay upward of $200 each to dump a load in his smooth ass.

Problem is, three years ago, according to his Twitter account, he was 19 then also. Of course, his explanation to me was at that time he was lying. Now he was telling me the truth.

I’d figured out early on he lied a lot, but I carried on the “relationship” much longer than I wanted or even could tolerate simply to see how dedicated he would be to his character. He was unrelenting. Excuses for every inconsistency of his story and, when I asked for explanation, he would turn around to attack me for not trusting him.

So very clever.

I successfully got three photos out of him over about a month, but I could never get him to produce a candid photo in a pose I requested. That, to me, is the tell-tell sign of someone almost real. Of course, one of the original catfish I dealt with was a female Wal-Mart manager who had a minor male employee pose for her photos. She would have him call to leave voice mails as well. But I never spoke to him live.

How do you determine a catfish?

  1. Surprise phone calls. Calls should be answered at all times. If you’re in a “relationship” then a 3 a.m. emergency call shouldn’t be a big deal once in a while. If your calls seem to go to voice mails whenever you call, then you’ve got an issue.
  2. Special requests. Send them a t-shirt or red shorts or something like that in the mail. The day they get it, ask them to wear it, take a photo of themselves doing some sort of pose. Expect the photo within 5 minutes. Excuses like, “I’m at work right now,” or, “I work for the government, they don’t allow me to do that,” or, “I’m on my work phone, I can’t do that,” or, “My cell phone camera is broken, I need to do it at home,” is a sure sign that something is wrong! (Think about it, you sent the gift to their home; they received it at home; why are they suddenly at work?)
  3. Google. Google names, numbers, address and photos. Keep in mind you do need to pay for anything (there will be offers that pop up). Generally, you can glean enough information to find out whether a phone number is a cellular provider or whether it’s a virtual number that’s forwarding to a cell (using Skype or Google Voice). Be smart about phone numbers and locations. Talk about the weather. My guy in D.C. did keep up with the weather in Washington, even though his number was in Pennsylvania. If there’s a delay about what the weather happens to be, you know it’s the case. When searching the name, which many are common, check to determine whether someone has all the common accounts, not just the ones with whom you connect. Sure, creating a fake Facebook is one thing. Is he on LinkedIn? Unless he’s a hooker, you should find a LinkedIn account. And had Manti Te’o searched his “girlfriend’s” photo, he would have found she wasn’t real.
  4. Use logic and track the stories. On detective shows, you’ll often see the big bulletin boards with people’s photos and strings. You must create a virtual one of your own. Who’s his father and mother? What’s their names? Where do they live? Google. Brothers and sisters? Names? Google. College? Google. Old friends. Nowadays, we all leave a trace. For my D.C. catfish, he’d not been out at local bars for about a year. He made the mistake of being friends with a bouncer at a local gay bar — one that had closed recently. When I asked about the crowd, the bouncer, with whom I was supposedly texting while the hooker got fucked in another room, answered like he’d been working. Told me about his bosses. Stupid stuff. Yet I knew the club was closed and had been. Of course, the catfish denied the whole thing and said I was speaking with someone else who lied to me. Both entities just had a tendency to misspell the same words.
  5. Surprise visits. Nothing else shocks the shit out of a catfish like a live visit Opens a new window from this blog. Just telling one you’re coming to visit and that you’ve booked a trip will get the response you need to know. If the suspected catfish is prepared to meet, then maybe it’s for real. But likely, they’re “not ready” for that face-to-face encounter, even just for lunch. Hang the fuck up and move on.

Catfish are people too

Manti Te'o Hoaxer Ronaiah Tuiasosopo ShirtlessI get dozens of e-mails and IMs and text messages from people who want to meet me. I am so very flattered. But far too many never truly want to meet. We call them flakes, of course. We all know them for how they really treat us because, legitimately, they’re not willing to meet.

I cannot begin to shrink them. Too many people have tried to shrink me, to diagnose my own dysfunctions. However, within this world, something is missing that current relationships just cannot seem to meet so they need to create a persona to find a way to fulfill that need.

With Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, the catfish for Manti Te’o, he’s attempting a career in the Christian singing world and he’s a former football player. My guess — and I am speaking with no special knowledge — is he can’t find a way to reconcile his homosexuality with his Christianity yet. By creating a female, it worked. As angry as people are at Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, I hope he figures out he’s gay and finds a big, butch man to fuck him the way he needs it.

Catfish will thrive

[alert style=”white”] They used to tank cod from Alaska all the way to China. They’d keep them in vats in the ship. By the time the codfish reached China, the flesh was mush and tasteless. So this guy came up with the idea that if you put these cods in these big vats, put some catfish in with them and the catfish will keep the cod agile. And there are those people who are catfish in life. And they keep you on your toes. They keep you guessing, they keep you thinking, they keep you fresh. And I thank god for the catfish because we would be droll, boring and dull if we didn’t have somebody nipping at our fin.
—”Catfish,” 2010[/alert]

Catfish are here to keep us on our toes, or that’s what the documentary that originated the pop culture term suggests. I’m not so convinced. But in today’s impersonal, digital world, it seems to me we all need those connections that cannot be achieved in person for fear of reprisals.

How do you deal with catfish when you discover one? A true catfish can never be trusted. Never. You can’t. And generally, I’ve found the catfish never breaks character. They’re bound to their character. When I discovered one catfish and their real life, I contacted many people from real life including significant other, friends, relatives and more. A catfish is convincing in their real life too and stays dedicated to that character. Each did not believe the strange story I told.

But eventually, they would see it was true. I hope that catfish found a way to get some help and to stop living in fantasy land.

Like everyone else, I crave realness. I think if you bareback, that may be another reason why we do so. We don’t want to keep the distance between two human beings, even if it’s two-millimeters thick in plastic. We want that connection. For barebackers, we put it all out there, exposed. For catfish, they don’t. It’s all murky.

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