Tag Archives: football

Hate (3 of 3)

Hate (3 of 3)

A blind leading the blind mentality seems to permeate the world. We don’t want our children to be taught about sex or they might have it. Yet we all have cocks and vaginas and asshole and clits.

Then there’s this thing called the Internet and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which goes where. Before you know it, little honors student and Christian Jessica Jane Lister is pregnant with football quarterback Cody Wall’s baby and they’ve both got genital warts.

We want our schools to teach creationism but not evolution but we don’t want our churches to support science. Hell, the Georgia Legislature is trying to pass a law that citizens have a right to carry guns into their churches, so we can kill the preacher if he says something blasphemous (like Jesus turned water into wine; wrong! Jesus turned water into grape juice).

It stands to reason that a lot of the hate I’ve garnered causing people to protest against Str8Cam Jeff Opens new window of a page on this blog and others steams from a misunderstanding of my most controversial posts about stealthing.

I know a lot of my readers think stealthing is hot, hot, hot. You jerk off to it. It’s the forbidden fruit. All of us have fantasies we all enjoy, just beyond the borders of what we’d really do.

Then again, it might be something we do.

In the barebacking world, there’s bug-chasing and gift-giving along with a Russian roulette of who-the-fuck-cares breeds us.

But I am known for stealthing, for giving the world the top 10 tips for stealthing Opens new window of a page on this blog, for explaining barebacking in meaningful ways that there’s no denying what’s really happening.

I have been deceptive. And that’s not explaining all my motivations.

The Entire Truth

Whenever I watch a magician — even someone like Lance Burton or David Copperfield — it’s become second nature for me to figure out how the trick is done. It’s not really hard to do. I can’t stand to watch “America’s Got Talent” and to see Howie Mandel be amazed at a relatively simple trick and to say, “I don’t know how you did that!”

I can tell you.

When I began the entries on busting condoms, taking condoms off and other forms of sabotage, the outrage was palpable. Most hated it. Many thought I’d broken some sacred contract.

How, I have no idea. Anonymous sex is just that. Why they have this higher-than-mighty sense one must adhere to a code when fucking someone who you don’t even know their first name, I don’t comprehend. Why? And especially why when one knows the other person isn’t put into any harm.

The mighty think that the stealther has some puss-filled cock shooting out disease upon infection and reigning some destruction upon the other.

Nonetheless, until I started writing about it, no one was.

I don’t count myself as some savior. I don’t. But I do see some of what I wrote as an education.

I do explain if you’re stupid enough to want to fuck in places where you’re not going to know your top or bottom, how one might protect oneself. How to bring your own condoms, monitor the use of the condoms and maintain your own safety.

You are accountable for your own safety. No one else.

Welcome to Real Life

It’s so very odd how some consider this bond of sex sacred even though you’re fucking with a stranger. For example, if a journalist is speaking to a source and the source wants to go “off the record” — meaning the content to follow is not to be published or broadcast — the journalist must agree to do so verbally as well. It must be stated so and both parties have to make an agreement.

Pulling out a condom just with the assumption someone will wear it doesn’t work that way.

I’m not saying this stuff just to piss people off. I’m trying to get reality to sink in. This is how the world works. Assuming an asshole top who wants to get off raw or a bottom who wants a load is going to fuck according to some honor code is just plain stupid.

 

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Fucking a beefy bottom!

Recognition

If you’ve ever been through corporate testing for your personality, the results will show the kind of person one might be. Back in 1998, I went through some extensive testing and it determined I happened to be an extreme introvert Link Opens in a New Window.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m shy as much as it indicates my focus tends toward internal factors — I’m more reflective, inward looking. Add to that my own hate of smoky bars (and smokers Opens a new window from this blog) and social anxieties toward large crowds and, well, you’re talking about someone who’d much rather stay home than go to the latest concert or wander around a gay bar trying to pick up bottom.

Through the past decade and a half, I’ve taken up a project on myself to open myself up. This blog among the therapies, but I’d do things as subtle as wear brightly colored shirts to work rather than the bland, fade-into-the-background hues that allowed me to skulk through the office unnoticed.

Am I an extrovert Link Opens in a New Window yet? Actually, I’ve tipped to the other side in testing, more ambivert (in the middle) than anything else.

Imagine my surprise of late as more and more people on Scruff recognize me both by my geek glasses or by my cock shots.

During my current job, I leave Scruff, Grindr and Kik Opens a new window from this blog open (and I often check BarebackRT.com Link Opens in a New Window) since I have a horrible boss (he had me come in on my day off just so he could yell at me for a couple of hours last week).

A local beefy bottom on BBRT and I can never seem to synchronize. We’ve attempted to hit the local adult bookstore Opens a new window from this blog or swing by his place for an anonymous fuck. I’d never seen his face, just his beefy body with a little hair and some miscellaneous, non-distinct tattoos.

He seemed a little like one of those tomcats near a dumpster at midnight underneath the streetlight. He looked cute from a distance and might be tame but a sudden move and he’d dart away. In fact, he would disappear from my radar for a period of time but reappear, asking when were we ever going to fuck.

Usually this tomcat-and-dog game wouldn’t seem alluring to me. I’m a no-nonsense kind of guy. I want to fuck your ass and breed it. If you’re good at it, I might fuck you again. Otherwise, I’m done. Yet toying around with him had his allure.

We’d finally exchanged cell numbers because I had a tendency to pop downtown and he didn’t hit BBRT with enough frequency to notice my visits. I’d mentioned one such visit Monday night and he’d given me at deadline to be at his place by 8 p.m.

I couldn’t make his deadline.

On my day off, Thursday, I’d been in the office for a while and let my boss yell at me for a couple of hours straight. I’ve learned not to argue back because the idiot wouldn’t let a fact get in the way of his being pissed off. After he calmed down, he dismissed me, not wanting to pay for any more extra time with me this week, so I left, heading downtown to check on a friend in a hospital.

Scruff had been open at work and stayed open.

Imagine my surprise as I received a message that simply said, “I’m sorry that Monday didn’t work out.”

I finally see his face — round and handsome with a Van Dyke Link Opens in a New Window. I’d seen him mostly naked — in a jock — and found his beefy wide pecs with the fur down the middle to tree-trunk legs quite attractive. His ass provided a wide target and muscular mounds but no one would accuse him of being a “bubble butt.”

Bubble butts seem so inflated that sharp objects might cause them to “pop.” His ass provided a more substantial challenge.

We toyed with one another, as we always did online. But in the end, he relented and agreed to let me come over. It would be an anonymous encounter. Him naked on his knees to blow me hard then I’d breed him.

I arrived, parked and walked in the designed backdoor (how coincidental) into a hall just off his bedroom. In the darkness, he’d lit one candle that provided enough light to allow me to see the figure in the room.

Perfection is not accurate, but to me, perfection is not desired. I like a man with beefy pecs without distinct definition of a six pack. He’s got hair in all the right places without removing it, shaving it or waxing it. He’s a real man. He likes beer, dogs, football and chicken wings. He doesn’t spend his life at the gym but has his priorities balanced.

This is the kind of man I recognize.

He’s blindfolded. I unbuckle my belt, unbutton and unzip my jeans and flop out my cock, anxious to get it into his mouth. I step up and my cockhead brushes against his moustache as I place my hand on the back of his head where he’s got a full scalp of short-cropped hair.

“Suck that cock,” I said. “Get it hard.”

His mouth flew open with exuberance of a hungry man who hasn’t eaten for weeks and caressed my cock as it  swelled to hardness. He bobbed his head up and down,  interspersed the work with occasional licks of my balls, which thanks to the cool weather were tight up against my body but swollen. I’d shaved them a while back, so the light layer of stubble on my contracted testicles tickled a little.

I didn’t plan on this being a long session. And while he’d followed my instructions to a T, I don’t imagine he’d really wanted it to be more than a quick dump and go either.

But we all recognize chemistry when it happens and it began to blossom in the room. His oral skills were above par and he kept reaching up under my shirt. My tit tweaks were getting responses so I decided maybe I’d make this a little more fun.

I stood him up to discover he stood quite a bit shorter than me — probably about five-foot-seven. But his beefy wide stance still struck me as I pushed him back onto the bed and climbed up, kicking off my shoes and pants.

Positioning myself so my cock went right underneath his balls, his own prick stood out at attention

I growled. He responded in kind and soon my mouth covered his and we were kissing deeply. He slurped at my mouth and tongue.

He was thirsty.

“Spit in my mouth, please Sir,” he requested.

I obliged.

It had been a while since I’d had a fuck who wanted my spit and, let’s be honest, I didn’t exactly tank up for this little adventure. I’d just expected a fuck and go. But here I am kissing. My pants are off. I’ve got this naked body beneath me and, God’s honest truth, I wanted to completely feel it.

Off came my shirt too.

Now I nibbled on his perky nips, for which he jerked every time. Then I dropped to his cock and balls.

To be honest, I found his cock impressive for a bottom. Not huge but perfect for a man his size. Thick with a purple angry color to it. Yet I ignored it and went to his balls, tickled them a little with my tongue and then put my hands under the bend of his knees. I pushed him up and exposed his pucker on this wide, fuzzy hole.

It winked.

I dove into it without hesitation, tasting a mixture of soap and something else there. But I worked my tongue and a bit of spit into it. Licked his balls, nibbled a nip then kissed him deeply so he could taste his own ass.

Then I lined my cock up to his hole.

“You’re going to need more spit than that,” he said.

I spit on my hand and rubbed it into the head of my cock before pushing against his sphincter.

Pushing harder.

I pierced him, entering into his ass.

Raw, I ripped inside his ass and entered him the way a man should get fucked. Not a lot of lube. Just a little spit. So he could feel me at every millimeter as my invader worked into him farther and farther.

He began to beg.

And I began to fuck.

His thick, tree-trunk legs up around my shoulders as I moved my waist in almost an awkward fashion, working my way into his ass and out.

I would almost pull out and he’d tell me, “Wrong way. I want it all inside me.”

I did finally pull out to put him on top and let him ride. But he was a good little cum slut and sucked my cock some first before climbing on board.

He bounced. We kissed. I bit his nipples. He recognized how perfect my cock would be for double penetration Opens a new window from this blog. We fucked more. I made sure he had plenty of my spit to swallow.

“I think it’s breeding time,” I said.

“Would you fuck me on my stomach?” he said.

“You know that’s how I like it,” I said.

He hopped off and I moved out the way so he could crawl face down and let me invade. Despite his substantial beefiness, my taller frame allowed me to cover him almost completely.

I began to fuck and he began to beg. “Give me your fucking cum man! Breed my fucking ass, man! Let me have your load! Put it in my ass!”

I did. I shoved it in deep and my cock throbbed, flexed and began to shoot my load deep inside him. In his case, it felt particularly deep. Rocking my hips a few more times, I left my cock inside him like a butt plug as we kissed and chatted a bit more.

I pulled out. He felt his asshole.

“It’s wet,” he said.

“I wonder why,” I responded.

He licked and sucked my cock clean.

“Full service,” I said, thanking him.

He left his blindfold on as I put my clothes on and left. He played with his cock a little, which I wouldn’t deny him Opens a new window from this blog.

I spit into his mouth one last time before slipping out the door into the chilly night.

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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.

Rant: Fucking Windows

Forgive me, but skip this post if you’re wanting to jerk off or looking for sex talk. This post has nothing to do with it.

I am a geek. I embrace my geekiness. I love computers since my first one — a TI 99 4A with all of 16K memory from Christmas 1981. As I’ve explored in my Dark Passenger entries, my life in rural Georgia wasn’t one of incredible festivities. I tried every sport available, which turned out to be extremely limiting in those days.

My high school options were limited to football, basketball, football, soccer, football, baseball, football, track, football, wrestling and football. And despite all my attempts, my hand-eye coordination totally lacked. I hit six feet, three inches in seventh grade and weighted almost 140 pounds soaking wet.

Since I failed at sports, the choices left me in rural life turned out to be Boy Scouts and 4H. I don’t have a green thumb.

I had joined the scouts at the behest of my father and I took piano lessons at the urging of my mother. So when I finally admitted to my parents how much I disliked the piano, my father said to me, “If you’re going to be a quitter, then you’re going to quit everything and that includes Boy Scouts.”

“Okay!” I responded happily. And went to my room.

My father stared slack-jawed at me. My mother would tell me years later that my father learned never to make a deal with me after that day.

Add to that, all my other friends were getting interested in Daisy Duke and Farrah Fawcett.

In other words, this lanky, uncoordinated, book smart kid had no outlet. No hobby. Nothing I loved. I tried karate, trumpet (and band), model building, wood-working, choir, drawing and crafts.

I sucked at everything.

When the TI 99 4A arrived on Christmas, I finally had something I could love. Something to occupy my time. By December 26, I’d written my first program. I’m incredibly lucky that the Information Age dawned in my lifetime.

Since that day in 1981, no day has passed that a computer did not exist in my life. While my early career choices were not in the PC industry or even mathematically related, PCs have been a pivotal part of my life.

So I say this with all sincerity I can muster: I fucking hate Windows.

For the last four days, my desktop PC would not boot up (something about my nvlddmkm.sys; yes, I’ve Googled it and found some solutions that didn’t work). I’m now attempting to upgrade to Windows 7 in order to solve something wrong with Vista. I want desperately to switch to a Mac (in particular, a 27-inch iMac with the new Magic Mouse). Alas, the investment in the PC and the software and hardware I’ve got installed, we’re talking about another $5,000 beyond the cost of the basic computer.

I want to post about sex. I want to breed. I want to have a computer that will allow me to find people to fuck. But right at the moment, I want to hate fuck the hell out of Bill Gates.