All posts tagged gay man

Condom Versus Bareback Sex

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I’ve received a couple of e-mails just today from men confronting a crossroads on which path to take. I’m going to share what each had to write.

Being gay is one thing. You are already different and somewhat an outcast for that.

Then if you are into older guys and not guys your own age it’s another thing and another form of alienation.

Oh and then there is leather if you are into kinks and being subservient and being someone’s slave or boy and wearing a collar people thing you are strange.

And add barebacking to the mix and you are basically a fucking alien.

I’d say the only thing you could do more then that is becoming poz then good luck ever finding acceptance.

This young man in his twenties experienced first hand the hatred coming from the gay community for being a barebacker. Unfortunately, someone discovered his enjoyment at raw cock and, poof, all his acceptance in his circle of friends dissipated so quickly, he felt abandoned and forced into burying his urge to go raw. Now, with animosity and a regret, he wrote me thinking I would reject him too because he no longer barebacked.

Peer pressure. What an odd thing.

The other man, in his mid-thirties, wrote to express his newness to fucking raw.

It took me a long time to get to the point of taking raw cock on purpose.  Haven’t moved to all-bare all the time yet.

I still remember the first loads I took.  Was really nervous about it.  But now, I crave my buddies’ loads.  Sometimes I really want to be a cum dump and take all loads.  Haven’t got to that point though.

My Own Journey

In the late 1980s and early 1990s as the AIDS epidemic brought more and more death upon the gay community, I happened to be a fledgling twentysomething myself in South Florida. I lived far away from the big cities and worked way too hard to get to date men, as at the time I thought a Prince Charming still existed on my horizon would come and take me to new heights of love and sex.

You can read of my own sexual exposures by my molester in the Dark Passenger Opens a new window from this blog entries, which at the time, I’d confronted but didn’t face head on as this blog allowed in the years since. Yet as a young journalist at a small newspaper in the heat of the Florida sun, I got to see the worst that can happen to humanity:

  • A 13-year-old middle school student stabbed, snipped and raped (after death)
  • A 19-year-old motorcyclist with his brain scattered a few hundred feet — now I know why they call it “gray matter”
  • Countless shootings and stabbings of people, often for no reason or for some drug deal gone bad
  • Lightning strikes of golfers, kids playing outside or just random people
  • Skinheads and KKK recruiting in the local high schools
  • Vagrants and drunks falling asleep on train tracks to have the locomotive run them over and sever off some body part
  • Whole families driving off roads into ditches and drowning, never exiting the minivan
  • Beach drownings and backyard pool drownings of old and young, accidental or otherwise
  • Wrecks where the jaws of life pried open bloody mangled messes of metal and human fused together
  • Coaches molesting his female players on his championship team
  • And an honors student and latchkey kid, sniffing a spray can protectant, getting high, barfing and dying his backyard

These were not odd occurrences. This happened daily. Sometimes twice or three times. Over the weekend. For more than two years, I watched this carnage and human destruction up close and personal. No college professor prepared me for real blood and body parts and coroners and victim tears and invading people’s privacy to get a few precious words for a quote.

In the midst of all this, I began my own medical issues. My doctor, at the time, asked me if I’d ever been tested for the virus that causes AIDS. I’d developed some odd rash and he had no idea why.

No cocktails existed. As I recall, AZT was even experimental. People I knew who had AIDS would suddenly disappear only to have their obituary appear later due to suicide or some other “illness.” And if my life, just starting out, began with a doctor suggesting that a fucking rash might be HIV.

The test in those days took more than a week to get the results. I worried the whole time. And the whole time I worried, I watched countless people drop dead around me from murder, accident, mayhem and more.

But I didn’t have HIV. I was fine. I would live!

Life seemed brighter. The world seemed better. I didn’t need to worry. Everything would be a-okay. I just needed to be careful. Right? No unsafe sex.

Fuck. I barely had sex anyway. The death and destruction at work kept making sure of that.

I would try to use a condom if sex ever popped up or just let a guy suck me off. And I tried to date. But something just seemed unsettling to me.

Fast-forward

I’d sampled raw sex from the beginning — my first fuck ever Opens a new window from this blog — and a few momentous subsequent fucks Opens a new window from this blog. As I turned over my new leaf following the savior of coming out negative, I found myself slipping up from time to time. Often, it would be someone I really liked (or lusted after).

scruff-go-rawBarebacking happens. Any gay man who hooks up will likely bareback. A recent example to the right. I’ll tell someone I only fuck raw and they’ll change their tune quick.

Recent studies found that about half of all gay men will admit to having bareback sex. But that’s the admission. I believe that number is much higher. The study I’m citing was from a judgmental safer sex education effort and didn’t go at the study neutrally. Someone asked like I did — as you see in this pic or in a way that makes people feel “safe” to answer they’re okay with barebacking — you’ll find more people will admit to going raw.

While the fuck listed here didn’t hesitate, sometimes the bottom will wait a while and come back later with an “all right, I’ll let you fuck me” or “if you promise you’re DDF, you can fuck me.” Sometimes, if I follow through with the fuck, I’ll be asked to pull out.

I pull out…. after I blast inside.

Everyone knows my name, my e-mail address and usually this blog. Why they sometimes miss that fact, I don’t quite get it.

In my experience, those who eventually admit and will allow me to bareback — based on my photos — and knowing my information is about seven out of 10. I believe if I had a photo of an athletic body, younger age and a slightly larger cock, I’d get closer to nine out of 10.

And if I were to bottom, it would be close to 99 percent with those looks.

pornI wrote recently Opens a new window from this blog about a porn star who visited Atlanta during 2012. This performer, who is rather famous and qualifies as a true porn star, would have cost me a big chunk of change. He stars in condom-only porn. He refused to get fucked raw but would gladly fuck raw and, even knowing me and my blog, would breed my ass.

The schedules never meshed and I’m not messing up his career or the opportunity for him to breed me should he return to the ATL.

I believe that some people think it’s more acceptable to be a bareback top.

The more young, the more athletic, the more “healthy” looking, the more likely a raw fuck will happen.

Back to My Story

As I matured and had my experiences with dating and hookups, I had sex both with and without condoms. It’s not like I didn’t know the difference. It’s not like I ignored the choice before me. And every six months or so, I’d endure the long wait to determine if I happened to be HIV positive, worrying about what would happen, what other discrimination might confront me along with the homophobic hatred that already confronted my life.

Medical changes were happening and treatments were improving. People living with HIV didn’t die immediately. I had boyfriends, then partners. And my life progressed. When I would try to use a condom, it wouldn’t always be the most successful experience.

The difference between bareback and condom sex is like standard- and high-definition television. Once you’ve watched high-def, you really can’t stand to go back to the low-definition again. It’s fuzzy. You don’t get as much out of the experience. The sensations aren’t all there. You’re missing a big chunk of the fun. The experience is extremely lacking.

You crave the high-definition. You want to full-on overload that you get from the sensory inputs of going raw.

Anyone who pretends it’s “just as hot” or whatever else is lying.

My two writers know this. And this is the conflict they’re struggling with right now.

To the Twentysomething

You are a barebacker and you know the risks that come with it. You might pretend for the sake of your so-called friends that you want to wrap it up. However, what kind of friends are they really?

Maintaining a little separation of your sex life and your professional life makes a great deal of sense. But your gay friends cannot all say they hate you because you bareback. If they do, they’re not truly your friends (and it’s time to find some new ones). Barebacking is a choice.

I will say if you choose to use a condom, it’s fine with me. If I know someone makes a logical choice based on the facts in front of them, then I can only respect their choices.

Further, allow me to say Atlanta isn’t the best choice for the Leather Community. It is a small community and the choices are limiting, unlike larger cities where Leather has a larger presence — Chicago for one. I’d suggest you broaden your circle of friends and you’ll find several barebacking members in within BDSM circles.

And should you ever become poz, I promise you won’t be alienated either. There’s a special bond between poz men (I’m sure some of them will speak out).

To the Thirtysomething

You too are coming into your own, now that you’ve seen the greener grasses of barebacking. Even with your limited experience, you know that the sensory experience of going raw just can’t compare with wrapping plastic around a cock and sliding it into a hole. That separation blurs the enjoyment.

Can you truly make that choice?

Why I Made the Choice

As I wrote earlier, I was unprepared for the death, destruction and hatred I would see on a day-to-day experience. Compound that with my molestation, and you come to a place where I struggled to find intimacy and connections with men that simply didn’t not transfer through the plastic barriers of a condom.

Why would I choose to live a life hidden from those sensations I craved and deny myself the thing I wanted? Why especially when I knew it all could be snatched away in a moment due to lightning, an accident, a gunshot, a stabbing or some other act of fate that would take thousands every year but somehow spare me?

One of the oddest occurrences that still baffles me is the person who writes me and wants me to fuck him — but insists I use a condom. Oh, he’s  read my blog. He knows I only fuck raw. He’s aware that “I blast inside.” But he considers himself cute enough, muscular enough, hung enough, young enough, funny enough or some other talent enough that he will be the exception to my rule to fuck raw. He is special enough that he will escape my raw breeding. I won’t stealth him either. I’ll be honorable and fuck safely.

No chance in hell.

And if you think a car accident, a home invasion, a stray bullet, a blood clot, a drowning or some other death or destruction element will miss you — that you’re special enough that God will spare you — then I spent two years in South Florida meeting the people who thought the same thing.

Life is meant to be lives in high definition. That’s where I live it.

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Three Abortions: Zero for Three in My Attempts to Pop a Load

Three Abortions
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When am I not horny? Probably the immediate moment after I shoot a load into a boy, but I recover quickly. Really, that’s not true. Part of me still wants to make sure my territory is marked.

At work one day, I happened to be particularly horny. I posted on Craigslist (through my iPhone, duh) and hoped for the best. Two potentials showed up for a lunchtime pump and dump. I chose the closer of the two although the second happened to be an Asian.

Abortion #1: Druggie/Serial KillerLuckily, I thought as I left the office and headed over, these two actually read the post and got the word that I wanted a quick fuck. We’d not had a lot of back-and-forth. Not the usual bullshit of e-mails and more pics and negotiations of what was on the table and off the table.

I plugged the address into the GPS and drove over, listening to the radio and blissfully ready for my balls to unload.

Driving through a well-established neighborhood with well-manicured lawns and maintained middle-class homes, my GPS announced my arrival up on the right. Like a sore thumb, the home sat on a hill, overgrown lawn. With gutters falling off and a crumbling front porch, I already seemed wary of where I was comparatively. This wasn’t a married man cheating on his wife or a gay man’s home.

I knocked since the doorbell had been punched in at some point and collapsed in on itself.

The door opened and the smell of dog, cigarettes and just plain stink hit me. In in plain white t-shirt, a do-rag and boxers with sunken, heroine eyes, overly thin leg with open sores and an emotionless, hopeless expression, he invited me in.

“Thanks man,” I said. “I’m good.”

I assessed my situation quickly and turned around. At one point, he’d been straight, probably a straight bottom. But the years of drug abuse beginning with crystal meth led him to this place. My gut instinct wanted me to run, but it was a beautiful sunny day in a well-populated neighborhood. Maybe I’d just served a subpoena, just walking up to the door and leaving.

In the car, I punched in the Asian’s address and found it only 12 minutes away. I e-mailed him to say I was on my way.

Now Asian ass is prime and the pic he’d e-mailed me looked pretty good. As I near the place, again I turn into a decent neighborhood, although not quite as nice as the last one. Still, the lawns are nice with grown trees and middle-class houses. When I find the house number I’m looking for, I drive past and turn around in disbelief.

This time, the lawn is cut. Well, what lawn there is. The gnomes, globes, frogs, buddhas and literally hundreds of other ceramic figures lining a koi pond keeps most of the grass at bay. As I’d notified my fuck that I arrived, he steps outside to direct me where to park.

I do.

I try not to judge because I begin to figure out he’s a tenant in this home, as he invites me around to the back. But he’s lied about his age. He’s not 30. This guy’s face looks 50. Luckily when we step inside the basement apartment, he begins stripping and his chest and ass say 30. Asians sure maintain a body.

Abortion #2: Asian with jacked up face who cums too quickly Maybe I can keep it together. Maybe I can ignore the white-washed decor and the fact that he actually turns the television to “Family Feud” for our fuck time. Nothing like Steve Harvey saying, “Survey says!?” to make you want to cum, right?

He tries to suck me, but I’m “too big.” I play with his ass a little. He wants to kiss, but the fucker has lied about being a smoker and I’m not kissing. I urge on to the fucking. He pulls out petroleum jelly, slathers some on my cock and his hole and begins to sit on it.

Within two minutes, as I’m about a third of the way into his hole, he announces he’s cumming.

I pull away, his cum still shooting on my belly. I pull the towel from beneath us and wipe off my cock and his cum. I put my clothes on and head out to find some food and go back to work.

Surely, though, this cannot be how I end my day. I need to shoot.

There’s been this “sensual” massage therapist I’ve been meaning to try. He’s relatively inexpensive and, based on his pics, fucking hot. I message him. He’s available just after work.

To me, a sensual massage builds slowly to that moment that you cum. It’s a tease under the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.

Of course, I had to try someone new.

This fucker had no idea what he was doing. Even though I’d asked whether he was a CMT (certified massage therapist), he lied also. He wasn’t. He didn’t know the muscle groups. He wiped oil on me and went for the spots he thought might turn me on.

Abortion #3: Hot Latino who doesn't know what he's doingOh I got hard. But when he flipped me over, he just jerked my cock. That won’t make me cum on its own. It’s like putting a pot on simmer. You’re not going to bring me to boil without playing with my balls and touching me sensually elsewhere.

That or sitting on my cock.

Now let me explain this guy was six-foot-four of Latino hotness. Smooth with the exception of a nice pube triangle and some light dusting on his ass. His crack also showed a lot of potential. And his body was like Michael Phelps, with long arms. His cock was a thick, uncut beauty.

But the guy couldn’t bring Latin heat if I handed him a bottle of extra hot salsa and a Gloria Estefan CD.

For the second time today, I grabbed a towel, insisting he step away.

“Are you not going to cum?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s not going to happen.”

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“I expected it to be more sensual,” I said.

“I’ve rubbed up against you,” he said. “I thought it was pretty sensual.”

I didn’t respond.

I paid him the minimum, without a tip, and left.

The next man I fuck will get three loads worth of cum: The one he earned plus two more… one meant for an Asian and one intended for a Latin. Any volunteers?

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Guide to Men Providing Better Service (Especially Strippers, Go-Go Boys, Massage Therapists, Bartenders, Waiters, Retailers or Anyone in the Service Industry)

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I tip well.

I always start at 20 percent for any service and it rises or falls based on what happens from that point forward. You can be a stripper or a hair stylist. You can be a runner at a restaurant or a bar-back — the people who aren’t normally tipped but get a share of the main worker tips. The service industry is about tips. I get that. And I tip expecting to be remembered, taken care of and provided with excellent service.

It takes more than a great body to lure in a lot of money.If you’re straight or gay, bisexual or flexible with your sexuality, it doesn’t matter. Most of these suggestions will help you increase your financial compensation from the likes of men like me. I’m not well-to-do by any means. But compared to a 23-year-old, I’m more settled and I have more disposable income that I’m willing to spend.

I’ve put these into an easy-to-remember mnemonic: HEFT. You must apply HEFT at your workplace and when you work. If you do, I promise that you will earn more money, gain more confidence and advance yourself down a path.

I am available for one-on-one training

This is something I enjoy teaching, especially young, attractive men. You want to learn this, I will tutor you how to make this system work for you. Just get in touch with me.

Hope

Always give the customer hope that you’re available to give him what he wants. Be coy, play a little hard to get, tease a little; but the moment you dash all hope is the moment the money train stops.

I’ll start this with the understanding that the stalkers and the creepy guys — anyone in your gut that says “run away” — is where to stop the hope. These are the people with whom you never want to give any opening as a possibility they can get something more from you. But the creeps and stalkers and crazies, while most memorable, are in the minority.

Everyone else, you give as much hope as possible. If you’re straight, the guy you’re talking to is the one guy you might try the gay thing with for the first time. If you’re gay, you’re open to dating older men.

Having a great body helps. Show it off.But never be that direct.

Hope has to be the goal for which the customer is always reaching but never quite achieves.

Hope is a tease, so provide the tease and do it on a schedule.

I had a beautiful, muscular, very straight trainer. I told him exactly what I needed. I never touched the man, but I told him I found him and his body and inspiration; he would need to use that to motivate me. As I advanced, he started and did well. He went from loose shirts to tighter, finally to an armless t-shirt.

Then it stopped.

Never shorts. Never tank tops. The teasing stopped and the loose shirts came back. I asked what happened and if I’d offended. I’d actually been paying him double his asking rate. Early in our agreement, he’d even text me encouragement. Now he stopped that too.

I lost interest and stopped going. I lost all hope.

I never expected to suck his dick or even see him naked. But the hope of it kept me engaged. In the end, I think his own discomfort with his sexuality might have stopped it. He’ll often post shirtless, flexing images of himself to Facebook, even when I was training with him. He couldn’t see what that would do to me.

 

Engage

You provide a service. I pay. We both know the reason we’re here. But you must make an effort to engage on another level in order to make that extra cash.

The absolute worst thing a hot dick dancer can do is walk up to me cold and say, “Would you like a lap dance?”

Suddenly, he’s ugly as sin.

Making someone laugh is a way to break down barriers He sees me as cash and sees himself as meat. Same with a waiter or a bartender. Do you know how much further a friendly smile, looking me right into the eyes and a, “Hello, how are you today? My name’s Andy.”

Suddenly, I don’t see you as meat for meat’s sake or someone who delivers me food or drink. I see a human being. I see someone who has a name, a life and who has meaning. And if you ask my name, someone who gives as fuck about me more than the cash in my pocket.

You start to care about me, I start to care about you, I’ll start giving you more money.

If a dick dancer takes five or 10 minutes to get to know me, he’ll get a lot more opportunity to get cash.

While I was in Key West recently, the go-go dancers and bartenders at Bourbon Street Pub were a perfect example. One dancer — a blond with an absolutely perfect body, beautiful pecs, an eight-pack, gorgeous face, etc. — walked by as I gave him a dollar. He never bothered looking down. He didn’t  kneel and say a word. He walked on by.

Another dancer — not quite as built, but still nice pecs — walked by. I gave him a dollar. He took a knee and asked my name, shook my hand and introduced himself. He smiled and looked me in the eye. Over the course of the evening, every time he walked by, I gave him at least another dollar and even purchased a lap dance from him.

What both dancers didn’t know was it was my first night of a week-long visit in Key West. I’d visit the bar many more times. The perfect body dancer got $1 out of me the whole trip. The great pec and wonderful personality dancer probably earned more than $350 from me.

I walked into a shop along Duval Street that sold absolutely wonderful products focusing on cocktails, wine and beer. As with every shop, the shit was expensive. The sourpuss shop owner never said a word, stood behind the counter and watched me like I was some sort of shoplifter. As I examined a ruby red slipper wine bottle holder I considered purchasing, I put it down and moved around the shop. The sourpuss darted over and adjusted the placement of the pump, assuring I’d done no damage (even though I’d handled it most carefully).

I left that shop quickly despite wanting to purchase a few things, I dared not make a single buy there to give the asshole owner any satisfaction.

At a jewelry shop down the street from there, I went looking for a pair of dangling earrings for my sister. The very nice shop owner greeted me warmly. Since he was British and wore a London Olympics t-shirt, we chatted a bit about that while I shopped and finally overpaid for a pair of shell earrings that looked like my sister. She loved them. And I felt all right about paying tourist prices.

The difference in all of this was engagement.

 

Flirt

While flirting provides hope and engages the customer, it takes things a step further. Flirting brings a customer back to you time and time again. It gets customers to ask for your section at a restaurant or call ahead to see if you’re working.

Girls are taught how to flirt. They’re taught how to dart their eyes, giggle a little, blink and appear shy. If you watched the movie “Legally Blonde,” the “bend and snap” scene in the salon is a great example of how women teach each other.

Men, on the other hand, are not taught these things. Moreover, if they’re taught anything, it’s not how to flirt with other men — especially how to flirt with the gay ones if you’re not gay.

Never, ever act girlish. Male-to-male flirting is much more subtle and it’s something a straight, bi and curious male will have to learn with which to get comfortable.

Flirting is all in the eyes

It begins with the eyes. Learn to stare deeply at another man without letting your eyes dart away. Look intensely but not with a leer. You stare just a beat longer than is comfortable and then blink and look away slowly. And never look down and away from the man. If you look down, go for his crotch or chest. Down and to the left means deception.

It’s even better if your glance is down at his crotch and then it returns to his eyes.

You can’t been too obvious as men have learned to do this dance over time and not be detected by their wives or girlfriends in the room. Even across a gay bar, a subtle flirtation can be happening.

Some of the best ways I’ve ever been worked is by strippers or other professionals giving a lap dance to someone else and working me across the room. I know they’re straight but they’ve got the eye fuck down and my cock doesn’t know the difference.

A gay man can see desire and will likely know a straight man based on his gaydar. I can see in a man’s eyes what he’s thinking. I’m empathetic, meaning I can usually sense what a person is feeling, but most especially men. There’s a vibe that comes off men that allows me to sense what’s going down.

I better get that you’re into me. The good ones find some element in each person they target to like. Whether it’s my glasses or shirt or even personality or the wonder of humanity. If you cannot find something to latch onto, something that you can show an attraction to, you might not get past first base with a potential customer. Consider it a kind of bromance that must be generated out of nothing.

If you are in a place where it is appropriate, flirting may mean showing some skin. You may be straight, but us gay men can appreciate beauty. We’ll drop the not too subtle hints of where you have tattoos or have you been working out crap to see your chest or other parts of your body.

This guy has a very defined Apollo's belt (but not much of a treasure trail)You can work it too. Picking up your shirt and rubbing your stomach showing off a treasure trail (that little line of hair down the middle of the belly Link Opens in a New Window) or Apollo’s belt (the iliac furrow below a six- or eight-pack near the hips Link Opens in a New Window). Yes, you can bend over and show off your ass, but make sure you have an ass to show off (as gay friends). Wear too tight clothes (if you work where that possible) and make it fashionable.

And remember that gay men have fetishes, especially older men. They will request odd things like smelling your shoes, socks or pits and touching your hair, biceps or pecs. Know what your limits might be and never react with judgment of something being rude, weird or bad.

Also understand that your actions in public may take you out of the running.

As I’ve outlined, I am not into smokers at all Opens a new window from this blog. If I see someone smoking, they’re out of the running for potential with me. I know bars in some towns can be smoker havens and some of you only smoke there, but these men with bodies of death puffing on cancer sticks still baffle me. I’d suggest that it limits your income if you do smoke. But I know an occasional whale (someone who will spend a lot of money) comes in offering to share his pack.

 

Touch

A little human contact goes a long way.

It’s long been found that waiters and waitresses who lightly touch their customers (usually the opposite gender) increase their tip amounts by at least 3 percent (a Cornell University from 1998 Link Opens in a New Window has often been cited for this). Remember that 3 percent is the minimum per tip increase.

You can get much more than 3 percent from me.

Shaking hands is always the first approach and the easiest to tell how receptive someone is to man-to-man contact. If possible, always hold the hand a beat longer than possible. Eye contact on the order of flirting always helps as well. A warm smile and a hesitation to release helps. You want the person to feel like you want to touch them.

Even staking out a place a little too close. Don’t invade their personal space too much. Just go into it enough.

If you’re sure someone is up for it, then go for the shoulder grab, especially when you’re stepping away. Make it very familiar feeling. “Hey Mark,” hand reaches out and grabs a shoulder. “I’m headed to the bar. Is there anything I can get for you?”

If your touch can get even more suggestive, it helps in the right circumstance. A brush of your crotch as you pass by, leaning against his shoulder, a hand around the waist, even holding his hand. Do the little movements that give you tingles up your spine. That does the same to him. Give him goosebumps. Make it memorable. There’s nothing wrong even if you’re having an intimate moment and you say to him, “How could I make this a night you won’t ever forget?”

 

HEFTY, HEFTY, HEFTY

If I had to add the last letter to my acronym, it would be “Y” for “Youth.” It normally is that thing that will bring in the trollish men with money. But the one thing I have to say about the most successful twentysomethings who’ve walked away with hundreds of dollars from me is how they’ve treated me and that’s with mature respect. And I’ve respected them back.

When I get a lap dance from someone new, I ask what I can and cannot do. I understand that $20 or $50 doesn’t buy me a fuck in the backroom of a bar and I’m never allowed to just shove my finger up an ass without permission.

I am paying for the fountain of youth, the tight body, the incredibly booty and the innocence no matter how many men have touched him.

I get great service, one must be a good customer. I try to do that.

A Note of Consideration

To anyone else who takes my ideas and runs with them: 

Ideas cannot be copyrighted. Hey, I know that. I didn’t put my ideas out there to make money (although that would be nice). But here’s the thing: Do you think I would be stupid enough to put all my ideas out there?

You’re always welcome just to go with what I suggest and adapt to your own business situation, but I’m a (get this) marketing professional who knows a thing or two. I’m available for consultation or even hiring 

But if you don’t want to do that, I understand. But perks always makes me happy. 

Yours,

Mark's Signature in White

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Do You Believe in "Gaydar"?

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Do you believe in “gaydar”? It has never worked well for me.
Indeed, I do believe in the gaydar. In fact, after the recent upgrade, mine functions flawlessly for American and Canadian males. For most English-speaking countries beyond North America, my accuracy runs in excess of 65 percent. Once we get further, I lack the evidence to provide an accurate rating.Like an enhanced doppler radar in high-definition, I can tell the overall receptivity of the male to whatever advances. I generally categorize men into the following ten categories:

1. Full-on, out-of-the-closet gay man.
2. Obviously gay but denying the hell out of it.
3. He says he’s bi but he’s really gay.
4. Six-pack queer (get him drunk, he’ll suck cock or get fucked).
5. Natural bottom (doesn’t matter what his sexual identity is, he’ll take a cock up his ass and love it).
6. The one-time-at-band-camp, mostly straight guy who experimented once.
7. The I-don’t-care-who-does-it-just-get-me-off guy who’s omnisexual/fuck anything that moves.
8. The so-far-back-in-the-closet man who’s afraid of even touching another man for the electricity it will cause and it disgusts him (these are usually categorized by most as “Jesus Freaks”).
9. Straight and comfortable.
10. A butch but please-fuck-my-pussy boy (usually a U.S. Marine or fraternity member).

Occasionally, you will find an overlap between these categories.

Sexuality is so hard to quantify but sexual practices are more easily identified. If you cannot tell, I tend to be brutally honest. That honesty gets me into trouble, so I’ve learned to hold my tongue.

I had a boss once (years ago, and by years, I mean decades) who found himself fascinated by me, the first gay man he ever had the opportunity to actually sit down and chat.

Unfortunately, he had a girlfriend who accused him of being gay. He inquired whether I agreed. For a time, I thrust the question back on him, letting him explore his own feelings. But in a drunken stupor one night, it came up again and I answered honestly.

If you have to ask yourself whether you’re gay, you just might be a queer.

We never had sex or even a hint of sexual tension but after sobering up, his manhood was severely threatened and he began trumping up issues that eventually got me separated from my job. I had grounds for legal recourse but I never took that route.

Of course, I have doubted my skill on occasion. And even on those occasions, I found that being patient enough would bear me out as accurate.

My gaydar is not as effective on lesbians, especially of the lipstick variety. And I’ve found some inaccurate echo effects when adjusting to British, South African, Australian and Kiwi queers. Otherwise, I’m generally dead-on.

Deceptively Fun #13: Condom Breaks

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It’s funny how people can fill in the blanks with what they want to believe.

So I’m online the other day and I get asked the question I hear every once in a while: whether I fuck bare.

“Been known to,” I answer.

“Yeah, I do safe mostly,” he responds. “Only fucked bare in a relationship.”

“Of course,” I reply. “My last LTR lasted 8 years.”

“Damn, when did it end?” he asks.

“Last year,” I respond.

“Oh man, I bet you miss fucking bare,” he writes.

“Yup,” I answer simply. Truth is, I fucked an ass earlier this week nice and raw. But I do miss having my cock inside an ass. His assumption, of course, is that I’ve been “safe” since my last relationship ended. But that’s his assumption.

You know what the stupid saying is about people who assume (makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”). But I can’t help how people interpret what’s being said.

So with more small talk, we meet. I arrive at his place and discover he’s hotter than the “jock” in his screen name even hinted at. Dark features — you could swear almost Middle Eastern — with harshly black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, he stood at five-foot-eight with less than 10-percent body fat leaving him around 165 pound. As instructed, he answered the door naked. His smooth pecs didn’t bulge out but were quite defined above what was unmistakably an eight-pac.

The almost perfect “V” down to his 30-inch waist highlighted an uncut cock, which hung relaxed but still around six inches. His legs were nicely built and lightly hairy — not the standard gay man who worked only his chest. This was a true athletic man.

When he turned around to walk away from me, his ass came into view and I had no doubt I’d enjoy myself. Not a bubble butt — which tends to be more fat than muscle. This was one of those perky specimens that you could bounce off.

I started unbuttoning as we walked toward his bedroom in his tiny apartment. He turned and dropped to his knees immediately and finished with my pants, not waiting a moment to engorge himself on my cock.

He slurped messily while I slipped out of my shoes and took off my shirt. Sure, my six-foot-three-inch frame wasn’t as impressive as his. But he wanted cock, and mine was perfect. At around seven inches, my rock hard cock stayed hard, even after I shot off.

As he stood, we kissed for the first time, with my slipping off my pants and underwear. I turned him around and pushed him on the bed, taking charge. I started eating out his ass, immediately, causing him to push his ass further into my face. With obvious muscle control, he opened up and allowed my tongue entry easily. I mean, I was slobbering down his chute.

I knew he was enjoying himself and this was a no-nonsense fuck. He wanted my cock in his ass.

As I came up from his ass, gently tickling up his back, my cock hit his crack. I kissed the back of his neck as he handed me a condom.

DAMN.

Of course, it was one of his, not one of my intentionally weakened variety. I took it, but continued to grind into his wet crack, kissing his neck.

“Oh fuck man, I want that cock,” he whispered.

So I scooted down a bit and poised it at his hole. He looked up at me suspiciously, grinned and then flipped over, grabbing me so, in a fluid motion, I was on my back on the bed and he was on top.

He must have once been a college wrestler or something. He took the condom from my hand, ripped it open with his teeth and pulled it out of the foil wrapper. As he leaned down to kiss me, I could feel his hand on my cock, stroking it. With again the deftness of someone who’d done this a dozen times, he sheathed my cock.

DAMN.

Within a moment, his asshole was poised at the top of my cock and he dropped onto it like a long-starving man who had happened on an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Of course it felt all right — just not as good as entering the hole raw.

We fucked in that position, him bouncing on my cock, almost silent for five or ten minutes. There was heavy breathing. He moved, again, in that cat-like movement until he was on his back, his head off the base of the bed — my covered cock still in his ass.

“Fuck, I want this ass raw,” I’m thinking.

As I looked at him, I looked past him and at my pants on the floor. I saw just the base of my popper bottle peaking out of the pocket. An idea began to form.

I began fucking him harder and he started grunting. As I really got to fucking him, his less-than-supportive bed allowed me to push him closer toward the floor until he was off the bed completely. His ass up, my protected cock still slamming into him. Finally, I knew I could reach the poppers.

I offered them to him first. These were my best poppers with a good, long-term high. I was surprised he took them and took a few, deep snorts. I kept my snorts short, because I knew the high would get to him soon.

I fucked hard and deep. And he closed his eyes. He really started to moan. His ass clenched down around my cock. And he was approaching ecstasy.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, pulling my cock completely out of his ass and sitting back on my haunches on his bed. I could see the shocked look on his face as his ass was empty suddenly. In a quick movement myself (well-enough practiced), I pinched the end of the condom and pulled, while holding the base. SNAP!

“Damn condom broke,” I said under my breath, breaking it myself and showing it to him. He scrambled up, still missing the cock in his ass.

“I don’t care,” he said breathlessly.

And he was on top of me, my uncovered cock in his ass immediately.

He wanted cock, condom or no.

AHHHH. It went in smoothly and his ass clenched down. His eyes were closed and he was some place else. I smiled up.

He was grunting and grinding, forcing my raw cock as deep as possible into his ass. I knew my juices were leaking, coating his ass chute liberally. After a few minutes, I grabbed for the bottle of poppers, which had rolled against my right leg and opened it up. As I started my first deep snort, he opened his eyes and looked at me, slowing his assault on my cock.

I really took in a good amount and handed the bottle to him.

“Please don’t cum in my ass,” he said, taking the open bottle from my hand.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said.

He snorted his next hit. And then he began to impale himself on my cock.

Of course, you never tell me what I’m not going to do. I focused on the sensation of my cock entering his ass and the feeling it created. Then the waves of pleasure from the poppers hit me. It wasn’t far to go, and pretty soon, I felt the cum boiling in my balls.

I let go and my first load shot deep into his ass as he continued to bounce on my cock. Cum just had to be coating the inside of his ass. And I was feeling much better.

Sometimes bottoms might notice the change in the fuck sensations with the added lubricant. So I grabbed his hips, pushing him onto my cock and pulling him close to me for a kiss. I pulled my cock from his ass and scooted away, pushing him down onto his stomach.

He still had the poppers, taking another snort.

As I looked down from behind, my cock was shiny and angry red. Still rock hard, the head had shrunk a bit since releasing load number one. Around the hairy base, I could see the milky white “ring around the collar” of cum. And his hole seemed to be leaking a little viscous liquid of my spooge. As he handed me the bottle of poppers, I plunged in deep and held my cum-covered cock in his hole.

I snorted more poppers and went to fucking.

For the next 24 minutes, I fucked him in three other positions, ended back on his stomach, me slamming into his ass. As I was getting ready for my second load, I was grunting deeply.

“FUCK ME!” he’s screaming.

“I’M” GRUNT “GOING” GRUNT “TO” GRUNT…

Before I can say “cum,” he’s off my cock, pushing me back and scooting down.

“CUM ON MY COCK!! PLEASE!!!!”

“CUM!” I say.

I grab my cock and jerk a little, pushing me over the edge.

My cum shoots out with such force, it hits his pecs with the first string of sperm. I push down, shooting the second load on the tip of his cock. He’s scooping up all the cum he can grab and begins to jerk off, using my cum as lube.

The next few spurts shoot onto his flying hand. He’s closing his eyes and groaning. A couple of moments later, a respectable load begins to fly out of his cock, landing on his sweaty chest.

He collapses, stopping his furious jerking, but still breathing hard. I fall off to his side.

After a few minutes of recovery, he never opens his eyes: “Damn, that felt SO much better than anything I’ve had in years.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

A few more minutes pass and he rolls off the bed, standing up and looking back at me. “I’m going to shower.”

As he walks toward the bathroom, I can see a bead of some liquid snake down the inside of his leg.

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