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Straight Men Are Pigs…And Really Easy

Straight Men Are Pigs…And Really Easy

I’ve had my Android cell phone (and its associated number) for almost 18 months but I’ll still get text messages for “Mac.” Mac must be a big jokester because as I tell these fuckers that I’m not Mac, they never believe me. Never. So usually I begin spouting offensive Gay stuff a straight musclehead like Mac would never say.

I have no idea who Mac is but through all the text messages, I’ve learned about him because folks have asked training advice, asked about his girlfriend, suggested he checked out this or that band, etc.

The other day, I get a photo of a man holding a rather small large-mouth bass. I inform him that I’m not Mac and he’s got the wrong number.

“Sure thing, you Jack-Wagon. Whatever!” He responds.

“I’m not Jack either.” I answer back.

“Okay then, Mr. Wagon to you!”

The guy isn’t getting it. So I go blue: “Unless you’re someone who likes to suck cock, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Not my thing,” he sends back. “But you be proud of whatever you’re good at!”

I hate people who love exclamation points: “I hold my own. And I swallow cum. Do you cum a lot?”

“When I want to!” he responds.

“I fuck ass really well,” I shoot back. “Especially a beefy ass like yours.”

There was a long pause. He seemed to be getting that Mac might not be texting him now. Then I received an apology that indeed, he realized that I wasn’t Mac, that he was married and he thought we were just “joking around.”

“Well, I’m not joking,” I typed back. “I’ll give you the best, most intense time you’ll ever have.”

A pause, then: “My wife takes care of me. You should spend some time reading the bible. The lord can help change your life.”

Fuck. One of those closet cases taking refuge in religion. But I went for it.

“Does she swallow?”

He kept saying how his wife was wonderful and beautiful and took care of him but never answered the question, which I always pointed out. Sometimes these Bible-thumpers can’t help but be honest, even about the most offensive shit like this.

Finally he answered: “No. She won’t even put her mouth there.”

“I would,” I said. “And I’d enjoy it.”

The remaining content fluctuates between his religious guilt and the intrigue of having his cock sucked. I worked the details of my tongue and how it would feel, the sensation and how hard he would cum. How I would savor the flavor. How I would never say, “No,” to his requests.

It took a little magic, but the male testosterone took hold and soon I was driving toward the man’s house. His wife was out of town, thus giving him the chance to go fishing on a weekday. His home nestled near a local lake. I arrived and could see just off to the distance his little boat tied to a dock down the hill from the nondescript house in an older subdivision. A black, shiny Ford F-150 parked in the driveway and a dried-flower wreath on the door.

He answered the door, beefy, solid, dirty blond and about 5-foot-10. He hadn’t shaved but it seemed like he’d cleaned up a bit, wearing a fresh t-shirt and basketball shorts. His handshake was solid if a little hesitant. He invited me in and closed the door, locking it.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Just take me somewhere comfortable,” I said. “Maybe where you can watch porn.”

“We don’t have any,” he said. “My wife won’t allow it.”

“That’s cool,” I said. “Just someplace where you’re comfortable.”

We went upstairs to what I figure was a guest room and he sat on the edge of the bed. I closed the door. On the cloudy afternoon, the blinds and sheers cut much of the light. I knelt in front of him and began to move my hand toward his crotch. He started to move away and say something, but I stopped him.

“Close your eyes, lay back,” I said. “Just relax.”

I resumed my massage as he did as I commanded. Soon I could feel his cock thickening as I reached up inside his leg and touched his cock on the outside of his boxers. It took a few moments before I had him lifting his ass off the bed so I could strip his shorts off him and begin a proper blowjob. He chubbed up to a nice six inches and thick, not too hard but not completely soft. A mouthful. His fuzzy blondish brown hair all over and unkempt. But I sucked him and licked his balls. I varied the speed and worked him all over, licking places he’d never felt a tongue.

I moved my hands up under his shirt and touched his furry chest and found large nipples. One little touch and each stood firm and began to poke up. He even pulled up his shirt for easier access. He moaned and groaned as I began to work him into a frenzy.

But I did not come here to make him happy.

I did pause long enough to come up for air and actually lick his nipples. This was the first time I saw his eyes open and look at the man providing him so much pleasure and then clamp back closed. He kept his hands at his side, gripping the quilt on the bed.

Then I moved south, back to his cock, around it and down to his balls and finally down to his taint, scooping around the back of his legs and lifting his legs up. Before he could protest, my tongue went to work.

Pretty soon I was at his pucker and I worked it over well. He’d indeed showered and the smell of Zestfully clean along with the taste for he’d failed to wash away all the hint of soap. But I kept working the folds and added more magical spit in to filter out the flavor. His hole opened up like a natural bottom’s would, as I knew. And I poked a couple of fingers inside while flicking my tongue across the balls and other places that tickled his fancy.

When I returned to the head of his cock, a pool of precum nestled in the hairy treasure trail and I knew he’d only need one more trip around the world before I’d be able to shove my cock in his ass.

Nipples, cock, balls, taint, ass, taint, balls, cock and nips. By then, I’d pulled my cock out and lubed it with my spit.

When I was at his nipples, I had his legs up and teased his hole. I then replaced it with my cockhead which slid inside easily. When it hit the second sphincter was when his eyes opened a second time and he began to move away.

I was ready for this.

I grabbed his thighs and pulled down.

“No,” he whispered.

“Your cock says yes,” I whispered back.

“But…” he began, almost seeming to cry, but I could feel his throbbing cock — now harder than ever — against my belly.

“Just relax.”

I pushed inside him again and this time past that opening into him. And then I hit the prostate.

He gasped, as if he were dying and there were no air. This time he reached for my legs and actually pulled me toward him.

Natural bottom.

“OH MY GAWD!”

His eyes flew open, but the pupils seemed to roll into the back of his head.

Suddenly a torrent of clear liquid began to pour from his cockhead. I could feel a little throbbing inside his ass. I didn’t want him to cum yet so I remained perfectly still and purred at him to relax.

The tenseness of his body soon left him and I began a small hip motion, rocking my cock a bit and fucking my raw cock inside his virgin hole. As I fucked this little straight boy, I picked up pace and felt him beginning to move in concert with me, but opposite, to allow deeper penetration. His eyes had shut but he was enjoying the experience. I reached down to my poppers, knowing his distraction wouldn’t notice so I could take a firm whiff of them. I did and felt my cum boil in my balls.

I began fucking him like I meant it and he loved it. I spit on my hand as I neared by own orgasm and reached for his cock at the moment when I went blind with ecstasy. My sperm flooded his guts and I loaded him with my DNA as I grasped his thick, rigid cock and began to pump. My other hand found his right nipple and I pinched — a little too hard.

His ass clamped down as I pushed my spunk in him deeper. His first shot came as I opened my eyes. It went over his head, over the bed, across the room and splattered on the wall. The next six or seven came within short order and were less intense, but in the end a string of cum lined from his cockhead to the wall about seven feet away.

As his breathing began to normalize, his hands came up over his eyes and covered himself in shame.

I’d already zipped up and tucked away my softening cock, gently laying him down and leaving him in the darkened room. I didn’t speak to him as I left and I haven’t texted him. He hasn’t messaged me. Yet.

Yes, this is the real photo he texted me (just with the face blurred).

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: How Should I Feel?

Tonight I sit with a weird feeling creeping up my spine. I find myself reduced back to a boy, curled up in guilt and a little confused.

Long-time readers will know my story but I imagine most won’t, so I should set the stage with my original Dark Passenger. The man who launched the twisted fuck I would become. In a very real and unusually strange sense, that man indeed is the genesis of a myself, out and very comfortable and confident in my skin. While I would like to think I’d eventually maneuvered my way out of the closet, I doubt seriously if I’d ever become as tolerant of others or even admitted to myself or other what a barebacking sleaze I can be.

As a youth, I was molested by this man. Most of the entries regarding him and what he did can be found here, if you choose to read:

If you choose not, it’s fine. Know that from some point until around 18, I had sexual encounters with this man — a neighbor and trusted friend of my parents.

So the reason for my odd sensation is the call today to notify me that my molester is in hospice.

The call to me is not unusual, I guess, since he and his wife were friends of my parents and, now that both my parents are dead, the community feels as if someone in my family should be notified and, technically, I am the head of the family. The local community is not aware what this sleaze did to me or countless others.

I spoke on the phone in an even tone, thanking the person for the notification. It wasn’t a time to be emotional. But now that I sit alone with the thought of him dying, I feel something. Perhaps it is the last of my own childhood finally passing away with the man who stole it from me, since so much left me when my parents left in the last few years. Perhaps it’s a kind of happiness or vengeance, knowing the fucker is finally suffering and will befall his own fate he promised me — that one-way ticket to hell. Or maybe it’s my own fear that I might be closer to death as well.

Or is it the fear that I might become the molester like him. The other day, a 14-year-old on Twitter solicited me. Now he had been posing as a 23-year-old. And when he admitted to being 14, I blocked him. And as I wrote, I volunteered at times for my own molestation. I wonder if the world were wired when I was 14 what I might have done.

So I sit, quietly contemplating a big-dicked old man as he teeters at the edge of the abyss. And I wonder why I give a shit and I wonder why I even care.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Like a Virgin

My incredibly clear recollections of him and how he started the molestation end somewhere in a blur, as I wrote. I cannot count how many times it happened, but flashes of memories showing this place and that place — a bathroom, the woods, a basement, the shed. I smell the musty mix of his balls and his pipe, but I never really remember his face. I just see his cock, hard and huge, hanging there relaxed and in front of my face as I knelt down to suck it.

The post-ejaculation depression always brought on the verbal abuse of my descent into hell along with the crippling guilt. I can still feel that guilt, deep in my guts, but it’s a pin-prick compared to the all-consuming self-loathing that filled my hours after succumbing to my lust.

What happens next surprised even me and helped set my course toward some form of normalcy.

* * *

I met Vince as a freshman in high school. Tall and lanky like myself with the same bowl haircut, similar struggles with zits. But his extroverted, I-don’t-give-a-fuck personality proved to be the yang to my yin. We ran track together, something I attempted to fit into the normalcy of high school. We both sucked and our consistent position in the back of the pack led us to strike up a friendship.

Of course, beginning to feel close to someone led me to other feeling, especially since he was indeed a real male. He even had some chest hair to prove it.

As school kinds would, our conversations eventually turned to sex — and liking “girls.” He tried very hard to pin me down on who I liked. We would play a 20 questions like game where I thought I could be at least a little honest. The last conversation of this collection would be the one I can recall to this day.

I’d hinted that “she” rides his bus. He began naming girls, to each I’d respond, “No.” Then, at some point, he tried to determined whether “she” disembarked before or after him. Of course, I was in a corner because “she” got off the bus at the same stop as him.

There was a long pause.

“Is it me?” he asked.

“What?” I stammered. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. My stomach lurched forward. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. My eyes blurred with tears and fear gripped me. I couldn’t find an answer.

“Are you telling me you’re gay?”

That word. Oh that word. That I could answer, “No. I don’t think so.” But then I needed to say something. “Maybe I’m bi, but I don’t know.”

“But you like me?” he persisted.

The word, “Yes” popped out of my mouth before I could swallow it.

From somewhere downstairs, my mom began calling me for dinner. At that moment. Now? Really mom? The calls became more persistent.

“COMING!” I yelled. “Listen, I got to go. My mom is calling me.”

“Cool,” he said. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“No, what?” I said, thinking that he’d actually begin calling what few friends I had to tell them I was a “homo.”

“I’m going to jerk off,” he responded.

I lost my voice again.

“I think it’s really hot you’re into me,” he said. “And I got a stiffy to prove it. Let’s talk later.”

Click.

We did talk later. And often. Vince was actually the first guy with whom I ever had phone sex. I would talk about what the girls would do to him and he would hump his bed on the other end of the line. And he’d try to give me some fantasy about men, but it wasn’t a fulfilling as listening to his voice.

At some point, though, I told Vince about the man next door. I don’t recall how it came up or what really transpired. But for all of my fucked-up sense of who I was and my after-life destination, Vince turned out to be the catalyst to turn it all around.

“Dude, you’ve got to stop it and report him to the police,” Vince said.

“But Vince, people would then find out and everybody would think I was a fag!”

“Yea, you’re right,” he said. “But maybe there’s something else we can do.”

Our discussions regarding what to do about him were few since we focused mostly on our own libidos. Our relationship grew over the phone, but physically meeting and actually touching never happened much, until one summer afternoon when Vince called me and invited me over for a sleepover.

I don’t think my cock ever deflated throughout that day and early evening until we were able to finally retire to the basement.

Despite what the man took from me, I count Vince as my first. And technically, he was.

During the evening and early morning, Vince got off seven times. I shot three. Vince was a machine. His cock — similar in size, girth and hardness to mine — never went soft. Oh, and it pointed at his hairy belly button, just like mine. So I wasn’t deformed.

I sucked Vince off twice and licked his balls while he jerked off. At this point, I’d avoided cumming for fear of the painful results that would happen with such a release. Then, Vince requested the act I was probably most curious about.

“You want to fuck me?” he asked. Vince, being as “straight” as he was, refused to suck me. He would touch my cock, but only for short periods. It weirded him out. But he could endure my mouth and hand. Somehow, in his world, sticking my cock into his ass wasn’t as invasive as his mouth.

We found suntan lotion as lube and I rolled on top of him. He felt the usual pain, but for us, it was a new sensation. I pulled out as soon as I’d entered, from the awkward position of two lanky teenage boys, one lying on top of the other.

The next attempt proved more successful and Vince accepted me. If you’ve ever heard of the old show, “Love American Style,” the sex act was always represented by fireworks. Well, my memory of those few moments is so closely related. I saw fireworks, only that the sky was completely filled with these hot colors and none of the black could be seen. Dizzy and hopeful, my hard cock plunged into his virgin hole. I don’t know if we fucked for one minute or twenty. I lost all track of time and place. The pleasure overwhelmed all my senses. Even shooting my load deep into the bowels of this straight boy left me spent but incredibly dazed. I rolled off, smelling a mixture of cocoa butter, shit and our sweat.

“My turn!” Vince said.

Soon he was on top of me in the same awkward position and shoving his cock into my bare hole.

Where the man failed, Vince succeeded. His cock went in. The explosive joy and pleasure I’d experienced just moments before were replaced by sharp, gut-wrenching pain. I could only see red spikes and I begged for Vince to take it out, let it end.

“Just a minute more!” His breath was hot on my neck and he whispered for me to wait just a little bit longer.

He shot in my ass, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him off me. I wanted it to end.

* * *

That night turned out to be a little much for us both. Vince and I never really reconnected and, when school started back up, he avoided me as much as possible. However, Vince did do more for me than he will ever really know.

Truth is, I wanted to share that with Vince. With the 20-year high school reunion upon us, I watched for Vince to RSVP to the online tool and update his profile. Then one day, I logged on to find Vince missing from the roster completely. I sent the organizer a note.

Her e-mail response was abrupt.

“Oh, we moved him to the ‘in memoriam’ section,” she wrote. “He was killed while serving in the Navy shortly after high school. I think it was a car accident.”

I could never share with Vince how his little tryst with me started me on a path of self-worth, where I could value myself and actually enjoy the sex acts I knew I lusted after. In my universe, Vince would never grow old. He would always be the 15-year-old boy who opened me up to the potential.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: The Mall Bathroom

Having figured out that sexual please could be derived from myself, especially since my older molester rarely helped me out, I was left with a sense of longing. Again, the Internet didn’t exist and, as far as I could tell, nothing would be there to help. Every bit of documentation I had mustered to find indicated that I was doomed to hell and a life of misery.

At the time in the Atlanta area, only two malls existed. Per our normal routine, my family would travel to one of these malls twice per year — before Easter and before Christmas. With “Jingle Bells” playing over the live speaker, I was bored, wandering the aisles of a major department store (at the time).

The urge to pee overwhelmed me. During this time, I think my unconscious brought it upon myself to pee often. I even had medical tests in which the doctors informed my mother of “psychological” issues related to my frequent urination. So without truly thinking, I stepped through a long series of hallways in the back portion of this store to find the men’s room.

When I walked inside, I forgot about peeing but not about my cock. Sitting on a toilet, his door wide open, a man with his shorts all the way to his ankles. He held his hard cock and jerked on it. I froze. I stared. I didn’t even move a muscle.

After a few moments of this mouth-agape stare, he looked intensely at me, stood, and shuffled over. He removed his hand from his own cock but left his pants down. I stood perfectly still as he unbuttoned my pants and pulled out my rock-solid cock. Without hesitation, his mouth engulfed me. At the time, my cock lacked its full length and girth. But the pleasure. The intensity. The unreal sensation of that warm mouth surrounding every single inch.

I’m not sure how long it lasted. Seemed like forever or no time at all. And I went into convulsions. I unleashed a torrent of cum like never before. I unloaded with such force that this well-experienced tearoom troll took every drop, swallowed it all, except a huge glob that landed on his cheek.

If I could draw, I could do an accurate rendering of his face today and that exact spot where my cum hung there, dripping off his face but never letting go. He turned and shuffled back to his open stall, sat down and resumed his jerking off.

I never pissed. I zipped up. And wracked with guilt, I found a pay phone near by and called the mall police on him. I don’t know what happened to him. In many ways, I’m sorry. But I was confused. And the guilt. It didn’t seem to abate.

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