Tag Archives: lungs

Helping You Out

Helping You Out

Here’s a collection of miscellaneous things that bug me about online profiles:

“Not to be racist but…” or “It’s just a matter of taste…”

Truth is, you’re about to be racist. When’s the last time you read, “Not to be racist but I really only fuck Asians.”

Too much of what men write is what they exclude, not what they include.

Men can’t be blondes

Men are only blonds. It’s one of the few examples where the masculine and feminine matters in the English language. Females are blonde, men are blond. Fucking kills me every time I see it. And speaking of color…

No one’s 50 shades of grey

Unfortunately, our language is getting fucked up thanks to people being unable to figure out Grey is normally a name (it is in the book as it is for anatomy, both the original book and the television show). The official color is gray with an “A.”


So “hit me up” I’m “down to fuck”? Really? Up and down? I want to go in and out.

“Breeding” means raw

It amazes me when I post an ad somewhere about “loading” or “breeding” an ass and then I get the “safe only” response. Even more amazing is the request that they “just suck me off.”

Uh, no. I’m here for the ass, not for the mouth.

When I say “potent cum,” what do you think I mean?

I’m just asking.


Fuck you.

What’s up with the abbreviation for etcetera?

If you’re going to go on and on, it’s etc. not ect.

The contractions get me

Please, if you will not go somewhere, you won’t go there… And you want to go elsewhere.

Also, there is no way that there are people out there who don’t understands there’s some contractions out there that the masses seem to misunderstand.

For the most part, I find barebackers are good people; they are often misunderstood and they’re accused of being spreaders of disease and woe. Truth is, barebackers just know their cocks and asses provide a gateway to happiness. Theirs is a life of freedom.

Don’t cry to yo mama

I make it extraordinarily clear that I say some nasty shit when I breed ass. I’m verbal as I approach orgasm.

Just recently it happened again, but this time the fucker didn’t have a choice. I’d mounted him and his little 5-foot-7 frame couldn’t go anywhere. As I am thrusting inside him, I began some of the most horrific things you can say to a bottom.

I’d warned him. Clearly. He knew I’d say things.

He didn’t respond or beg or even whimper. I knew he just wanted it over.

I growled and let it go in his ass, leaning over into his ear: “You asked for this.”

smokerAnd don’t try to lie

I know when someone lies to me. Sometimes I choose to ignore it. Other times, I call the fucker out.

Another thing I make clear is no smokers. All the time, people try to get around it.

“Oh damn,” a guy says the other day after begging me to fuck him. He’d claimed to be a fan and, well, sent me a pic of himself, of all things… smoking. “I quit in May. You won’t smell it on me. I promise.”

Men are known for their veracity. I’m always telling the truth to fuck ass. And I’m sure you’re telling the truth to get cock.

May? Why didn’t you go for last June?

Anyway, he got cut off.

Yes, you fuckers can go ahead and try to mask the smell with cologne and mouthwash, but allow me to point out a couple of salient points:

  • You’ve dulled your senses with smoking so you can’t fucking smell the shit on you.
  • Because the smell adheres everywhere, it’s usually on you in someway.
  • And even more apparent, your lungs are saturated so when you exhale, it can be smelled.
  • It’s even within your bodily fluids like spit, sweat and especially cum (which can stink like a mutherfucker).

Grindr is for babies

What the fuck is up with Grindr?

  1. It doesn’t work.
  2. It has children on it.
  3. It doesn’t work.
  4. The children on it aren’t interested in “hooking up.”
  5. It doesn’t work.

You’re a hooker if you’re shirtless without wildlife

I live in the South, so it’s not odd for me to see photos of people holding up fish, frogs or other creatures from some Redneck hunting expedition while being shirtless. Some gay men post these images as proof of butchness, although when you’re sucking my cock or taking my raw, rockhard cock up your ass and begging for my cum like the little bitch you are, you’re not so butch.

However, if you’re shirtless on any hook-up site or app — this means you, you little Grindr children — and then you add that you’re not here to “hook up,” you’re a hypocrite and a liar.

I don’t shave my balls because I don’t like hair

Lick the sack for larger snack.

My hairy sack tends to get in the way of allowing people to find my spots to give me a lot more pleasure. And the more pleasure I get, the bigger the load they get.

And I shoot big loads, with or without a little licky licky.

Why do you think a barebacker should compromise?

Sometimes I get a horny bottom who insists on a condom, who wants me to fuck them but expects me to be the one to compromise with a condom.


Why should I be the one to compromise?

DDF? Of course!

Everyone online is DDF and clean. Fuck. I’m clean. I took a shower yesterday.

I’ve never seen anyone ever answer other than, “Yes, I’m DDF.” It’s a useless stat. I’ve seen people proudly declare they’re poz or “poz and undetectable,” but I’ve never, ever seen anyone answer the truth when it comes to status.

“Oh I’ve got the clap and a small case of the crabs. It will clear up in a few days.”

“Look, the Valtrex seems to be working. Don’t worry about the Herpes. It’s not like I’m gonna give you the nose-falling-off syphilis.”

Seriously, guys. If you’re “DDF and looking for same,” all you’re going to get is lies.

Understand the status

I’m glad to see more and more people who get the difference between “undetectable and on meds” and “neg, tested 1/13/14.”

Which would you rather fuck?

The answer should be undetectable.

The neg guy hasn’t been tested in more than six months. Cum on.

Curious about the Truvada whores

How many of you “Neg+PrEP” are really on PrEP and how many of you are “Now Neg + Taking Meds”?


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Go Go Go… Well, I Went to BJ Roosters

Go Go Go… Well, I Went to BJ Roosters

Ventured out this week to Atlanta’s go-go boy dancer bar, BJ Roosters. It’s my first time to check the place out. The review is now posted Opens a new window from this blog.

three-and-a-half-stars out of five rating

The bar ended up earning 3½ stars, loosing points for it’s extremely smoky (and not ventilated) interior, the sleazy and not-very-clean interior (especially the bathrooms) and a general poor space planning. On the plus side, the bar lacks the stuck up attitude of the only in-town competition of Swinging Richards, dancers are just as good looking and much more relaxed without the fear of fines and the overbearing thought/action police at the fully nude bar, the dancer diversity is greater for much more selection and it can be a little more fun.

Comparisons between the two places is inevitable. Both places have basically the same dancers, in fact. But BJ Roosters will take in a more diverse selection for people like me who enjoy the more exotic choices.

With the club’s move to a larger space rumored, I’m inclined especially to go back once my lungs recovered, especially since I don’t have to wait as long for my wallet to recover.

Again, don’t miss the review!

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Travel Diary, Day 19: Latino Guido

Travel Diary, Day 19: Latino Guido

My journey to the Sunshine State lacked a lot of sunshine. I attempted to see if I could use Twitter and this blog to get a little attention — hopefully some of the sexual kind. I knew some hotties were around the area and hoped a couple might even just pop in to meet, have a drink and see what comes up.

Alas, that did not happen. My tweets resulted in some resounding silent responses, except for the occasional “wish I was in town” bullshit.

Something tells me a few wanna-be bottoms were in town but just didn’t want to see what words ended up here.

So I spent my first evening at the Parliament House Motor Lodge, getting a little more shit-faced than I’d planned. And believe me, the shit-face truck rolled over me like a tractor trailer. Around 2 a.m., I stood over the sink, water running and washing off the last of that evening’s dinner and drinks, which decided for a command performance. As the soberness returned a little at a time and I cursed my drunken lot in life, I decided the 30-degree fresh air might snap me out of it.

I stepped outside my door, seeing the usual collection of trolls and semi-straight seeking a blowjob.

The crispness filled my lungs and helped wipe some of the fogginess away. I watched as a beefy man who’d driven from Tallahassee for a blowjob wandered the breezeways hoping for a welcoming mouth. He attempted to shun me, which was fine because anything in my mouth at this point might start me hurling again.

He soon walked away and two more doors down, I saw it swing open into the shadows. He appeared for just a moment, standing in the open door, his arms stretched over his head, his lightly hairy pits whispering in the breeze and his bare tan skin showing the immediate puckering of goose bumps.

Jeans, open to show just the hint of pubes, I never got a good look at his face. But his body wasn’t obscene. Probably in his early 30s, a wide beefy chest, very smooth with one tattoo on his upper right arm.

Our eyes locked for just a moment.

All this transpired in less than a second and my glance gave me enough inspiration to begin to walk toward him as he hid in the darkness. I walked into the room, closed the door behind us and unzipped.

He didn’t have the same problem as me. He gobbled down on my cock voraciously — sucking so damn hard I thought my head would rip from the shaft. This little Latino bitch wanted cock.

Soon his pants were off and we were tugging at my clothes. The cool air had stopped the room from spinning, but now the lust that seemed to consume us filled the air. We were intoxicated. Before long, we kissed, his serpentine tongue snaking into my mouth and licking at the sides of my mouth.

I don’t kiss much, although it’s been known to happen. But there’s a moment sometimes when you just want as much as a person can give. And for some reason, this little bitch in heat had me.

Before long, I’d slicked up my cock and he’d offered his ass up. I pushed inside him and a little groan escaped him, followed by the sound of the piece-of-shit mattress beginning to squeak as I am sure it had a thousand times before this night.

Each thrust, a little deeper. Each time he pulled me closer. Soon my cock was buried in his fat Latin ass.

I fucked him in a variety of positions over the next ten minutes. And he wanted it. He begged with his body. But the thing I needed was to hear him beg.

“Tell me you love my raw cock in your ass,” I’d grunt lowly.

He’s respond with a little hesitation: “I love your cock in my ass.”

“You love taking bare cock in your hole, don’t you?” I’d ask.

He’d always pause. He’d only say, “I love taking your cock.”

Words like “raw” and “bare” just didn’t seem to come out of his mouth. He was embarrassed at his craving for cock and cum. He didn’t want to admit he was a fucking little cum-craving bitch. He couldn’t find the voice to admit it.

I knew what this meant.

I paused to search for poppers, offered him an indulging snort and then immediately took my own as my cock slipped into his spit-slicked hole.

Now I fucked him with meaning. I let him know I controlled his destiny. His legs up around my neck, he sensed some degree of control, like his fat Latino sphincter would be able to expel me when ready.

As I approached the point of no return, I slowed my pace and snapped my breathing into a steady pace. I knew he was listening closely. I knew he craved it but would never admit it.

The poppers kicked into full force and I went over the edge, letting my cum spill out into his guts. That’s when I picked up pace and asked him to “tell me you want it!”

As I approached my fake orgasm, literally moments on the heels of my real one, I began the huff and puff. Soon as I held my breath in anticipation of an orgasm, his heels pushed down and my cock slipped, coated in cum and spit, from his ass.

In the afterglow, he turned a lamp on and I got a good look at his face. It surprised me, the beefy Latin body topped my a slightly pear-shaped head, his eyes slanted opposite from Asians. He looked straight out of New Jersey but with a very neutral accent. My only thought: “Latino Guido.”

When I finally returned to my room and fell into bed, I smelled and tasted him all night until my shower the next morning. In a way, I wished I’d stayed with him and injected another load to assure a little part of me was left with him. But I would have to be satisfied with the time we spent together.

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