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#CloseGhost

#CloseGhosts and My Recent Travels

You can’t see them. You can’t touch them. You just knew that one moment they were there and the next, they were gone. Is it a mystery? Some phenomenon worthy of Bigfoot, the Bermuda Triangle and what pills Paula Abdul takes before going on air?

Probably not.

I call them #CloseGhosts. And I’ve recently had close encounters of the plentiful kind them on recent travels.

With the conviction of a serial killer who proclaims his innocence, these lovely bottoms in far away cities and town lurk upon websites (like BarebackRT.com or this blog), Twitter or other online hook-up destinations, assuring traveling a top when he arrives in their town, city or other geographic region that an ass will be ready to fuck at his demand.

Alas, a phenomenon occurs when that top arrives and is in close proximity to the bottom. The cum dump vanishes into thin air, often with some wispy excuse similar to “the dog ate my homework” or “the check is in the mail.”

Case #1: London Twitter Twink & the Quickening

london-postcardWe all know that London is notoriously known for all the ghosts that wander its streets and waterways, its old buildings and strange little alleys. However, having had men upon men beg me for my load for years, I figured one might be legit among them.

My BBRT exploded. I had more than 300 messages at one time and maintaining control of it via my iPhone came close to impossible. One gentleman who seemed legit got pissy because I’d not responded to him immediately upon arrival in town, so he crossed himself off the list. The rest where the normal lot. I waded through them all, trying to invite someone over for a breeding to my centrally located hotel near the West End, not far from Trafalgar Square.

Too far. Apparently, Londoners go to bed early on Bank Holidays and weren’t interested as I attempted to find someone to fuck about 21:00 to 22:00 (that’s 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. for us bloody Americans).

Then a tweet came in from a twink. How’s London, he asked. I replied. It became a conversation of sorts that moved to direct messages and a bit more privacy when I mentioned my trip would be so much better if I had an ass to breed.

“I can help you out there,” he said. “I’d love for you to load my ass. Big fan of your blog.”

He asked when I was leaving. Told him this was my last night. I asked where he was. He said, “Covent Gardens.”

Boom. That’s the neighborhood I’m in. I’m over at the… I listed the hotel.

Pause. Double pause.

“Oh, it’s too bad I’m not at home tonight. I’m staying with a friend in the country.”

Poof.

Case #2: The Early Alabama Bird Misses the Juicy Worm

greetings-from-Birmingham-Alabama

I’d started on BBRT with this hottie and turned to text messaging. We were getting ready for some good fun, all planned out in Alabama. I’d let him know that it would be a late arrival for me and he’d told me we’d have “several hours” of play.

I’d even arranged a nice corner room, away from everyone in the hotel, because I had a feeling this fuck might get a bit out of control.

I don’t usually trust bottoms. Bottoms in general are not trustworthy. But I’d grown to trust this one.

I arrived just after 9 p.m. and texted. No response. Another text. No response. Around 9:30, I get a response saying he’d fallen asleep. Then, “he didn’t know I was going to be so late.”

Late? It’s 9:30!

We’d been setting this up for a month.

The shitty little cocktease went on to berate me for almost an hour about being “late.” Of course the little fucker didn’t get off so easily in this from me.

Obviously, he loved the chase, but actually fucking… well, I’m guessing his balls hadn’t quite dropped yet. My timing was never the issue.

POOF

Cases 3 & 4: The Revolutionary Missing Men

Bareback top visiting New HampshireIn this history-rich part of America just north of Boston, finding fuckable asses aren’t easy. I knew this. I planned for it with a backup ass. I found them both and, as it turned out, both claimed to want it.

One said he’d be online on BBRT. Te other asked me to text. My #1 choice, the textable ass, got a text.

We pinged a bit before I asked him to come over.

Pause. He then, for some reason, told me his actual location. In Maine. And invited me over.

Baffled, I asked what was up.

“I don’t have a car,” was his response.

Now it wasn’t as if both of us were in downtown Boston. This little hottie claimed in the middle of bumfuck Maine, he had no transportation, after knowing I was visiting from out of town.

WTF and POOF

Back-up plan into action. Logged onto BBRT. Sure enough, he was there. Message. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait longer. And more. I’m tired. Just go to fucking bed.

POOF.

This ghost responded when I was no longer close, in Boston, about to fly home.

Just the Four?

No. I have so many more stories. But these are the four most recent. I did debate divulging Twitter names, BBRT handles showing a photo or two, but I’m going to leave it alone. After all, these #CloseGhosts could be #Catfish for all I know.

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Bareback top visiting New Hampshire

Travel Diary: Bottoms Blah Blah Blah

Flakes are universal, along with fakes and catfish Open-New-Window-External. This I know.

But when it comes to superstar flaking out, New Hampshire takes the fucking cake. In fact, my visit to Concord might take the bakery.

Allow me to explain.

I always post future destinations in my travel plans on my BarebackRT.com profile Open-New-Window-External. I notify readers here Open-New-Window-External that I’m visiting. Of course, all this is tweeted Follow on Twitter and ends up on my Facebook Open-New-Window-External.

To enhance it all further, I post on Craigslist an add that looks something like the following:

TOP blogger visiting looking for bottom writing inspiration – m4m (Concord Area)

I’m a blogger who writes about my sexual experiences on the road with bottoms I encounter… My blog is read by thousands every single day, reproduced on several sites and even some entries end up on a famous porn studio’s website.

Perhaps you might like to be the inspiration for a piece when I slide into town next week?

I don’t identify the bottoms I fuck, just write about the experience…

Hit me up with your info — a pic, stats, etc. I’ll respond with my blog details so you can check it out. We’ll go from there.

The site contains a lot of information beyond my fucks. And if you happen to be a top, we can tag team or maybe you’d like to try sitting on my cock… it’s a perfect 7 inches cut.

Thanks!

P.S. The only major requirement (other than bottoming for me) is that you don’t smoke.

From all this, I do get a lot of inquiries. Most of them are lurkers who never intend to meet. This I get. It’s also an opportunity to find new people to read my blog since not all barebackers have found the Bareback Brotherhood or my blog.

With many there’s the “I just fuck safe,” and then more than half switch their story.  But some don’t. Yet, with my blog, it becomes a jerk-off destination for many.

When I do finally arrive, I e-mail the best back to see if they’re still up for that fuck.

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Arriving in Concord

My arrival in Concord allowed me to long in locally to BarebackRT.com, Grindr, Scruff and Manhunt.net, all of which use a geographic tool to notify one who’s closest. I also posted to Craigslist.

Two men of the many interested e-mailed me back saying they were still up for the fuck, but one 4 p.m. pump-and-dump session became a no-show with regrets arriving several hours later because he was “stuck somewhere.”

Flake.

All of my online activity netted me a lot of interest. A lot. I was fresh meat in a town that didn’t see a lot. Of course, I got the usuals…

People just wanting to collect photos, see my cock or face.

I had one prospect on BarebackRT… he was a fucking hot dude in his late twenties… seemed like a good one. But here’s where we begin one issue that baffled me for Concord.

He had no vehicle.

I needed to come to him and pick him up, bring him back to my hotel to fuck and then take him home.

Now please check out the map.

Concord is not a major city. It’s 1½ hours north of Boston. It’s not a walking city. How can you not have a car and survive, especially when you’re not in college?

This turned into a theme of the night. No car. No transportation. My car is in the shop. My car is in the shop due to the storm. I don’t have a car.

By the way, none of these bottoms ever asked where I was staying to see if I happened to be within walking distance.

I don’t guess Northeastern tops teach bottoms they’re the ones who need to make the effort Opens new window of a page on this blog.

While some of them were hot enough for me to go and fetch them, it turns out I didn’t rent the car but a colleague did. I simply wasn’t an option.

Then came the other morons.

I also get a collection of those who want to postpone. These guys appear in every city, without fail. I wonder if they ever fuck. All conversations go something like this.

THEM: “How long you in town?”

ME: Just tonight (no matter how long I’m in town, I always say I’m here “just tonight”)

THEM: “Damn! It’s getting late tonight.”

ME: It’s just 9:30.

THEM: “I know but I have to get up early. I wish you were here…” fill in the blank with “tomorrow night” or “this weekend”

In other words, they can never come over now or today.

Proximity Alert

My first promising opportunity looked like a threesome, which I won’t get into too much detail on. In his early thirties and a scruffy blond, wanted to know if I wanted to fuck both him and another guy, in his early twenties — both online at the same time. As if on cue, the younger one sends me a message.

The younger one asks if I’ve got poppers, which of course I do.

Then he asks if I’ve got anything “more fun.”

WTF.

“Dude,” I respond back. “You’re well aware I’ve come into town. That means I flew. That means I went through security. At an airport. Are you fucking kidding me? Why would I have any drugs?”

He responds, “Oh yea, I guess you’re right. But I still want to fuck.”

Anyway, the vibe is off and the duo then go even more weird. The young one claims the old one is stalking him. The old one claims they’re “together.”

I don’t want to get into the shit. Kick them both to the curb.

Right Downstairs

One last opportunity happens as a guy indicates he’s in a hotel. I ask which one and it turns out he’s in the same one as I am.

Bingo.

He won’t disclose his room, so I give him mine, knowing my colleague isn’t on that floor. He tells me he needs 10 minutes to shower and get cleaned up.

Those 10 minutes pass. Then another 10. Another 10. Yet another 10. And at 45 minutes, I finally message him.

He apologizes, saying it’s taking him longer than he thought to clean out his ass.

Whatever, I say, just get his ass to my room.

Then he says come to his.

I tell him I don’t have his room number.

He says okay, he’s now putting on his clothes.

At an hour after we started this exchange, he says he’s on his way.

Then I get a text asking me if I’ll suck his dick too.

I’m baffled. I just ask, “What?”

Then he writes, “I need to run by the front desk real quick.”

Fuck that.

This fucker is just playing me.

“Forget it.”

He gets all bent out of shape. Says he won’t go by the front desk. Blah blah blah.

After some back and forth, I say he can some to my room, but he has three minutes to get there.

He says he doesn’t like my attitude.

I tell him to fuck off.

The next morning, he begs me to come to his room to fuck him.

I tell him I’m not disturbing  guests actually staying in the hotel.

Postscript

Perhaps the little fucker actually was staying in the hotel or maybe he was one of the guys I’d e-mailed earlier and said I was in town and knew the hotel from that. I’ll never know. I’m proud I never knocked on anyone’s door. That shit pisses me off. He probably kept delaying things to try and get someone else to come over and knock on my door but, like me, couldn’t find anyone to do it.

My luck is your luck, fucker.

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Male Population

Breaking Down the Male Population

A night a while back, one of my acquaintances online lamented that in his corner of the world, he’d fucked every asshole there was available. Knowing where his corner of the planet happened to be in proximity to a couple of universities and other places of “higher learning” (read “extreme intoxication” and frat boy experimentation) and knowing my chat friend happened to be in his rather youthful 20s (hey, black don’t crack), I challenged him on his theory that he lacked any options.

Inevitably, this proceeded to my own hypothesis, tested out time and time again over the past two-and-a-half decades, that about two-thirds of men can be had. So I decided to put together my own chart to help explain where I stand on the male population.

Chart of what the breakdown should be...

Men, to begin with, exist on a different level than women. Men experience the world through our senses — sights, sounds, smells even. Women allow their emotions to maneuver through this existence. Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter.

This is my totally unscientific study and, by that, I mean I’m probably off by 2 to 3 percentage points.

Gay Men (24 percent)

Let’s begin with Gay men, which roughly break down into two categories: Out and Closeted. Depending where you are on the planet, the ratio between Out and Closeted vary and allow me to suggest why this is the case.

First, of course, the geographic location. In the South, where I happen to live, assault by Biblical texts will chase a man into the closet faster than a Baptist at a liquor store’s front door and he sees his preacher. In some countries, especially the Middle East and Africa, we’re talking torture and death if you’re discovered, so get comfy.

Second, and this is a biggie, is your position. If you’re a top, it’s so very easy to be closeted. Remember, a hole is a hole since men experience the world through sensory input. Natural tops can spend their lives closing their eyes, visualizing a man and fucking. So you wonder why there are so few tops, there you go.

Finally, the world is a place where, for the time being, we’re all about averages. What’s the average salary, the average distance, the average penis length, the average color, the average everything. The politically correct thing isn’t to say Asians have small cocks and African Americans have huge schlongs. Society — and I’m not talking about the Bible or morals — has decided that it’s “normal” to be married with a wife and kids. Believe me, my job would be so much more fucking easy if I played golf and talked about the little woman. I’d be ahead in my career if I were “straight.” Being closeted is a way to get ahead in my career.

In other words, religion, sex and money will put you in the closet.

So no matter what Kinsey report or survey says, I believe that when you get right down to it, a solid 24 percent of the male population is gay. You read me right. I believe almost a quarter. I am not kidding.

Bi Men (3 to 4 percent)

Funny thing, I figure the Bi men might get a little pissed at this one. I think the true Bi men — the ones hovering in the true center — might be the minority. Give me a moment to explain.

Kinsey created a scale of 0 to 6 where zero was exclusively heterosexual and six was exclusively homosexual, as illustrated by this chart I’ve included from Wikipedia.org:

Theoretically, that’s cool, but if you truly believe that Kinsey was onto something, then wouldn’t you need to be a perfect three? Actually, wouldn’t you need to be exactly 3½ or a 3.5 to be a true bisexual? Otherwise, you’d teeter off to either a homosexual or heterosexual side of the equation?

See? (Chart altered by me to show the perfect center.)

Again, men experience life through their senses, so you can fuck any hole. But seriously, the emotional attachment comes into the equation, you fall down on one side or the other and men may try out both sides but eventually settle on one or the other. True bisexuals are rare. That’s another reason why the Gay population is larger in my sampling.

Six-Pack Queers (23 percent)

Six-Pack Queers deserve a class of their own, although they’d probably end up split between Closeted and Bisexuals, if we could. If you were or are in the military, you automatically qualify for Six-Pack Queers. This classification is based on a joke I heard years ago.

Q. What’s the difference between a straight Marine and a Gay Marine?

A. A six pack.

In other words, get a Marine drunk and he’ll have sex with you. By the way, I’ve fucked more Marines that way. I’ve had every branch of the military (during active duty) except Coast Guard (if they count).

When you impair a man’s senses, he can justify his actions better. He can say he didn’t realize that he was sucking cock, getting fucked or whatever. He hides his true emotional and physical desires behind the booze. He’s easy to pick up at the bar. He’s the stupid blond sorority girl with the mating call of “I’m so drunk.”

Now not all Six-Pack Queers are necessarily in a bar, but finding one lurking there makes it easier to get him inebriated and into your orbit. If they’re not drinking, you can’t get them. Six-Pack Queers will not have sex while they’re sober.

To get a Six-Pack Queer takes a certain type of approach. As I explained, think of yourself as a predator on a nature program. You must approach your prey and seek his weak spots, exploit them and then attack mercilessly. As he whines about some ex-girlfriend, stuff his mouth with your cock and work it. Getting emotionally attached to any Six-Pack Queer will be the worst thing possible.

Straight Bottoms (19 percent)

For any man who has had the pleasure of something shoved up his ass knows the intensity of an item tickling his prostate, thankyouverymuch. Even though I’m a top, I know that prostate stimulation can provide some incredible pleasure. For natural bottoms, that experience is intensified.

Who said bottoms couldn’t be straight?

So let’s take a walk on the wild side for a moment. Let’s just suppose for a moment that a percentage of all straight men are, indeed, natural bottoms. They like — in fact, love and prefer — having things shoved up their asses.

Certainly, your girlfriend or wife or female whatever would strap one on and shove a fake cock up the ass. The plastic would feel good. It would. A certain need would be fulfilled.

However, let’s just be honest. Fake is fake. We can all pretend like tofu is meat but after a while, we want the real thing. It’s not Gay to want a real cock up your ass.

I believe the Chicks with Dicks phenomenon comes from this place, because I’m certainly not interested in any titty-heavy bitches with pricks. Who would be? What would Chicks with Dicks target? Where’s the market? Could it be straight men who want to get fucked maybe?

True Straights (31 percent)

Gotta love the Straight Boys. Believe me, there are plenty out there. And you might want to believe you’re one of them, but if you’re reading this, chances are you aren’t one. Not much to say about the ones walking the Straight and Narrow except they know that a mouth does have gender.

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Travel Diary, Day 22: My First Loading

Travel Diary, Day 22: My First Loading

I’ve not found Grindr, the iPhone application, to be all that helpful. But on this section of my travel in Orlando and Dallas, the activity on Grindr impressed me — to a certain extent. Its capability of being accurate about distance failed — usually being much further away.

The silky ass boy turned out to be a temporary fix. I was still horny. So Grindr turned into one of resources I consulted to see if more activity might be available. Proximity to public places with Grindr made accuracy difficulty. Plus, of course, documenting the vertical location (being that I was in a high-rise hotel) didn’t help.

He messaged me first. An older man, in his early 50s, appeared but he appeared attractive enough and in good shape. After the usual back and forth with some pic trading, we began exchanging location information.

Same hotel. Same floor. In a moment, I pulled on my shorts and walked down the hall.

He opened the door before I could knock. Naked. His photo proved accurate. After a moment of sucking each other, he had me on the bed and worked over my cock and balls. He lifted my legs.

“Ever bottom?” he asked.

“Yup,” I said.

He spit on my hole and pushed his cock in.

At maybe four inches and not at all thick, I accepted it without much difficulty. He thrust back and forth quickly. His hands wrapped tight around my ankles, I noticed his wedding band as well. His little cock pushing into me, I clenched once.

He pulled out and shot on my hole and disappeared into the bathroom.

I pushed a little cum in my ass — he didn’t cum much — and pulled on my shorts. Another load likely wouldn’t happen, but I tried that night. I went to sleep, one load lighter in the front, one load heavier in the back and neither particularly satisfying.