Tag Archives: Smoke

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.”

HMU DTF

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.

Sup

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.

No.

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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The Plea of ‘Please Fuck Me’

The Plea of ‘Please Fuck Me’

I turned 46 this year. Apparently, it’s one of those watershed moments in a gay man’s sexual career.

I’ve had them before. When I turned 31, it happened. Suddenly, the immature men in their youthful twenties weren’t interested in IMing me on AOL — hey folks, this is before the wide open world of the Internet. I know most of you kiddos missed that whole world where we didn’t hook up without hook-up sites, apps and Craigslist.

It occurred again at 36 when I no longer met the 19-35 threshold.

And now I’ve skipped beyond 45 and suddenly, everything ancient is new.

We’re into begging territory.

Daddies aren’t asking me to fuck him. Grandpa is. I get more pleas of “please fuck me” from men in their sixties than ever before. It’s not that I won’t fuck a man born in the 1940s. I will. But let’s get a few things out of the way.

  1. Don’t ask if you don’t mean it. Begging me to fuck you when you’re 100-plus miles away doesn’t do shit for either one of us. I’m pretty much tired of the message when there’s no fucking way you’re coming to Atlanta and I’m surely not dragging my ass to Timbuktu, South Africa. My answer now is just to ignore the dumb fuck or answer, “Okay. Come on over.”
  2. Don’t lie. Recently I did choose to fuck a child of the 1940s, but he lied, lied and lied again. He sent a bogus photograph (granted of another man in his early sixties) who had an incredible cock and a decent body. But he also said he didn’t smoke and, bingo, dumb ass, I smelled it the moment he walked in. I also enjoyed the fresher smell as he left the building.
  3. Don’t let this give you hope. If you’re old, chances are I won’t fuck you. Look, I know I’m fucking old. That’s the thing… we’re both old. But I’d much rather fuck down than fuck up. Since this is a top world, I get to pick where I plant my seed and it’s still in a tight young ass. Speaking of which, I’ve got some advice for you old farts.
  4. Gravity is not your friend. Look sweetie, if you’re going to take a picture of your saggy ass, I appreciate the honesty in advertising that you shoot that shot with you standing up. But when those ass cheeks look like they’re swinging at the back of your knees, we’ve got a problem Houston. Lie down and hire a professional photographer to re-position those cheeks into place.
  5. HemorroidsHemorrhoids do not build character. Maybe you do want to show off that cumload spilling out your ass, but three loads spilling out do not make up for the bulges around your pucker that look like you’ve had out-of-control Botox injections. Tuck that shit inside or simply don’t send me those photos.
  6. Grooming costs money, but it’s worth it. Look, at 46, I can tell you I’ve got hair growing out of places I never thought I’d have hair. I fucking hate that my stylist doubles as the waxer for my earlobes. But my cute, young thing earns an extra twenty for ripping that shit out. And that strange pubic puff at the small of my back? Well, let’s just say, no one has to see that, even though the only people seeing my back are massage therapists.

All that said, stop the madness. You want fucked by me, be honest, upfront and nearby.

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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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Orgy Etiquette

Orgy Etiquette Content

gay bareback orgy etiquetteIntroduction
Prior to Arriving
You Won’t Like Everyone in Attendance
Everyone Gets to Touch You
The Good Touch and The Bad Touch
Showing You’re Interested
Perfection Is Never Around the Corner
Do You Have a Right to Reject Advances?
Politely Rejecting Advances
When Rejected, Stepping Away
Being a Respectable Voyeur
Buck-Up: It Was a Bad Night
Providing Candid Feedback to the Host

return Return to How to Host an Orgy

 

Introduction

Every orgy brings with it some universal guidelines to ways one must conduct oneself. Keep these in mind as you enter into these hallowed halls of sexual decadence.

You will find yourself enjoying yourself much more if you give yourself over to these basic guidelines since it’s what will be happening to everyone there. More fun shall be had by all.

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Prior to Attending

Bathe well, trim, shave, douche and everything.

Even though I never plan to get fucked at an orgy, I always douche because, as much as I don’t want it to happen, someone will attempt to slip a finger inside my ass. The last thing they need to pull that finger out and find it is an opportunity to create a Dirty Sanchez Open-New-Window-External.

If I do happen to find myself in the mood for assplay, my crack is absolutely clean and available for a little probing.

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You Won’t Like Everyone in Attendance

Among the most challenging things for a lot of people to keep in mind is that when there are five or more men gathered in one place, you will be comparing these men and of the four, you’d prefer at least one keep his hands off of you.

It’s just naturally how it will go.

He may be a different race. He might be hairy or smooth. He might be young or old. Whatever it is that just doesn’t turn your crank, you’ve got to swallow the bile that you think is coming up and stomach the moment when his hand brushes against your body.

Here’s why.

You see that hot, hot fucker across the room. The muscle man with the incredible pecs and pepperoni nipples you want to suckle on for days?

I’m reading his mind right now and he thinks you’re Fugly (yes, with a capital “F”).

However, the bile buddy next to you prompting nausea is dazzlingly beautiful to him.

Bile buddy is all about you but could care less about sliced salami nips.

By each of you tolerating the other, you each will “get” what you really want. It’s a triad of desire, only it’s all misdirected. If each of you will just swallow your pride, you will get what you want, though.

An orgy is not a place where people are meant to pair up and wander off. An orgy isn’t an a la carte menu. It’s a potluck dinner. One should expect to sample a bit from almost everyone in the room and, based on what’s there, indulge just a bit more from the more delicacies that seem a bit more appetizing to your palate.

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Everyone Gets to Touch You

For this reason, everyone in attendance gets to touch you. Your body is not off limits.

Unlike sex clubs Opens new window of a page on this blog or adult bookstores Opens new window of a page on this blog, you do not push away participants or close yourself off in a corner during an orgy (unless it’s just massive with hundreds of participants).

Whenever I host less than 10 participants, my goal is to get everyone together in one general space and everyone touching one another in one way.

The most ideal experiences I’ve had is when I’m not sure exactly who’s sucking my cock or sitting on my cock. I can generally see who I am kissing or who’s cock I am sucking. And if I am lucky, some tongue is on my balls or across my ass.

I have yet to have a cock in my ass while I am fucking someone. That fete will be one I will so enjoy when it occurs.

With good orgies, people stop worrying whether the least good looking is touching them and allow themselves to be swallowed by the pleasure of it. It’s a mob mentality. But instead of rioting, sexual energy takes over. Cock, cum, kissing, sucking, spit, sweat, lips, balls… it’s all just men.

TOP  Return to Top

The Good Touch and The Bad Touch

If you are strictly a top or a bottom, or if you are somehow sensitive in some other ways, you may have created areas of your body that you consider “off limits.” This variety creates places that more commonly known as “bad touch” areas.

For me, almost anyone can touch my nipples. They provide almost little pleasure for me. They’re very neutral territory.

Should an African American with a thick 12-inch cock decide that a little spit would be enough to invade my ass, well, that would be a bad touch as a top.

And, since licking my balls lightly causes more juice to be produced for when I finally shoot my load (and with the right technique, can even cause me to loose control and paralyze my body for moments at a time), that’s a good touch.

You, as the participant in an orgy have an obligation to provide feedback — visual and verbal — to the men working on you. It’s very simple.

“Stop, don’t do that,” with a gentle pushing away of the offending appendage means bad touch.

“Yes, please do that more,” while leaning into the action means good touch.

And no movement means everything is a okay, just keep exploring.

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Showing You’re Interested

Unlike a bar, you don’t need to be quite as shy at an orgy. Sometimes you’re even naked. Walk up to someone and start feeling them up. If they move away, head to the next guy. Or lean back, take your cock in hand and motion someone over and start sucking. I mean, make your intentions clean by getting on your knees. Someone will eventually stuff something in your mouth.

Hell, put your ass in the air.

Orgies are about sex and making your intentions clear should be just fine.

Moments of awkward pause do occur. Every party needs an icebreaker. It’s just something to get the “conversation” rolling. But the conversation at an orgy is sex, so people will appreciate it if you’re the one who starts creating the sexual tension in the room.

Gay Bareback Orgy Etiquette GuideNot sure how?

I’ll give you the easiest trick in the book.

Walk up to a guy or a few guys.

If you’re a bottom, ask, “Are you a top?” or “Are you guys tops?”

If anyone answers “yes,” or “versatile,” then, “Feel like a blowjob?”

And don’t wait for an answer. Go for it.

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Perfection Is Never Around the Corner

There inevitably will be this idea to wait for the perfect man with whom to shoot your load or to generally wait to get wild. It’s something all noobs Open-New-Window-External that the proverbial greener grass on the other side never quite appears. When I know there’s an orgy coming up, I save up a nice batch of cum with the knowledge that I hope to deposit a couple of loads.

Bottoms (I hope) go with the intention of getting as many loads as possible. However, it isn’t a competition.

I’ll fuck multiple holes. My first load is the easiest to crank out, of course. But it’s the second or, even more rare, the third. You earn that, you’ve got a blessed ass.

I never wait to see if I find a better ass. If I feel like cumming, I cum.

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Do You Have a Right to Reject Advances?

Some people do and some people do not have the right to reject advances at an orgy.

If you are the sole bottom at a “breed the bottom” party, guess what: You’re it.

No, you don’t get to say, “That’s too big” or “That’s too small” or “I don’t like Asians” or “You’re too old.”

The solitary bottom at such a party is the one who has the literally take it in the ass. You cannot reject someone lining up to take it in the ass. The only exception is if something terribly wrong has happened, meaning you’ve got a physical or medical issue that needs attention.

A good bottom should know how to pace his meals and clean himself for an evening without a shit dick Open-New-Window-External event.

Now, if it’s not a “breed the bottom” party, I like to designate a slut bottom for every party who will take all cummers — literally. That way, no one is left leaving with blue balls. Usually, you’ll have one or two volunteers. And since I am a top, when I host, I usually agree to be the fucker for all bottoms, so each one ends up with a nice hard cock in their ass at some point.

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Politely Rejecting Advances

I do have my dislikes Opens new window of a page on this blog. It’s just one thing I can’t overcome. And when I am a guest at an orgy, I cannot control the guest list and therefore cannot assure that the man touching me is going to be matching my desires.

While there’s some types of guys who just don’t turn my crank, some men will cause me to lose a hardon as fast as a knife popping a balloon. When that happens, one must politely decline the advance. This can occur with several people or just a few in a group. I focus on minimizing the opportunity for the incompatible person.

For example, some smokers just seem to carry a huge cloud of ash around with them — a smell, not just on their breath, but emanating from every pore of their body. These people will prompt me to “take a break” where I can return later or, if I’m fucking someone I like, make a small hint that they might like to follow me to another area.

If you have someone obsessed with you who keeps following you around after the breaks, just pull them aside and say the following:

[alert style=”green”] Thanks so much for your interest in me but I’d like to spend some time with the other men here right now. Maybe I’ll get back around to you a little later. Or maybe we can meet up another day. Okay? I’d really appreciate it. [/alert]

If that doesn’t work, let the host know and perhaps the guest will be invited to leave.

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When Rejected, Stepping Away

I’ve been rejected. Plenty of times, most especially at the gloryholes Opens new window of a page on this blog at an Atlanta adult bookstore Opens new window of a page on this blog.

Number One When I arrive at the gloryhole and unzip my jeans, my cock isn’t instantly hard. One must play a little mouth music on it to bring it up. Some men expect instant hardon. Whatever happened to enjoying the feel of a cock inflating in your mouth?

Number 2 With the work from lips and tongue and even some hand, I get to my normal 7 inches and, with a little more work — especially around the balls — you’ll see it reach a respectable 7½ inches. But for the size queens who think 8 inches in minimum, it’s not enough.

I’ve had my cock pushed away and men simply stepped away or leave the other side of the booth. If I took this personally, I’d be crying still now, if not dead from committing suicide from the immense depression caused by such rejection.

My talented cock is rock hard and it can fuck. Too many tops just do not get that hard and, well, getting inside a tight bottom is a challenge.

Not me.

One had to learn not to take the rejection personally.

We all know how men are built Opens new window of a page on this blog. We separate sex from the emotional ties. This is NSA or “no strings attached” sex. So if it has nothing to do with the emotions and someone rejects us, why would we let ourselves get all carried away with emotions when we’re rejected?

Don’t let it happen to you.

Sex is like a business transaction and you’re just not compatible. It’s as if he’s wanting to use AMEX and you only accept Visa.

Walk away and move on to someone who is compatible.

Believe me, I’m too old, too fat, too small, too hairy, too dorky or too something for someone. But I’m also just right for someone else. If you don’t move on, you might miss out on a really good time. Do not let yourself get obsessed with some idiot who won’t (or can’t) let themselves broaden their horizons to let you in to fuck around.

TOP  Return to Top

Being a Respectable Voyeur

Barebacking breedingOrgies are such that you get a great opportunity to watch some great sex, even if you don’t always get to participate in it. There’s nothing hotter than a group of men jacking their cocks around one incredible fuck scene in the center. I’ve been both places.

When fucking a bottom, I generally like to get the sense whether he’s up for a tag teaming from anyone else there. And I’ll share. But sometimes it’s meant to really be just the two of you until you blow that load.

For me, I personally enjoy if the voyeurs touch me. I especially like the other tops to come up behind me, play with my ass and up along the crack to my taint and balls. This really gets me going. Other men do not like this. A gentle push of the hand away or asking not to touch is just fine. Then step back and let the professional do as he wishes.

I know a lot of bottoms who love to be looking into the eyes of the top as he blows his load into the bottom. I suggest staying away from blocking that line of view. Otherwise, if the bottom invites you to stuff his mouth full, go ahead.

Keep in mind the others around you and let them see the fun as well.

But get involved. Cheer the action on at least. And touch unless told not to touch.

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Buck-Up: It Was a Bad Night

With every orgy, there’s a chance it can go bad. Very bad. You don’t get off. The two hot guys there go off in a corner and ignore everyone else. You get stalked by the troll who happens to be the host’s best friend from out of town. It’s bound to happen.

Buck up. Bad nights happen.

What I’ve done to try and rescue a night: Wait around to the end and as people leave, walk out with your last-chance choices. Make small talk, inviting them to coffee or getting their numbers to text them later. Once, I even fucked one by a neighborhood dumpster (talk about a quick dump and go). He turned into a regular fuck.

By waiting until the end of the night, even if you’re satisfied, you’ll see who the real sluts of the group are and you might start making friends.

I earned regular suck and fuck buds by waiting to see who waits until the end of decent orgies.

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Providing Candid Feedback to the Host

Whenever I’ve hosted a get together, I always ask for candid feedback after the get together to see if there’s ways to improve the next party. I do not take things personally unless someone tries to get personal about a get together.

I like to know the problem people, who just jerked off rather than actually barebacking (they don’t get invited back) and who seemed to be too picky (ditto). I prefer the feedback later, a day or two after the party and sent privately via e-mail or in a phone call.

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

This entry isn’t sexy at all. You might want to skip it entirely.

I scolded someone today about missing a post regarding the death of my Mother and, when I went back to find it, realized it wasn’t there myself. I apologize to that reader since several places throughout my blog, I do refer to my Mother’s death but the recount of it seems to be missing.

I had debated writing about it when it happened in January of 2010. In fact, the gap of my posts seem almost invisible now looking back, covered up by Q&A posts that seemed popular at the time. Truth is, I probably did post something but along the way to this platform or in some cleaning frenzy, I deleted it as too overly sentimental or not sexy enough.

Yet that incident has significant bearing on two things in my reportour of posts these days: My extraordinary dislike of smoking Opens new window of a page on this blog and my intense disdain of catfish Open-New-Window-External.

By the way, the photo included here is actually a real photo I told of me holding my Mother’s hand one long and painful night and texted it to the catfish.

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A Second Hospital Visit

My job at the time had me travel throughout December through March. I’d returned home in January after another string of visits and my uncle, who’d just left, suggested I go immediately to see my Mother, as she wasn’t feeling well.

About six years earlier, I’d moved back to Georgia from Washington, D.C., to help care for my elderly parents. My father had passed in 2005, all of us by his side. But he was at home in hospice care. I’d been his primary caretaker during his final two weeks, administering the painkilling medicine that eased his discomfort and helped him ultimately make the transition as easily as possible.

To be honest, his passing was almost one of a miracle, as we’d talked about a month before about his wishes at his funeral. As he breathed his last breath, all of the family around him, hugging him, crying and saying good-bye, the television began playing the one song he’d asked to be played at his funeral.

Compared the the gentle but stoic nature of my Father was the truly steel magnolia Machiavellian matriarch that was my Mother. I loved her dearly. But at 78 years old, she would ignore every doctor’s advice (and my orders) and do as she wished.

From almost 42 years of smoking, her chronic obstructed pulmonary disorder made the most simple tasks brutal. Yet she would insist on housework, fixing dinner, driving herself places, and more, her little portable oxygen tank in tow. And I’d drive her all over the family gatherings, with her often upset when I deviated from the old routes to take quicker, new highways.

I’d been travelling all over the country — three cities this last nine-day tour — and I wanted to sleep and rest because the next week I would be off for two more cities. But instead, I dragged my fat ass over to see Mom.

She’d been sleeping on the sofa across from the hospital bed I’d had in her home for the last six months but she refused to use because there wasn’t a lamp close enough to it.

More petite and frail, her hands and arms dotted with bruising from whenever she’d bump up against anything, she insisted “something was wrong.”

I struck a bargain with her: We’d go to the hospital but when she came home, she’d have to learn to do what I said. After all, I reminded her how she bossed around her Mother (my Grandmother) for 10 years before her passing. I told her she needed me let me get a little bossing in.

Now that I look back, she agreed too quickly.

It was the second time I took her to the hospital but the first time she would be admitted.

Nothing Out of the Ordinary

Mother had bronchitis. When I moved home, I went to the doctors with both of my parents and spent time with their primary care and any specialist, learning as much as I could about their chronic conditions. I also learned what to expect when the time would come.

For Mother, it would be a series of lung infections that would get steadily worse over time until essentially, she could not get enough oxygen and would suffocate.

“The process is beginning,” I told myself.

When I moved home, Mother’s lung capacity was at 23 percent of normal. Even though she’d quit smoking about five years before I came back to Georgia, her lungs would never heal. That’s one of the myths about smokers. If you quit, your lungs don’t get better. Actually, they continue to deteriorate — just at a much slower pace.

Each year, Mother would lose between 1 and 2 percent of capacity. She currently hovered around 17 percent.

She began making a rebound quickly with the antibiotics and everything seemed fine. But one afternoon, she told me something was wrong.

“What is it, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

My Mother’s eyes contained sheer terror in them. I noticed the her oxygen saturation in her blood on the monitor suddenly dropping. I hit the nurse call button.

In the next 30 minutes, we were in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctors wanted to intubate my Mother — that is, put a tube into her lungs to breathe for her. And in her fear, my Mother consented. But I overruled her, pulling out my power of attorney. One of the healthcare directives she’s insisted upon in it was to never be intubated and the doctors agreed, saying if we did, she’d likely never be able to be taken off since her lungs would never be strong enough.

She was put onto a machine that strapped an oxygen mask onto her face so tight, it made bruises all over her face. It would force her to breath.

She cried through the night, hating that machine. I was there the whole time, holding her hand. She asked constantly for it to be taken off. But I asked her to bear with me just a little longer to see if it would help.

But in 24 hours, her condition didn’t improve.

My only companion other than some family and friends who would stop by was a words at the other end of texting. The person was comforting in so many ways. And I was at my most vulnerable, here, next to my dying Mother, feeling the most alone in the world.

The reassurance of his care and love for me seemingly helped. But later, I would discover it was all a lie. He didn’t exist. And I’ll be honest — what that person did, the betrayal just reaches so deep into places where I’m still scarred and hurting that I can’t even begin to explain or even discuss it. It’s actually easier to talk about my Mother.

Relief at Last

With no improvement and really no hope, I spoke to all the doctors the next day to assure that switching to palliative care would be the right choice. I wasn’t prepared for this decision so early. I’d expected to take Mother home and have a few more hospital visits before this event. But that wasn’t to be.

I then spoke to my sister and my aunt to make sure they agreed. Turns out I was the late one to the decision, but I had to be there. It was time for me to talk to Mother.

We turned that horrible machine off and took it away. My Mother was so relieved it wasn’t working on her now and she could breathe at whatever pace she wanted. I went and sat down, alone, next to her, put my hand in hers, feeling the warmth and the knotted knuckles from the arthritis. Her poor body was just so battered and bruised, but through it all I could see that beautiful woman who cared for me through all my years, kissed my boo-boos. She guided me kindly and occasionally spanked me. I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it, feeling that rough skin that still contained a softness. I brushed back her gray hair from her bruised forehead and looked into the dimming brown eyes.

“Mother,” I said in a quiet tone, managing to keep it together.

“Yes,” she said.

“We had a choice and I want to know what you think,” I said. “I know you hate that machine but it’s your only hope of getting any better.”

I paused, as I could see the recognition come across her face.

“We can put you back on it and try to make you ask comfortable as possible,” I continued. “Or we can leave you off of it and you can go see Daddy.”

A single tear streamed down my left cheek.

She didn’t answer immediately. But she did finally speak.

“I think I’d rather go see Daddy. I really miss him.”

My Mother and Father were married 53 years before he passed away. Of course she missed him.

I hugged her.

The Rebound

Over the next few hours, Mom seemed to feel better than ever, visited with so many people. It’s one of those miraculous gifts we get before we die and we get to say goodbye. I have a precious video of her time with my nephew that just would tear anyone apart to watch.

She laughed so much. I was so glad to see that. I hadn’t seen her with that much joy in so long.

It was then I began to realize just how sick she’d been.

And if on schedule, as the final people left and the last prayers were uttered, she slipped into a silent, fitful sleep. With all the paperwork signed, I had the nurses begin to add morphine and other calming drugs to make her sleep more restful.

Just after midnight, she stopped breathing in this world. But she got a lung-full of air somewhere else.

I screamed, not in pain, but at the top of my lungs, “She can finally breathe!”

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