Tag Archives: text messages

What Is Rape?

What Is Rape?

I get a fucking lot of accusations in my inbox. Often. Here’s one of the more interesting:

When I was 18, a top I met off phone chat had me come to his place. When I arrived, he was much older than described…

I get inside he immediately grabs my head and slams it against door then rapes me raw. He degraded me racially, calling me nasty Asian slurs.

After he was done, he hid my cell phone and keys and kept me for 15 days.

I was used as sex slave to pay for his meth addiction and infected. A black man felt bad and freed me — the only one out of 65 RAPISTS.

I went to police and he was arrested. But [during my captivity], he sent texts to his cell from mine saying everything was consensual AND IT WASN’T.

He now walks free and I hate him and, because of [the AIDS] virus, I no longer date.

I hate you, Mark, and all other violent predators.

For some of you perverts out there (and you know I love you all), you’re jerking off just thinking about this scenario. But let’s get to this Asian gentleman’s message to me and splice it apart, step by step.

Rape Is Bad

I do not believe this story. Here’s why I don’t:

If this 18-year-old gentleman disappeared for 15 days, his family, friends or others would have noticed. Sure, this violent man might have created some text messages back and forth, but those messages would have occurred after the disappearance. Any cell phone records could show that.

Further, in many states, to knowingly pass along HIV is criminal. HIV maintains a portion of the DNA from the source. A test could determine whether the victim was indeed infected by the older man.

I believe the consent likely came from this young man before the disappearance. He told some friends and family he would be gone a while — probably not 15 days — and after a while, came not to like the scene he’d fantasized about because the reality wasn’t quite and fun as the jerk off images.

I’ve seen that often and any of you with any level of kinks would agree.

Nonetheless, if I suspend my disbelief, let me just say if this is true, this is bad.

Let me also suggest to the writer that — unlike my website, which is about sex — that the guy who kidnapped you and held you captive, did that violent act to you. It wasn’t the sex, but the power play that you didn’t like (and the fact he was older than he initially said).

Safety in Hook-Ups

The dear letter writer made a gigantic boo-boo, for which he fails to take accountability. And I get so fucking tired of hearing this shit from people who read some of my posts.

Every time someone goes to a stranger’s home or hotel room or wherever to fuck, you’re taking a risk. Didn’t mamma teach you not to talk to strangers, much less fuck them (or let them fuck you)?

Gay men … damn, all men … love casual sex. We let our cocks put us into places we shouldn’t be. I’ve been there. And this guy ended up some place he shouldn’t have been.

Do not blame anyone else for that.

I’m not saying he dressed slutty so he should have been raped or anything like that. He didn’t deserve to be held hostage for 15 days — if indeed, that’s what happened.

But he’s not innocent.

He want to blame the car for hitting him head on when he was already driving on the wrong side of the road. He did something dangerous.

Fucker beware

I No Longer Date

Oh. My. God. Being Poz prevents this little fucker from dating.

All of you Poz guys out there need to stop dating, stop fucking and curl up into a ball and just shit yourselves.

Another reason not to believe this story: The idea that life ends with seroconversion. Hell, for some, becoming Poz means life begins. No longer worried about when HIV might arrive, but knowing that it’s now there with you.

(As an aside, I’m impressed the dude also counted all 65 guys who fucked him.)

If indeed this is true, let me speak to you, my Asian letter writer:

You need to speak with a professional and go into counseling for this trauma.

You need to find a way to move on, date and find a way to heal. The amount of pent up hate you’ve gathered up into yourself is preventing you from seeing that life continues. You survived something terrible but not everyone is out to hurt you.

Jumping Off the Hate Cliff

Now he says I am out to hurt him. I’m some sort of predator.

I’m not. Never have been.

If you’re upset about the stealthing thing, I’ve explained it time and time again and don’t really need to do it again.

If you’re upset that I use bottoms, all tops do whether they admit it or not.

I just think you’re upset. And once the proper counseling is in place, you’ll be better off.

I didn’t fuck you. I didn’t abduct you. I didn’t hold you hostage. Don’t hate me.

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The Catfish Phenomenon

The Catfish Phenomenon

Manti Te'o ShirtlessPoor football player. A big athlete falls in love with a “girl” and gets fooled into a three-year “relationship” over the internet and phone, then we all discover it’s fake. The humiliation of this isn’t enough, but to find out later the jock’s been fooled by a male “Christian singer who tried out for ‘The Voice.'”

Shocking?

Fuck no.

It just finally happened prominently, in the public eye. And Manti Te’o, the Notre Dame football player eventually to turn pro and hoping to save his career, got forced to admit his ignorance publicly.

He’s just a dumb jock.

I’ve had catfish galore. You would think I have a catfish farm and raise them.

Here’s a pic of the most recent attempt to dupe me. When I told the little fucker that no, his picture was all over the Internet and that it first appeared on a particular website, this was the porn name it appeared under, etc., the guy admitted the truth.

That’s not always the case.

My Most Recent Catfish Attempt

Catfish are, for the most part, dedicated to their craft. The most recent one that really caught my attention supposedly lived in Washington, D.C., with a Pennsylvania phone number. He served as a hooker, allowing older men to pound his ass mercilessly or some would pay simply to beat the shit out of him — according to the stories he would tell.

He was introduced to the world of escorting by, none other than his father, who taught him to take cock around 9 years old. Now at 19, he was a cumslut. Men would come over and pay upward of $200 each to dump a load in his smooth ass.

Problem is, three years ago, according to his Twitter account, he was 19 then also. Of course, his explanation to me was at that time he was lying. Now he was telling me the truth.

I’d figured out early on he lied a lot, but I carried on the “relationship” much longer than I wanted or even could tolerate simply to see how dedicated he would be to his character. He was unrelenting. Excuses for every inconsistency of his story and, when I asked for explanation, he would turn around to attack me for not trusting him.

So very clever.

I successfully got three photos out of him over about a month, but I could never get him to produce a candid photo in a pose I requested. That, to me, is the tell-tell sign of someone almost real. Of course, one of the original catfish I dealt with was a female Wal-Mart manager who had a minor male employee pose for her photos. She would have him call to leave voice mails as well. But I never spoke to him live.

How do you determine a catfish?

  1. Surprise phone calls. Calls should be answered at all times. If you’re in a “relationship” then a 3 a.m. emergency call shouldn’t be a big deal once in a while. If your calls seem to go to voice mails whenever you call, then you’ve got an issue.
  2. Special requests. Send them a t-shirt or red shorts or something like that in the mail. The day they get it, ask them to wear it, take a photo of themselves doing some sort of pose. Expect the photo within 5 minutes. Excuses like, “I’m at work right now,” or, “I work for the government, they don’t allow me to do that,” or, “I’m on my work phone, I can’t do that,” or, “My cell phone camera is broken, I need to do it at home,” is a sure sign that something is wrong! (Think about it, you sent the gift to their home; they received it at home; why are they suddenly at work?)
  3. Google. Google names, numbers, address and photos. Keep in mind you do need to pay for anything (there will be offers that pop up). Generally, you can glean enough information to find out whether a phone number is a cellular provider or whether it’s a virtual number that’s forwarding to a cell (using Skype or Google Voice). Be smart about phone numbers and locations. Talk about the weather. My guy in D.C. did keep up with the weather in Washington, even though his number was in Pennsylvania. If there’s a delay about what the weather happens to be, you know it’s the case. When searching the name, which many are common, check to determine whether someone has all the common accounts, not just the ones with whom you connect. Sure, creating a fake Facebook is one thing. Is he on LinkedIn? Unless he’s a hooker, you should find a LinkedIn account. And had Manti Te’o searched his “girlfriend’s” photo, he would have found she wasn’t real.
  4. Use logic and track the stories. On detective shows, you’ll often see the big bulletin boards with people’s photos and strings. You must create a virtual one of your own. Who’s his father and mother? What’s their names? Where do they live? Google. Brothers and sisters? Names? Google. College? Google. Old friends. Nowadays, we all leave a trace. For my D.C. catfish, he’d not been out at local bars for about a year. He made the mistake of being friends with a bouncer at a local gay bar — one that had closed recently. When I asked about the crowd, the bouncer, with whom I was supposedly texting while the hooker got fucked in another room, answered like he’d been working. Told me about his bosses. Stupid stuff. Yet I knew the club was closed and had been. Of course, the catfish denied the whole thing and said I was speaking with someone else who lied to me. Both entities just had a tendency to misspell the same words.
  5. Surprise visits. Nothing else shocks the shit out of a catfish like a live visit Opens a new window from this blog. Just telling one you’re coming to visit and that you’ve booked a trip will get the response you need to know. If the suspected catfish is prepared to meet, then maybe it’s for real. But likely, they’re “not ready” for that face-to-face encounter, even just for lunch. Hang the fuck up and move on.

Catfish are people too

Manti Te'o Hoaxer Ronaiah Tuiasosopo ShirtlessI get dozens of e-mails and IMs and text messages from people who want to meet me. I am so very flattered. But far too many never truly want to meet. We call them flakes, of course. We all know them for how they really treat us because, legitimately, they’re not willing to meet.

I cannot begin to shrink them. Too many people have tried to shrink me, to diagnose my own dysfunctions. However, within this world, something is missing that current relationships just cannot seem to meet so they need to create a persona to find a way to fulfill that need.

With Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, the catfish for Manti Te’o, he’s attempting a career in the Christian singing world and he’s a former football player. My guess — and I am speaking with no special knowledge — is he can’t find a way to reconcile his homosexuality with his Christianity yet. By creating a female, it worked. As angry as people are at Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, I hope he figures out he’s gay and finds a big, butch man to fuck him the way he needs it.

Catfish will thrive

[alert style=”white”] They used to tank cod from Alaska all the way to China. They’d keep them in vats in the ship. By the time the codfish reached China, the flesh was mush and tasteless. So this guy came up with the idea that if you put these cods in these big vats, put some catfish in with them and the catfish will keep the cod agile. And there are those people who are catfish in life. And they keep you on your toes. They keep you guessing, they keep you thinking, they keep you fresh. And I thank god for the catfish because we would be droll, boring and dull if we didn’t have somebody nipping at our fin.
—”Catfish,” 2010[/alert]

Catfish are here to keep us on our toes, or that’s what the documentary that originated the pop culture term suggests. I’m not so convinced. But in today’s impersonal, digital world, it seems to me we all need those connections that cannot be achieved in person for fear of reprisals.

How do you deal with catfish when you discover one? A true catfish can never be trusted. Never. You can’t. And generally, I’ve found the catfish never breaks character. They’re bound to their character. When I discovered one catfish and their real life, I contacted many people from real life including significant other, friends, relatives and more. A catfish is convincing in their real life too and stays dedicated to that character. Each did not believe the strange story I told.

But eventually, they would see it was true. I hope that catfish found a way to get some help and to stop living in fantasy land.

Like everyone else, I crave realness. I think if you bareback, that may be another reason why we do so. We don’t want to keep the distance between two human beings, even if it’s two-millimeters thick in plastic. We want that connection. For barebackers, we put it all out there, exposed. For catfish, they don’t. It’s all murky.

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My Name Isn’t Hansel and I Don’t Follow Breadcrumbs

My Name Isn’t Hansel and I Don’t Follow Breadcrumbs

I don’t know what the fucking deal is lately with bottoms. You want fucked? Then give me your address. I’m not on a scavenger hunt for ass.

A bottom I’ve been texting with for about a week finally had his home to himself yesterday and invited me to swing by after work. I let him know I was available. He then began to dole out a little piece of information to tell me where to go then, once there, I was to text him for the next destination. It was like I was going to some sort of money drop for a ransom demand.

Told him to forget it.

Another bottom of late offered to be ass-up and naked at his apartment. One would drive there then text from the front gate and, then and only then, would the dumb bottom release the code to get in. Following that, you’d get the apartment building and number.

Told him to forget it.

Yet another local has been trying to convince me he will “meet” at the front of his community rather than at his apartment. He’ll guide me to his apartment.

Told him to forget it.

I don’t mind men who have the balls to tell me they’re not into me. I mean, we’re not all into each other. But I’m not on some cruel wild good chase, following text messages all over the planet. Believe me, if you want to see someone who will get spiteful, just do that to me.

Where’s the balls?

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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Shaggy Lad Shag

Shaggy Lad Shag

Craigslist can be real hit or miss here lately, especially with some assholes flagging any hint of barebacking. But I posted anyway, half bored on a Thursday afternoon and somehow got my cell number through the filters.

The usual collection of e-mails arrived, including a 325-pound, 52-year-old man who claimed he could give me a blowjob like I’d never had before. Now look, I don’t want to deny anyone a chance for my cock and I’ve fucked my fair share of chubs but, baby, you gotta produce a pic or two before you’ve even got a chance at getting my cock.

Then the usual “would you settle for a blowjob” e-mails and “please, could you use a condom” messages from the same tired people who always reply to my ads. They recognize me, I recognize them. I don’t know why they bother. Some of the messages are filtered and bypass my inbox.

But then the ones who bother with text messages.

A new number showed up though. It was a usual, “How’s it going? Still looking?”

I responded.

“It needs to be a one-time only thing,” was his message back.

Thing is, I have a good sixth sense about these kind of things, “Sure.”

He then announced he was 18 and it would be his first time.

Now I could have doubted it, but I didn’t. I just knew this guy wasn’t bullshitting me. I invited him over with my address.

The phone rang a couple of moments later. I answered.

“I just wanted to call to make sure you were for real,” he said, his voice deep but definitely inexperienced.

“No problem,” I said. “You want to head over?”

“Yea.”

He hung up.

A little more than 20 minutes later, a gigantic truck with wheels too big for the frame pulled down the drive and parked. Out hopped a six-foot frame. He was barely 18 or maybe 19. His shaggy, dirty blond hair obscured his eyes and a pugish nose protruded out. His pouty lips thin lips curled a bit into a smirk as he entered.

I shook his hand. Rough. Very. This boy had done hard physical labor and his body showed some of the muscles, but the beauty and softness denied the need. His voice too masculine.

He didn’t seem nervous and eagerly followed to the bedroom, stripping off his clothes. Hardly any body hair except for his legs, he’d shaved his balls and pubes. His cock hung limp but unusually thick as we crawled onto the bed. His nipples were large and beautiful, his body smooth. Part of me felt a little guilty, as if I were attempting to suck the youth from this boy… pardon me… man.

He bent over and began sucking me, not that it proved difficult to get hard. He’d obviously done it some before. I moved my hands into his thick mane and found it both soft and unusual… like a stuffed animal or a wig. His rough hands worked my cock while his mouth tried to please, not quite sure how to make it down.

The blowjob ended quickly and I went to return the favor, finding his cock now fully hard. His cock stood out no less than 8 inches and approached 9 easily. Rigid like you wouldn’t believe with one thick vein wrapping its way around shaft. Shaped like an oval, it tapered toward the head. As I sucked him, I also nibbled at his balls and moved my fingertips toward his asshole.

Largely silent, I moved up to caress him a bit when he said, “I don’t kiss or nothing.”

“No worries,” I said.

And with that he lifted his legs.

I grabbed the lube, taking the hint. I worked a little onto my fingers and found his lightly hairy asshole, moving one fingertip inside him.

Despite having the cock of a top, the action of his ass was immediate. He was a natural bottom. I wondered if, in fact, it was his first time as he reached down to pull my cock toward his hole.

“It might be easier if you sit on it, then you can control how fast it enters,” I said.

I know. The sex seemed almost clinical. But sometimes with first-timers — or with practically straight guys — it seems that way. We moved into position and he lubed my cock. He reached past a couple of condoms for the lube bottle, by the way.

He sat on it completely, without hesitation.

My cock — all seven inches — buried inside him and he didn’t flinch. For the next 10 minutes, I fucked him there as he sat on me. I fucked him on his stomach. I fucked him on his back. I pounded him. I entered him softly. I slowly withdrew and entered. His ass accepted me every way. Not a moment of problems. Not a complaint. His only words.

“Do whatever you need to do to cum.”

I slicked my hand with lube and jerked him about 20 times while I pounded his hole.

“I’m going to cum.”

When he shot, the cum shot in copious amounts at great velocity, shooting at least five feet up and 15 feet over his head, across the bed and onto the wall. The subsequent splatters continued in diminishing amounts. His asshole constricted around my cock pulling my own cum from me into his hole, but at the same moments, beginning to reject me.

His only other sounds were breathing.

Two minutes later, he was gone.

I lay on the bed, partially falling into some of his cum and wondered still if this shaggy lad was a bit of a mirage. Something inside me knew the silence I should allow him, so I did, leaving him to his own silence, guilt and denial.

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