Tag Archives: transportation

#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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The Not-So-Sleazy Information on Atlanta

I’m often asked where to stay or information on what else there is to do in Atlanta. Well, folks, God made Google for a reason. I’m not your concierge.

That said, I don’t want to leave you completely in the dark when it comes to visiting Atlanta. I know how much it sucks to try and figure out what the hell is going on, where in Waldo am I and how can I get people to fuck me or get me some people to fuck.

Allow me to help you out a little.

An Overall View of Atlanta

Atlanta-Overall

Atlanta was burned during the Civil War. While that may have little to do with what’s going on with you coming to town, that actually means something. Unlike Boston, New York or other northeastern major cities, Atlanta’s rebuilding came at a time when streets were widened for carriages and, not too long after, cars. This is a city for cars and practically everyone has one.

Unlike Washington, D.C., San Francisco or other such major cities, Atlanta’s public transportation system (known as MARTA) has not adapted well to the sprawling metropolis. The working public may take it for their 9-to-5 jobs, but only if it’s convenient and — for much of Atlanta’s population — MARTA is not convenient.

Because practically nothing is within walking distance and because Atlanta is a city of cars, our areas are largely little islands that MARTA does not connect. Other than the Tourist Center area, the sidewalks will mostly fold up after 6 p.m. unless you happen to be lucky enough to be staying next to a chain restaurant.

Taxi cabs aren’t cheap because, more than likely, you’ll be traveling dozens of miles to your location. Keep in mind when you see someone on Grindr or Scruff, it’s plotting the location as the bird flies. If you actually get an address, you’ll route it to find it two to three times the distance in driving. Therefore, something that seems like 13 miles — infinitely not that far — turns into a 45-minute drive.

Above, I’ve highlighted a few locations the map missed.

OTP and ITP

In Atlanta, we call the interstate around the city, “The Perimeter.” It’s also known as I-285. For short, people live either OTP or ITP, which stands for “outside the Perimeter” or “inside the Perimeter.”

Just as in other cities, there’s a bias by those who live ITP to those who live OTP. I live OTP. ITP bottoms think I have to drag my cock to them all the time. Oh well, there’s plenty of ass OTP too.

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport and Fuck, I’m Lost, Which Way Is This Damn Subway Train Going?

They say when you die, whether you’re going to heaven, hell or purgatory, you’ll connect through the Atlanta airport.

I think Hartsfield-Jackson probably is purgatory.

I’ve traveled enough that maneuvering through ATL is easy for me and I don’t even pay attention much any more, but I know it’s confusing as hell. But I wanted you to see on the map just how fucking far the airport is from Downtown, Midtown, Buckhead or any place else you might be staying.

If you have any hint that you might take the MARTA train to some station then grab a bus or some such, don’t do it. Either rent a car (there’s a new fabulous rental terminal connected by above-ground train to the main domestic terminal near baggage claim) or get a car service. It’s worth the $20 to $30 you will pay because you will be traveling through some of the worse neighborhoods in Atlanta to get to your destination.

A Fuzzy Feeling About Peaches

Georgia is the Peach State and, even though South Carolina rivals in production of the fruit, Georgias take love the luscious flesh seriously. Don’t let some asshole tell you to go to “Peachtree” as if there’s only one such street. There’s more than 200 streets and roads with “peachtree” in the name in the Atlanta area. You’re seriously fucked.

Slut-Town

Let’s get it out of the way. Not everything slutty, sleazy and fun is located here but a fuck-ton is. You’re going to find Inserection Opens a new window from this blog, BJ Roosters Opens a new window from this blog, Bliss Opens a new window from this blog, Eros Opens a new window from this blog, Manifest Opens a new window from this blog, the Heretic Opens a new window from this blog and all the Hookup Hotels Opens a new window from this blog.

And these are the places I’ll go.

You will discover there’s other places you might like around there, although who knows. I’ve explored, but some parts of the underbelly I don’t have access to because (1) I don’t do drugs and (2) I’m not a minority.

Downtown

Atlanta-hotels-downtownIf you’re attending a conference, chances are you’ll end up in one of these four hotels. However, if you have a choice, do not stay in the Marriott Marquis, Hyatt Regency, Westin Peachtree Plaza or the W Hotel.

None of these have decent parking for your visiting fucks.

You’ll also pay a lot of cash per night for parking if you have a rental.

If you’re on the company expense account, I personally love the W. Well, any of the W Hotels are great. But unless it’s someone I really know already, I will not come down to meet someone because I generally believe there’s a 50-50 chance someone’s lying about who he is or where he’s located.

While there seems to be a lot to do around here and it thrives during the day, at night, it’s a ghost-town.

Just as a public service information, these hotels are the best in the city with the exception of the Four Seasons, Ritz-Carlton and Omni. This is also about the closest to the Flex Opens a new window from this blog bathhouse.

Tourist Center

Atlanta-hotels-tourist-centerThe only part of town that seems to come alive at night is around this section of Atlanta surrounding Centennial Olympic Park, the centerpiece of the 1996 Atlanta Olympics (what a clusterfuck). If you’re coming to town for a convention and you register early enough, you won’t be stuck in the Downtown hotels west of here and end up in the lovely Omni or perhaps the Embassy Suites.

Don’t miss the World of Coke and Georgia Aquarium (you can do them both in an afternoon) and the CNN Tour is great as well (CNN Center is adjacent to the Omni). The Falcons play at the Georgia Dome (although they just approved to build a new stadium). Americas Mart is nearby as well.

Buckhead

Buckhead has been trendy since I was a kid so, fuck, it really can’t be trendy. Yet it seems to always keep up. Likely you’ll be near Atlanta’s first mall, Lenox Square, which is catty-cornered across from the upscale Phipps Plaza.

Good news staying here: Lenox Road provides a straight shot to (and basically turns into) Cheshire Bridge Road, the main strip in Slut-Town. Therefore, if you want to stay Slut-Town adjacent, stay near Lenox Square in Buckhead.

Cumberland/Galleria

Reaching out into the suburbs but not quite getting there are another two malls, Cumberland and the Galleria, across the streets from each other and at the intersections of I-75 and I-285. At the border of Atlanta, Marietta and Smyrna, several businesses find this as a hub, so if you’re coming to town on a company, you might end up staying here.

There’s a Renaissance and a Marriott here at the top tier then a few others down to the Days Inn and a Red Roof. If there’s a fuck-and-go situation and someone isn’t staying on the east side of town, they’re likely over here, usually on Windy Hill Road. These are never as successful as the others in Slut-Town at the Hookup Hotels, but I find them more convenient.

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: The Beginning of Me

Ending the fucked up relationship with my molester caused me to develop an appetite for sex. After all, I was a 15-year-old boy. While my friendship with the straight classmate couldn’t endure school starting again, I had discovered the bathrooms at stores that would abate my sexual appetite.

Lucky for me, my parents went to “town” on a weekly basis — just like clockwork. Even better, the bathroom at the discount department store (a predecessor to modern-day Target) turned out to be frequented by cocksuckers.

So every week, we’d go and I’d wander through the store only to end up at the bathroom in the back. And usually every week, I’d get sucked off under the stall.

Weekly, this would happen. The quality of men turned out to be less than attractive. But even me — a thin, pimply faced, geeky kid — got sucked greedily by men. I’d come to recognize different shoes of the frequenters there (one old man I would never forget and always avoid) and quality of suck jobs (some better, some worse).

Rarely would I engage in a conversation and, since I relied heavily on my parents for transportation, my only choice in these circumstance turned out to be the blowjob. As I think back, I don’t recall having the desire to fuck ass or to suck cock in return. I used men, much the way I do now, but I didn’t recognize it as “using.”

I got off. Men wanted to suck me off. So I let them. In a way, I was a passive top. I got it hard and they could do what they liked. I still enjoy that scene on occasion — an aggressive bottom just using me as his play toy. My cock isn’t as big as all those dildos from porn stars, but it’s a helluva lot warmer and it spurts my own little joy juice.

And, in a way, I continued to be molested. I chose that path. I let it happen. Men continued it. Men wanted to. I wanted men to.

 

Dark-Passenger-First-EntryDark-Passenger-Previous-EntryDark-Passenger-Next-EntryDark-Passenger-Last-Entry
Lithe, Lycra and a Fantasy Fulfilled

Lithe, Lycra and a Fantasy Fulfilled

Youth. Ah, to have youth.

To have youth beneath me.

I’d been texting what was a youth. At 20, he seemed so very young. He still lived with his parents and had limited transportation. Yet he lived close by. As we chatted it up, I discovered the young man liked it raw. And I confirmed I wanted to breed his ass.

Finally one afternoon, I left work a little early and it seemed like I’d be able to meet him. Well, meet him was not quite right. I’d go to his house with his parents gone. That shit always frightened me a little. Parents gone? When would they be home? And what would they say to a 41-year-old fucking their 20-year-old son.

That is if he was 20 at all.

Okay, so it turned me on a little.

In the texting back and forth, we discuss what he’ll be wearing and he offered up a lycra singlet. Seemed interesting. I prefer my bottoms naked but he wouldn’t go for it.

I kept him abreast of my progress through the neighborhood and eventually made it to the house. He greeted me at the door.

Shorter than me, around five-foot-eight and very lithe and sexy in the tight-fitting lycra outfit, his nipples poked out, dark and hard, nickel-sized and firm. He was tan with a sharp angular face. His voice sounded almost like a radio broadcaster, a little more mature than I expected. Yet his tight and smooth body moved almost snake-like under the tight, red singlet.

He guided me to his bedroom. An upper-middle-class teenage boy’s room, blue and a single bed with storage underneath. He laid down and slipped off the lycra, revealing a tight body that proved to be just gorgeous. Practically perfect. Not tight but a nice layer of baby fat over all the muscles to make it nice.

His 7-inch cock already stuck out hard. I began to suck it since it seemed like the likely thing to do as I began undoing my work pants. I licked around the edge of his cock and down to his tight balls. And then, along the slight fuzz of his taint to his ass.

The boy jerked feverishly. My cock was out and hard. I wanted his ass wet. And his jerking seemed a little too feverish for my taste. The last thing I wanted was for him to cum.

Turned out I was very wrong.

As I tongued his hole and it opened up more and more, he moaned and breathed more heavily, he soon said with a gasp, “I’m about to cum.”

I came up for air, my cock at his wet hole.

“Don’t cum yet,” I said. “I haven’t fucked you yet.”

He sat up, still jerking his cock, breathing heavily. And he shot his heavy cum load on my cock. Every spurt, thick and white on my 7-inch cock.

As he recovered, he massaged the cum into my cock and lined it back up to his hole and pulled it toward him.

Using his cum as lube, I entered him.

I fucked him with his own cum.

Without hesitation, this 20-year-old kept taking my cock and seemed to love it. I fucked him and finished off, deep inside his ass. We didn’t talk. I just gave him my load. We stayed mostly quiet through the whole thing, his music playing in the background.

I zipped up and left, but I’ll admit, he fulfilled a fantasy I’d never asked. I’d always wanted to fuck a bottom with his own cum. He’d allowed me to do that.