Tag Archives: travel diary

GayEthicalSlut: Before and After

GayEthicalSlut: Before and After

As I was updating iBLASTinside’s Broken Virginity Seal of Approval page, I knew I needed to update an item. I thought I’d make note of it in an entry.

The original man who earned the first ever official endorsement happens to be GayEthicalSlut. His ass remains among the top five I’ve ever fucked (along with DeepHole4Loads).

But in the past two years, this Asian hottie has gone through a body transformation that deserves a big thumbs up.

Before (2012)

gayethicalslut2

 

After (2014)

GES-after

Now let me tell you, he was one hot fuck back when I got him in 2012. In 2014, I’m betting he’s off the charts!

He earned the status of having the Ultimate Asian Ass. He just might also now have the Ultimate Asian EVERYTHING!

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Travel Diary: Velvet Vice

Travel Diary: Velvet Vice

I lived in Washington, D.C., for more than a decade. Then again, it was a decade ago when I lived here and bred asses here.

When I return on my visits, it’s always nice to check out the new crop to breed. And there are. What I forget about the D.C. area is the attitude.

When I first moved here as a graduate student in my early twenties, this city held hope for my social life. As began to frequent my first gay bars, I soon felt that hope dwindle into the embers of burning hatred for anything remotely close to social gathering places of gay men that lack any nudity.

On this visit, I am inaccessible by Metro, which means most people avoid such hook-ups like they’re somewhere 200 miles in orbit above the planet, where there’s a total lack of oxygen and inaccessible except via special dispensation from NASA.

deephole4loadsThe Velvet Vice Hole

This is impossibly good ass came to me, though.

This bottom has a hole that deserves a whole book. The perfect hole is a rare find. I do not find it. I find many asses to fuck. Many enjoyable.

Few cause me to lose it.

This one did.

His name on BarebackRT.com is DeepHole4Loads. You can see the perfection of the photo.

His ass. His muscular toned body. But great photos are a dime a dozen. I’ve seen hundreds of great photos only to fuck a mediocre ass.

His suck job on arrive was above average. He proved to be good. I tickled his ass with my finger. He’d told me two previous loads had been deposited earlier and he’d offered to have them cleaned out. But I told him to leave them in.

His hole lacked any hard ridge. With the pucker had a nice ring of hair, it could have been smooth… almost perfectly so.  My fingertip slipped inside and could feel the familiar warmth I’d associated with a nice ass.

No cum had leaked near the hole, which told me this little cunt soaked up all the cum he could.

As I prepared to fuck his as, I couldn’t help but lick it a little. He’d already spit on his hand to supply the lube for the ass for my cock. But I wanted to add mine to the mix.

His asshole opened as soon as my tongue touched it and I could hear him groan. He snorted some poppers. The way his ass grabbed at the tip of my tongue, I couldn’t hold off long before I mounted him.

My cock slipped inside. Easily. This man was a natural bottom. His ass immediately contoured to the shape of my cock. He didn’t need a moment to adjust. And he didn’t thrust one way or another. He let me set the pace.

I like a bottom who knows who is in control. I fucked him, but his ass just kept up the perfection in massaging my cock.

I couldn’t distinguish where his sphincter wrapped around me. His hole tightly grabbed my cock and held on. He wanted me.

“Use my dirty cunt,” he whispered.

“You like men to fuck you raw, don’t you?” I said.

“I like my cunt used,” he said.

“I love cum.”

I wrapped my arm around him and my hand around his throat. As I pumped his ass slowly and deliberately, I tried to hold off.

But his ass just held on to my cock like a velvet vice. Before I knew it, my cum began to boil and I began my orgasm.

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t control it. I just… happened.

I felt his pulse quicken under my hand. He knew I was cumming, at least on a subconscious level.

He groaned. “You want my cum?” I asked.

“Pump it in my dirty cunt,” he said.

Through the blinding strain of my orgasm, I kept it up. “You’re getting my load man,” I said.

This man experienced jizzjoy. He wanted it. He got it.

I stayed inside him and pumped it deeper. He left later, off to find another load.

I would hope to pump him again.

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Greetings from Michigan

Travel Diary: My Fuck Adventure in Michigan Cumming Soon…

Chris-in-Detroit-AssholeLet me tell you something… Michigan turned into a fucking awesome fuck.

I’ll give you a glimpse of what’s to cum. And it’s a lot more than you can believe.

My adventure might give you all a chance to breed the same hole too.

Keep your eyes open!

 

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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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Key West Postcard

Travel Diary: A Little Latin Spice to Make My Tropical Vacation Memorable

It’s funny how things don’t work out the way one plans.

I arrived in Key West on a Wednesday night. I expected a build up of ass to peak with a crescendo over the weekend and a tapering off until I left the following Wednesday.

Alas, that did not occur.

Not that I was hunting for hole. In a way, I expected it to find me. I had offers, but I decided to be a bit picky rather than accepting just any ass thrown my way. Interestingly, I think the whole relaxing and doing nothing actually calmed down my hormones and made me crave ass less. Plus I got my fill of naked boys and attention at clothing optional destinations including my B&B and the nightclubs I frequented.

After the weekend concluded and Monday inched along, that itch rose a bit and I realized I’d built a hefty load in my balls that needed to find a home — and soon.

Unfortunately, BarebackRT.com Link Opens in a New Window showed little sign of life, with Scruff and Grindr not too far behind and Jack’d so far netted me nothing. I posted on Craigslist using a generic top looking for bottom post and lucked up with a few potentials. I’d been posting on CL for a while — mostly my “top blogger coming to town and looking for bottom inspiration” ads with little luck (except for the hot guy who’d blown me off).

I got a mixture of responses, a few of which were legit among the flakes. One caught my eye and it wasn’t just the fact he was 20 years old Latino visiting the island. He’d offered his phone number early in the exchange and we began texting almost immediately after when he asked, out of the blue: “Are you the top blogger?”

“Blogger?”

“I figured you were,” he answered, without a confirmation. “It’s really cool if you are.”

“What are my chances if I am?” I wrote back.

“I’d say your chances are really good.”

Within a few minutes, we were meeting on Duval Street and headed back to my B&B.

In shorts, flip-flops and a Hollister t-shirt, he looked like the vision of someone from an advertisement. Smooth with very few specks to even call freckles dotting his face, he was perfectly tan and his wavy black hair just cropped perfectly against his scalp. His deep hazel eyes glanced me over as I took his broad hand into mine and we shook. He was warm — not as much in demeanor as in physically, like he’d just crawled out of a tanning bed.

Our chit chat seemed almost about nothing important as we compared our lodging choices. Soon we were walking through the gate and into the courtyard. I gave a little tour of the property and we ended up in my room. With the enthusiasm of his age, he soon removed all his clothes.

His body proved to be one of those not-an-ounce-of-extra-fat-or-flesh perfection. A mixture of tan and olive, his smooth skin was blemished rarely by a freckle. He didn’t contain any extra muscle either, so he didn’t pack on huge pectorals. His legs were almost hairless and he’d shaved his pubes off. His balls, drawn tight up into his cock, looked hairless as well.

I moved in closer but he pushed me away.

“I don’t really kiss,” he said.

I tried not to seem disappointed, but I was. His fat lips seemed too inviting for me not to lick just a little.

“You still suck, don’t you?” I motioned toward my cock.

He didn’t answer, instead moving toward my half hardness and  moving his mouth over its delicate skin.

He needed more practice but not bad. He kept his lips and mouth frozen while the bobbing of his head provided all the friction to bring me up to full mast. Still, I didn’t care. I played with the hair on the top of his head and then pulled him up and moved toward his cock. All the while I let my fingertips dance across his body until my mouth found the tip of his cock.

Yes, I sucked his cock and he inflated to an impressive 8 inches. Much larger than I dared reach. And fuck if he wasn’t thick with a slight bend to the left. The impressive size seemed even more humongous thanks to all the missing hair. Honestly, this boy wasn’t too hairy or had been shaving for a long while as I didn’t sense any prickly around his cock base.

I went for the balls — a little rougher, mind you, but still very smooth. Youth, it seems, can be so very tasty. As I began to lift his legs, he didn’t stop me and I went in search of his hole by taste.

My tongue found a crevice but it didn’t seem right. I pulled back.

What I saw happened to be among the most unique sights ever.

Most people have a ring around the rosie, so to speak. The external sphincter’s fleshtone appears a little darker or lighter, depending on the man. Sometimes it’s a few rings.

Not him. His skin maintained its perfectly olive bronzed tone up until his asshole, which appeared as nothing more than tiny folds like a quarter-inch crucifix. I’d never seen an ass like his. I wondered if he had any sensitivity in his ass.

As I returned my tongue to his ass, I soon discovered my answer.

His thick 8-incher had been hard but very pliable — like a dildo. But as I went to work and the cross-shaped pucker widened, his cock became more rigid — more similar to a vibrator. Soon it grew even thicker and longer. It stood in place, attention as the most dedicated soldier.

As with any 20-year-old, he hadn’t quite learned to share attention, used to the men who lathered upon him kudos on his good-looks and great body. But he took the subtle direction well as I reached for some Spunklube Link Opens in a New Window and began to spread it on his asshole and use my fingertips to tease that holy hole open just a bit more.

I righted myself, proceeding to poke my cockhead against the hole.

“Mind if I sit on it?” he asked.

“Works for me,” I said, rolling off and onto my back.

My cock too was rigid and pointing at my belly button. A string of precum dangled off in anticipation as he maneuvered in front and slowly lowered himself. But he did so without hesitation, with ease and sat down completely to the hilt within moments.

He was a natural bottom.

We’d never discussed condoms and, as he’d read this blog, knew I’d bareback. He seemed at ease with the fucking and enjoyed it, but didn’t vocalize a lot. Truth is, I’m not very loud either.

His chute adhered to my cock so smoothly, it was a fuck never to forget. Like a key sliding into a slot with just enough space for a perfect fit, his ass walls just seemed to fold into every skin fold of my cock. At first, he would move a lot to try to give me pleasure — something I found humorous since the movement seemed almost robotic, just like his sucking. However, thanks to his perfectly pliable ass, it didn’t feel robotic as the skin’s friction would give way just perfectly.

I soon found myself losing control of my own choice of when to cum.

I suggested he relax and let me do the fucking. Interestingly, he’d read my 11 Commandments for a True Bottom Opens a new window from this blog and attempted to adhere to at least some of them, even asking permission to play with his own cock.

“Just don’t cum first,” I said. “I want to be sure I get to cum.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The fucking isn’t over if I do cum.”

That made me want to test it out by having him cum on my cock then letting me fuck him with his cum, but I dare not risk not being able to load this boy up.

We settled into a leisurely pace and soon I put him on his stomach, staring at his hairless and smooth bubble butt before shoving my cock inside and mounting up for the breeding of his life. I snorted poppers and let myself lose control, asking him only once if he wanted it.

“Yes,” he said. “Give it to me.”

That one positive response was enough that I lost it in that perfect hole and began to flood it. And when I say flood, I mean flood. Since I hadn’t cum in about a week, I let loose a torrent out of my balls that soon lubricated that space between my cock and his ass walls. I pushed it in deeper.

“Just don’t cum inside me,” he said.

Oops, I’m thinking. It’s a little too late.

As I’d mentioned, we’d been fucking very quietly so I hadn’t really done the whole, “I’m cumming,” and grunting thing. I just generally don’t make a show of it. And here I am, pushing my cum deeper inside him and he’s asking me not to cum inside him.

I pretend like I’m having a build up to cum and I pull out and grunt, pretending to cum with my head on his back. As he knows about the truth now, he’s probably thinking “did I or did I not feel the splash of cum on my back?”

The funny thing: As I rolled off of him, he climbed right back into my cock and rode it until he squirted. And let me tell you, he squirted all over. Some went over my head, some landed on my cheek, my chest, etc. He looked away for a moment and I tasted it, just to sample some from the fountain of youth. He’d never know. After all, we weren’t kissing.

We chatted for a bit. Luckily he never put on his shirt until he left. I’d gladly have kept him there all night. But I sure as hell missed the kissing part. He asked if I would write about him and I expressed that I wanted to, knowing that I’d bred him and wondering if he’d really noticed.

He requested I withhold his home state and where he was staying as well as any photos he’d sent me, which I reluctantly agreed in order for you, dear reader, to read this. The rest is basically true, most especially the part about me breeding his ass when he asked me not to do so.

If he’d really been reading my blog, he’d know I always make a deposit. I don’t fuck with condoms and I don’t pull out. No matter how hot, how young or how great your ass is. As a matter of fact, the hotter, younger or better your ass, the more I can guarantee I’m going to breed it.

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