I love black men

Over the break I was trying to get into some action at home. I wasn't trying too hard, but lately, I've been really enjoying sex with black men. It hasn't really been a thing for me before, but lately, I've been loving sex with a big black man who has a big black cock. It's wonderful!

I'm not sure what the attraction has been, I've just really enjoyed it, and found black men so beautiful lately. And I've had a couple of great encounters.

The first encounter I had was in a public bathroom at the beginning of break. I wasn't even looking for it, but standing at the urinals, I was just taking a piss, and a 6 foot something black man walks up right next to me in an empty bathroom, and starts taking a piss. Normal, right? But he's staring straight at me. I guess he figured he could get away with it because while I might be on the tall side, I couldn't battle his massive muscles. He was dark too. About as dark as a man could get, and I love it when a black man is especially dark.

I didn't even notice he was staring right at me until I was finished and zipped up. I had to turn towards him to walk out of the bathroom, and that's when I made eye contact. I thought it was just a fluke, and I didn't want to get beat up for making a faggot move in public with someone who wasn't going to go for it. He stopped me before I fully passed. Put his hand on my shoulder and applied a little pressure. Then grabbed my hand and put it on his cock. I stroked it up and down, almost instinctually. I couldn't help myself. Then he pushed me down, and I just opened my mouth up.

I feel like such a slut for admitting it, but I felt almost powerless. And he was a beautiful, attractive man. He had a perfect dick. About eight or nine inches. I couldn't swallow it all. I tried to, but I kept gagging and tearing up. He face fucked me, slamming his dick into the back of my throat and it hurt, but I liked it.

I liked it because even though I wasn't respecting myself at all, it's nice to know that someone can just look at you and know they want you, and that you'll want them. Or maybe I'm just faggy enough for him to know I prostitute myself out for nothing at all except his pleasure. That's probably closer to the truth. He got a serious look in his eye, and stopped face fucking me. He pulled out a condom from his pocket and kicked me toward a stall.

Is it sad I knew what he wanted, knew what to do, and did it? I staggered back into a stall and unbuckled my pants as quickly as I could, pulled down everything, put my back on the toilet seat and threw my legs up in the air.

"Good boy," he said. The condom was already on his dick and he was spitting on my hole. He didn't eat me out, which would have been heaven. He just spit to make sure h hit it. Then he spit on his on dick and started pushing.

I was fucking pissed for the first few seconds. You think you're gonna get an awesome fuck, and all of a sudden the guy can't even find your hole with his dick! He kept pushing way below where my hole was, and nothing was happening, so I said, "Push it up a little bit." He didn't do anything different. Kept pushing into my butt bone, like my ass was magically going to form another hole. I was getting frustrated, so I pushed him away from me a little bit and tried to grab at his dick to put it in the easy way. He slapped me, and tried again. Luckily he placed it right, and I wasn't about to say no to a man who was towering over me in a public bathroom about to fuck me.

Then he entered me. And god it hurt. But I started stroking, and soon I was hard, and his thrusts felt so good as I focused all my energy on the feelings in my cock. He was all the way in real fast, and thrusting hard. I was jerking, and enjoying it, when all of a sudden he was done.

I had been holding my cum for not long, but with no warning he tucks in his dick, zips up his pants, and walks out the door. I decide to cum. Legs still swung up in the air, the stall door open. I didn't care. It was a hot event.

I'll let you know about another incident with a big black cock later. Let me know you want to hear it by writing a comment!

Admitting the Truth - Sexually Molested

I realize everything I've posted up to this point has been really trashy--a fair reflection of a good portion of my sex life--but I've wanted to write about something publicly for so long, and I haven't been able. That is, until a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago I was out drinking with a few friends and the most uncommon of commonalities was discovered between myself a good female friend (who I don't know extraordinarily well because I have only known her for a year, who I'll call Amelia). We were drunk, and moving to more drunk. It was the point in the night after a delicious three course dinner with a good group of people all meeting together for the first time in months. The atmosphere was heady. There were drinks before dinner and during dinner, but shots after dinner. Those are probably what did the trick.

Sitting amongst friends, and next to Amelia, we were tossing jokes about sex with men between the two of us, and I commented on how open she was about her views on sex and her personal sex-life. "Can I tell you a secret?" she leaned over and asked.

"Sure," I said, drunk and not exactly sure what I was getting myself into.

"I was molested when I was 8."

This is not what I expected to hear. Who would bare their soul at a dinner party out in the city amongst friends? A drunk on, probably. To me? A very drunk friend. After all, I'm not exactly known for having tight lips.

But her secret hit closer to home than she expected because I was also sexually molested when I was a kid, 10 years old.

I was a late bloomer growing up, one of the last of my friends to actually hit puberty and sprout up. At 10 I still looked like a babyfat-filled 8-year-old. It wasn't exactly something I was proud of, but I had always been a little skinny, had always been just a little taller than most (no longer true!), had always been soft-spoken besides. Being behind the growing curve had never hurt much of my chances at popularity or acceptance, so even at 10, people were still willing to talk to me, still willing to see me as a relative equal.

But I was still a child. Other people had started to understand things about the world, and my testicles hadn't even dropped. I was sorely behind the learning curve in almost every way. This is what the social workers and police explain as my attractive points to the pervert who made me suck his cock.

It was during summer. My parents were working. My older brother, who was 16 and just had his license was driving around that afternoon. I was left alone in the house: not a rare phenomenon. I was young, but responsible. The good kid. I didn't get into trouble, and if I did, I hid it well.

It all seems like a nightmare right now. Or a cheesy afterschool special. Looking back on it now, it's like he was following a script.

He was our neighbor. Someone we didn't know well at all, but someone we would always see jogging in the early morning, or mowing his lawn on Saturday mornings. He'll be Mr. L. Mr. L stopped by the house around 2 PM. My older brother had just left to go work out with the football team for optional early summer training, and both parents were still at work, and wouldn't be home for hours. When he knocked, looking for my dad, supposedly, I told him where everyone was, and that I was alone. What did I have to fear? He was a neighbor.

We invested a lot of social capital in that word: neighbor. It meant a lot. It meant trust. He lived close by. He was a part of our community. He was single and older. About 40 or 45 at this point. Not fat, and actually decently shaped. A constant early morning runner. He asked if he could come in and get some water--"Goodness it's hot." I said sure, and had him come in.

I walked to the fridge and he followed. I got a glass, asked if he wanted ice (he did) and poured him a glass of water.

He asked how old I was. He asked what I was interested in. He thanked me for the water. He said he'd be gone as soon as he finished the glass. He drank slowly.

He wasn't wearing a shirt when he came to the door. Just a pair of athletic shorts, and some tennis shoes. I assumed he had been running.

He turned the conversation to weird when he asked if my dad had ever asked me to "pop" me. I said no, and fell for the bait without even realizing what it was.

"What's a 'pop'?" I asked.

Let me show you, he said, smiling. He told me to come here, and when I was standing next to him, he pulled down his shorts. He took hold of his penis and said this was his pop. When you suck on it, like a lollipop, it tastes good and makes people feel better. "It's how people get happy," he explained. "Try it, you'll like it."

So I licked it. It had a scent of baby powder and soap. It didn't taste bad. So I took another lick.

When he started to get hard, he took control of my head and started to facefuck me. I got really uncomfortable, and my face started to hurt, and I was choking a little bit, and crying too. I started to hit him with my little fists and he eased up. "Whoa, there. Sorry little guy. I guess if your dad hasn't asked you to do this, you probably aren't too used to it."

"I guess not," I said through tears.

"Well, thanks for the water, little guy!" he practically shouted. "I guess I better be on my way."

"Ok," I sniffed.

I walked him to the door and closed and locked it. I didn't know what had just happened, but I started to cry in earnest right then and there in the foyer.

I didn't say anything for months. It wasn't until a long time later that I asked my brother about "pop" and explained to him what happened. He flipped out. He practically yelled at me about every little detail. Then he told my parents. My mom started hugging me, and all of a sudden everyone was around me and asking questions, and I thought they were mad at me because I had done or said something wrong. I was ashamed. I didn't want to say anything. I started crying. I woudn't say a word. I ran to my room and locked the door. My dad was beating on it for hours, but I didn't budge. I slept there all night without food. When I finally came out they were there, waiting for me, and I couldn't say a word. We refer to those days as my silent period. I couldn't speak.

Finally, the police were called in. I gave a report. They interviewed other children around the neighborhood, but I was the only one with a story. Mr. L was arrested. Mr. L left the neighborhood and that was the end of it. He has been a nightmare, an embarrassment. A shame-maker.

I'm sorry if this wasn't interesting to read. I just had to get that off my chest. It's hard to write about it, but ever since Amelia brought it up, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I thought putting it down in words would help. I hope it does. I just want to completely forget it ever happened sometimes.

The Strangest Bathroom Experience

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LOST: Jack vs Sawyer

There is no end to the debate I have with myself about which LOST character I'd rather be fucked by: Jack or Sawyer. They are both studly men, and I was almost embarrassed to admit that I would want to be fucked by a strange man I have never met, who is statedly straight, and whose persona I only know through a television show. But then I realized I masturbate to porn, and what's the difference? I am my own man, and I'll fantasize about whoever I want to fuck me.

Jack, is the solid, modern, All-American man. He has a six pack, although it's not the most obvious feature of his physique. He has nice pecs, a little hairy chest, and the obvious 5 o'clock shadow at noon that always makes my skin tickle when a man rubs his scruff against my skin. This may be a big reason my fantasies about Jack tend to be more tender than my fantasies about Sawyer. He seems like the man who would be willing to join in a little foreplay before the real action get in. At least, he would kiss my neck and suck on my nipples before ripping my pants off and turning me around to finger my ass.

Jack would have to fuck me while he lays on top of me. My hips would be in the air, but barely as he rides on my hole. He would be sweaty, and drip on my neck. My back would be wet, and he would heighten the contact between the two of us, kissing my neck every time he thrusts his cock in all the way. He is not gentle, but he is kind.

Then there is Sawyer, and Sawyer--as far as I'm willing to imagine--would not enjoy a gay fuck. He would do it, I would get him hard, and he would stick his dick in me and love the sensation of my tight hole around his huge member, but he would hate me for making him go gay. He would be rough, and harsh, and he would not be interested in foreplay.

He would expect me to undress him, and get him hard. I would do it gladly. I would sick and nip and his nipples, kiss down his noticeably ripped torso. I would unbutton his pants and smell his musk. It would smell like rotting mushrooms, sour and sweet. He wouldn't care because he has a dick like none other, curved and massive, large enough to intimidate a practiced female, and curved enough to put them off to a fucking altogether. But nothing scares a gay, and I would relish the challenge of easily the largest dick I have ever had to manage. He wouldn't finger me. He would just lube up his dick and go for it. I wouldn't complain, although it would sting and burn. This would be the most heavenly pain I could imagine. The size, but also the curvature would take getting used to. But, unbeknownst to me is Sawyer's staying power. This will easily be the longest fuck I will ever have and I would try my hardest to make it last at least two hours. Just to imagine sharing a bed with this man gets me half hard, and I can't imagine what actually being given the opportunity to do so would yield. I would probably have the hardest cock I have ever felt, the painful cock you wake up with knowing you'll have to run to the toilet or explode.

In the end, I will always opt for Sawyer. The rough one. The diecidedly sexy one who is always failing to succeed with Kate on the show, and so will have to go gay to get his moment of sexual release.

Sorry if this is a silly post for you. Sometimes I just have these overpowering images and thoughts in my head, the wildly inappropriate ones that I must write down otherwise they never get out. The kind of arousing thoughts that will keep me noticing my crotch all day, and won't let go even after I've jacked it. Twice. That's what today was, and I need to be able to sleep tonight without distraction.

Thanks for listening to my fantasy. Who would you prefer to get the fuck from? Who would you prefer to fuck?

PS. I would prefer to fuck Sawyer, too. I just love him.

Cruising for sex

Having been a guy who has cruised for sex, the above video was both hot, and for me a little too close to the truth for comfort.

A Forgettable First

The first time I was fucked I was 16, and lying about my age to a college senior. I wanted it, and I was going to get it. That was my attitude when I went into the situation. It wasn't my attitude when I left his apartment, but my impetuous and hormone ravaged body was desperate to know what sex was. I was nervous, excited, afraid, but thinking I had no reason to be afraid of something so many people loved.

I cruised. I tried to find a semi-decent gay dating website. This was not the one-and-done situation. I wanted my "first time" with a guy to be special. I wanted to at least know the guy's name. His name was Schuyler. He was a horrible choice. He was skinny, awkward, uncomfortable, horny, lonely, and desperate. We first met in a Borders bookstore by the Stephen King novels. I first saw him and knew it would be a mistake to say hi, to continue the contact. I walked away, down the aisle of books, and regretted even coming to the store to begin with. The idea was foolish. The guy was a loser. I was an idiot.

But my conscience interrupted with ideas of "feelings." What about his feelings? How shitty will he feel when he realizes I didn't show up? How douchey will I look? Why don't I at least say hi? Can't I always cut it off if he sucks? Can't I just make excuses until he gets the picture?

My conscience won. I walked back and said, "Hello." He was startled. He was pleased. He liked how cute I was. We talked. We walked around the store. We sat. We drank coffee. He immediately invited me to have some ice cream with his "fag hag" right then and there. He said she would love to meet me. I rebuffed his advance to become closer. I wasn't comfortable with him yet. He insisted. He kept insisting. He told me how much fun it would be, how great his friend was, how much he liked me, how cute he thought I was.

I still refused. I didn't like him. He was too affectionate. Too adulatory. Too encouraging. Too close too soon. Had I had a relationship, or any significant dating experience before this encounter, I would have responded to all of my personal warning signals. I was prescient enough to halt our relationship that much that early on.

I was not smart enough to cut it off altogether. It was refreshing, for the first time, to have someone to give affection to me, to tell me I was sexy, a word he barely whispered, a word that immediately turned me on. We met, and continued to meet. He must have known I wasn't 18. he was 22 himself. I was 16, trying to pass as 18. He kept asking. "How can you really be 18?"

"Do you want to examine my ID?" I would always respond. I would throw it back in his face, but he would always be too shy to actually look. I wonder if he was afraid to realize what he actually thought would be confirmed by my recently issued Driver's License. It was no matter. He never actually looked. He supposed, but never investigated. And then I asked him to fuck me.

It had been building in me for weeks. Ever since I met him I knew I would ask him to fuck me. I would use him. I would hate him, and I would use his dick for experience, and I would leave him immediately afterward. That's what I did.

It was our fourth night hanging out together. We had ordered pizza in, and after it came and we had eaten, we started spooning while watching some horrible gay drama he illegally downloaded off the internet. I was the big spoon. I started kissing his neck, and licking his ear. He rolled around and began kissing me. And as abruptly as we started I stopped and asked him to fuck me.

He didn't want to, but the opportunity presented itself so he agreed. I took off my clothes as matter-of-factly as I could considering the situation, while he threw off everything he was wearing and bounded for the condoms and lube. He was slow and gentle. I think he cared for me. I think he wanted me to enjoy it. He told me it would hurt, and I had read enough by that point to know. I didn't know how it woudl hurt, and when his cockhead started to penetrate my asshole, I understood how painful it could be. I screamed. He stopped, immediately retreated. But I told him to go on. At that point, I only wanted him to get it in.

I kept encouraging him through grunts and cringes. He knew I wasn't enjoying it, but he wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted it, and with a raging hardon, it's hard not to say no to an inviting ass. After what seemed like hours, his cock was in my ass to the base. Once he made it in, I begged him to take it out. I knew I couldn't take an actual fuck. He understood. He seemed almost happy. He seemed genuinely concerned for my feelings. He said we'd use some dildos and practice stretching before we tried again.

He kept using the word we. I knew we weren't a "we" and I felt embarrassed. I walked away. I put my clothes on and said I needed to go, needed to think about this. He wanted to follow me, but he didn't go beyond his stoop. I just walked away and never looked back.

I almost cried on the drive home. Ben Folds was playing when I got in the car. I started crying on the way home, and detoured around the city until I stopped. I got a soda from McDonald's and drove until I wasn't thinking about Schuyler anymore. I drove until I emptied my mind as much as I could. I focused on the pain in my ass. I concentrated on the road. It flowed down the earth, as uninterrupted as the pain, but smooth. The pain shot and throbbed. It jolted and eased. It ebbed in my body. As much as I thought about it, I thought about Radiohead and Schindler's List more.

I got home and I deleted the gay dating site profile I created to find Schuyler. I delete any knowledge of him. I avoided all places he might go. I moved on. After Schuyler, I knew I could fuck anyone I wanted with no emotion. And I did. Throughout my senior year of high school I was a closeted slut.

Does a first fuck really need to be emotional? Important? I realize Schuyler is really important to my carnal knowledge history, but beyond that, I don't care for him or about him? How much does a gay man care for his first? Or, am I an anomaly? Am I a stranger amongst strangers?

NOTE: I've gotten a lot of really great feedback from a lot of people in different ways, and I think it would be really great for people to discuss these issues and topics in a forum. I know the comments section of this blog isn't great, but it's a place to start.

So, my question for you: What was your first time having sex like (either as a bottom or a top)? How important is that person to you now?

Regrets for Wasted Time

There are some internet hookups that don't exactly turn out like you want them to. One hookup led me to a boyfriend of two years that I still keep in touch with (and love just a little bit)--an awkwardly tall man with a skinny frame and a thin face that changed shape when he smiled. But this isn't about him. The problem with a hookup that turns into something more with a guy like that, it's always because the guy is a disappointment.

There are few more disheartening experiences than realizing on the stoop of a strange man's house/apartment that the picture he had online was no as sexy as he actually is. What do you do? Do you come in? Do you say "No, thanks," and walk away? Do you you just grin and bear it while you go through with the dirty deeds you both have agreed to do with unspoken words? For the first year, I would let myself have sex with the ugliest most unappealing men just because I said I would.

Once, I was cruising on the internet for a hookup. I was horny, and I was willing to jump at something less than perfect. Shoot, whenever I look for perfect I usually get barely acceptable. I should have known looking for less that perfect would yield creepers and weirdos. And that's exactly what happened.

The usual old men started prowling for my young ass, and I was thinking about it. The youngest that I was getting interest with was a thirty year-old. The most intriguing part was that he was a red-head. Now, let me admit that this was when I was first trying out the internet as a resource for sex. The options were limited, and I was only 17 and on a dial-up connection. I could never let my parents know, so the window for searching was small. I had to work fast and quickly. The redhead would do, and I was turned on by the idea of getting fucked by a fire-crotch. I agreed. His place would be available in an hour. He gave me the address. I wrote it down. I deleted the gay websites from my browsing history and went to a dozen dummy sites so my parents wouldn't get suspicious.

I went into my room and played around with my dick while I read a few gay porn stories I had printed out one day. I was getting close, so I decided to stop, and hoped it was time. It was thirty minutes until the guy would be free, about ten or fifteen minutes before I had to leave. I figured it would be better to leave and come with a cock full of cum later than to show up and stay soft the whole time he was fucking me. I decided to go to a Borders and sneak a peak at one of the novels in the Gay and Lesbian section.

I drove my car to Borders and when I got to Borders I was still 15 minutes early for my hookup, so I pretended to browse the fiction, and waited for an appropriately unnoticed moment to grab a book from the gay section. I grabbed one and walked a few aisles away from the section and pretended I was looking at a novel in the mystery section.

It was the first gay animated porn book I had ever seen. It was so hot. When I first opened the book I immediately started to get an erection. It was so graphic, I immediately shut it and looked around to see if anyone noticed me or the book, or my tenting pants. There didn't seem to be any suspicious glances around. I opened the book and snuck another peek. There was a series of pictures of a guy bouncing up and down on another guys cock. I will always remember that picture because as soon as I saw it I had to touch my dick.

As soon as I touched my dick I came in my pants. It didn't expected it. I froze mid-aisle as someone passed, freaking out, and desperately trying to hide the book, immediately crouching to hide my raging hard-on, the semen in my short, and pathetically trying to avoid shouting with ecstasy. Even with my mouth shut, I knew I let out a queer sounding squeal. A guy further down the aisle definitely noticed my strange noises, but didn't seem to think much of it.

I remained crouched down, wriggling my toes, counting in my head, and trying to do anything to keep my mind off my cock so that it would soften. It seemed to take minute after minute. I would look down and still notice the bulge of my cockhead in my shorts and continue counting to distract my mind from the hottest orgasm I had thus experienced in my life.

After my erection subsided I walked as quickly as possible to the bathroom. I had stashed the porn book behind the shelf of books I was looking at, behind a couple of Ken Follett mystery novels. When I got to the bathroom I found what I had expected. I washed off my penis and pubic area of cum. My underwear was a mess. I took the boxers off and when no one was in the bath room came out of the stall and tossed my underwear in the trashcan. I didn't even want to be the unsuspecting visitor who might have noticed my cum-soaked drawers in the trashcan of a public bathroom.

"Fuck!" I thought. I was late for my meeting, and I had cum. This meeting was going to suck. I ran to my car and drove as quickly as I could to his place. He didn't seem surprised that I was late, but I was surprised by him. He was indeed a redhead, but I could barely tell because he was so bald and his hair was so light. He had an (unfortunately) well-defined beer belly and acne scarring his face. When he took off his shirt his back had even worse patches of red blotched and white-headed pimples, and I was afraid to touch his back. He chest was covered with a thick mat of almost blond hair and a pubic region that was not trimmed. (I prefer trimmed pubes.)

I couldn't say a word. He kissed every part of my body and I couldn't reciprocate. The first thing I said when he was about to fuck me without a condom was, "Aren't you going to use a condom?"

"Oh shit," was all he said. He seemed mad I noticed and/or cared. He got up and put a condom on. Maybe he was mad, but I was not turned on. We fucked in the missionary position, and I voluntarily turned around to doggie style so I wouldn't have to look at the ugly old fuck who was fucking me. How did I let this happen? Was I too overcome by coming accidentally in public to say no to this guy? I had never said no to a guy before. Was this just a result of being too afraid to reject someone? Was I so desperate for a cock in my ass that I didn't care what was fucking me?

I left with my ass feeling fine because his dick wasn't that big. I left with lube still in my ass. I left because he was turned on by the (unintentional) fact that I came commando. I hadn't come, even though he stroked my dick so hard it started to hurt. I left saying just, "Thanks man," without a smile on my face.

I guess since his response was, "Anytime," I could imagine I wasn't exactly the most arousing fuck. But I know I'm cute, and I know I'm a pretty good fuck, and I know I'm probably better than his average. So what I he knew I knew he was ugly. Should he appreciate the screw with good looking guy anyhow? Is that not how that works?

I didn't know anything then. He was probably the third or fourth guy I slept with in my life. He was one of the early ones. All of the early ones leave an impression. All of the men I have actually slept with still leave an impression, but the first ones were particularly important.

I left thinking my regret was first actually having sex with someone I clearly knew I did not want to have sex with. I left regretting the waste of time. Why do I embarrass myself for some satisfaction?

Sometimes I don't understand why I do the stupid shit I do, or have done.

PS. Thanks for the comments! I really appreciate the appreciation, and even the criticism.

A Busy Day: Part II

When I got home, I sat on the toilet and shat the kind of pain shit after being fucked really well. It hurt a little, but my hole felt warm and the pain was a great satisfied pain. I smiled. I wiped my ass. I flushed. I went back to my room. It was time to find a slut to fuck.

I must explain that I have had a boyfriend before, and I like the experience of having one steady guy there to fool around with, to be intimate with, to love. There is nothing better than that. The problem is those guys are really hard to come by. The alternative isn't nice.

The alternative is a one-night stand, or a regular fuck buddy. Either way, the only interaction you have is fucking. To me, if there's just fucking going on--let it be just fucking. I'm not going to stand for false intimacy, or feigned love, or uncomfortable cuddling from a lonely kid who has so little sexual contact that his one night stand is the closest he's ever been to another man. I'm not that kind of emotionally sensitive guy. Judge me if you want.

In other words, I'm looking for a guy who will let me fuck him and forget him. There's a guy who's about twenty blocks away, white, cute, looking for a relationship, but claiming he just wants to get fucked. No.

There's another guy, 42...Why do I even need to continue? Delete.

There's a sexy, slim black guy in his early thirties who wants to flip-flop. Maybe I'll hit him up next weekend. But right now, all I want to do is cum in a guy's ass and go to bed.

I've been messaging about ten guys. Only two carry on the conversation. One lied about where he is living, and actually lives an hour away by train and is trying to convince me to go over to his house for the night. Guys, if you don't know this yet, don't ever do this. I did this once...I'll write about it later. It will almost never turn out well. My story didn't. But I was a young horny idiot then.

The other guy I'm still talking to is Asian and is only seven blocks away. He seems really into it. I tell him I'm either going to come over and fuck him now, or I'm not going to come over at all. By this point he's practically begging me to come over. He pounces on the idea, and I start walking.

Again, that feeling that I'm fucking my life up creeps over me, but I push the ideas back down. I'm gay, and I'm not entirely out because of my job. This is how that community operates. I'm not the kind of guy who's going to go out to clubs. Where else can I meet guys? I've tried the public restrooms, the "bookstores" and "cinemas," the actual dating from online profiles... None of it has worked yet.

Besides, this is the same behavior as my straight friends. They go to the clubs, meet a random girl, and go home with them. What's so different about this. I at least have the privilege of finding out if the guy is a total creeper beforehand.

I'm at his place. I give him a call, and when I do, my dick stirs just a little bit.

He comes to the door and starts talking. I have no idea what he's saying. I just start laughing when he laughs. He wrote so fluently, but his Chinese accent is so thick I have no idea how to respond when he looks at me.

Because I can't really go for the foreplay, and because I don't want to really go for the foreplay, when he shuts the door, I sit down on his bed/futon, and pull out my dick. He smiles, says something, and laughs a little bit. I laugh a little bit in response, and then point to my dick. He gets the message even if I'm not getting his, and he starts sucking. He's a great cocksucker. He keeps moving up to suck on my nipples, and then raises his head towards mine. I know he wants to kiss, but I'm not about to get intimate. I push his head back down towards my cock, and he willingly moves back to it. He was riding on that pole for a good twenty minutes before I realized I should start fucking him. I reach over to grab his condom, and open it. he notices the movement and reaches for the lube and starts prepping his ass.

I go in. It feels amazing. This is what I've needed for a long time. This is exactly what I wanted. We start doggie style. Then I twist him so that one of his legs is on my should while I enter him from the side. He's going crazy. We switch to missionary, then back to doggie style. We switch from being on the bed to bending him over the armrest of the futon. He's using his hands to prop him up from the floor. I'm still straight fucking him. I go for about thirty minutes, and realize I'm probably not gonna cum while I'm fucking him, so I pull myself off of him, throw off the condom, and direct him to my cock again.

About five minutes later I blow. He wanted to swallow my sperm but I came so much that he couldn't hold it all. He lifted his head up right as I was shooting another wad and it hit him in the eye and ran across his face. I spewed three more times. He gave himself a cute facial.

He grabbed some paper towels for me, and walked to the bathroom. I towel off fast using his towel, and throwing the paper towels on the floor. I quickly get dressed and am walking out of the door when he comes from the bathroom to try and give me a hug, asking me to hang out for a few minutes. I make up some work excuse. I leave and he watches me go.

Another job well done.

A Busy Day: Part I

This is my life, and I make no apologies for it.

This morning I woke up horny. I needed sex. My penis was telling me it needed some stimulation. I wasn't hard, but it wanted to be in a nice piece of ass. But, I wanted to be on the top and the bottom. I don't have any friends that would be willing to screw me then be screwed by me, so I set about the annoying task of finding random men to sleep with.

I went to a random "dating" site. I'm pretty liberal with my acceptance of gay culture, but the sad thing is there is really no such thing as a "gay dating" site. If there's any type of gay dating site online, all it is is a glorified hook-up site, masquerading as something better than it is. So I go to this site and message a couple of guys (tops and bottoms) who look good enough to get into it with. Unfortunately, none of those guys message me back. It's OK, I think. This is a waiting game, and it's only 10 AM on a Saturday. I can wait a little while to get laid.

Then I start getting messages from guys unsolicited. This is my favorite part. The time where I can judge other men. I can judge them based on their looks, their personalities (or at least the personalities they present online in a 500 words or less text box), and their pix. I laugh at the men who are 40+ telling everyone on the website they are DL because they're married and just want a quick screw with a guy. I delete those messages immediately. I'm a man in my 20s. I have some self-respect. I'm not gonna sleep with some guy just because he wants me too. I'm not that desperate yet.

Then there are the fat and ugly guys. I group these guys into the same category, because while I fully realize and understand that they are probably great guys to be around, hang out with, and eventually marry, when I'm looking have a quick sex session, they're not what I'm looking for, and I'm probably not what they're looking for.

Then there are the decent looking guys. The guys I would definitely jump in the sack with without giving a damn about anything. A few of those guys start sending me messages. I check their statistics. (OK good, no one with a waist wider than 34, no one over 35, no one who looks like a car ran into their face...) Then the emails start happening. They are horrible and trashy, but they're a part of life. So I play along. Ultimately, we're both men who just want to get laid with each other. Why make it harder than it has to be?

The conversations look like this:

him: sup?
me: nm, what's goin on? (NOTE: you should never have perfect grammar during these exchanges. It'll only make you seem pretentious. It's also hard to do, because usually you're masturbating with one hand anyway while this is going on)
him: tryna fuck
me: let's make it happen. u top or bttm?
him: top. unlock ya pic.
me: unlocked. how big is your dick?
him: 8
me: damn..nice. where u at?
him: [general street address] u?
me: [generic street address] can't host. can we use ur place? (NOTE: What I have noticed is how great it is to live in a city and be so close to so many gay men. It's easier to get to them, and there are more single men who have living spaces where gay sex can happen. When you live at home with your parents, you can't really bring home a guy, much less bring home a guy just to fuck him and send him home.)
him: o aright...my place kewl.
me: when u wanna meet?
him: don't matta
me: now?
him: kewl.
me: what's ur address?

I am not proud of the part I played in that conversation (the conversation was almost directly copied and pasted, except the city intersections were deleted), but I wanted sex. I'm not going to waste time when I'm horny. He gave me his address and phone number after that last question, so I decided to walk over to his place, which was only about ten blocks away. I get there, walk in, and walk up to his apartment.

By this point, whenever I meet someone new I'm a little bit nervous. I wonder, "Will this guy be cool? Will he be a good fuck? Will he be creepy? Why did I agree to do this? I should just meet guys at a club or something? I hope he doesn't look completely different from his pictures..." Not too many thoughts have a chance to fly through my brain, because he answers the door quickly. He lives in a small loft with a bathroom built in. And he's pretty cute. I knew he was going to be shorter than me, which is fine, as long as his dick is sizable, which by his pictures and 8 inch description seemed more than adequate. But he seemed to short. But he was built. He was only wearing a pair of athletic pants. No shirt. Well defined arm muscles. A perfect six-pack, and an interesting tattoo below his belly button that looked a lot like a tramp stamp, just on the front. I wasn't going to judge.

"How's it going?" I ask.

"Good. Here, let me just get the stuff." He goes over to his chest of drawers and grabs his lube and a condom. I take this as a sign I should probably take off my coat, so I do and put it on the edge of the couch. He tells me to hang it on his desk chair. While I'm moving my jacket he skirts past me and moves towards the couch. When I turn my back towards the couch he has already pulled his dick out. I still don't know his name, and if he is all business like this, I think, then what's the point in knowing his name? I bend down and start sucking him off.

I know I'm good at blow jobs. It's like the work I do. I just know I'm good at it. He's apparently really horny too, because after not even five minutes he takes the condom, puts it on, and we move to the floor.

A Steve Martin movie is playing on the TV in the background. The guy is not into sensual sex. He is into the kind of sex that gets him off. I'm OK with that. I just needed a dick in my hole, so I'm letting it happen. But, I can't keep from giving all of my focus to the Steve Martin and Queen Latifah movie playing in the background. A man is having sex with me, and while it feels great, I'm more interested in Steve Martin trying to pretend to make love to a statue. "Is there something wrong with me?" I think. "Should I find a man who I really want to have sex with?" I know the answer. The answer is yes. But I still haven't found him. And, until I do, I have to satisfy myself with random internet hookups. It's not the best, but it does the trick.

We switch positions and I can no longer see the TV. He is also using my face as a hand hold. Maybe he doesn't want to see me face? Maybe he cares more about the feelings in his penis than my emotions. It's probably the former. I'm OK if it's the latter, too. He kept going until he came. He pulled out, ripped the condom off and came on my ass and lower back. Then he fell onto my back for a few intimate moments before he stood up. He went to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, moistened it, and came back swabbing himself off. He bent down and wiped me off too. He gave me the towel to take care of my own personal areas. I did.

I started dressing and so did he. As I was about to leave the room he said, "Yo, hit me up. That was great."

"Sure," I say as I open the door. I smile a little because I wasn't sure he was even into me for any of the time we were having sex. I must have done something right. Or maybe I was just willing enough to be his fuck toy that it didn't matter what I looked like.

Instead of taking the elevator, I walked all the way down the seven flights of stairs, contemplating the feeling of post-coitus. It felt amazing. After reflecting on a job well done, I shifted my thoughts to the next item on the agenda. Fucking someone. It was great to get dicked down, but now I needed to dick someone down. As I walked down the rainy streets I wondered if I would even be able to find a guy who would be willing to have me fuck him. I hoped I would.