Tuesday, October 15, 2019

From Top to Bottom

You ever have one of those sexual situations that blows your mind in such a big way that you keep having flashbacks throughout the course of the next 48 hours?

The vision is clear and it's a pleasurable pang in my brain when it invites itself into my current thought patters - unsolicited. So many times, on the subway, walking down the street, while eating, while waiting in line at the Walgreens - I physically react and gesture in memory of that phenomenal occurrence, one that I hope I will soon forget.

I have a very specific appetite for pigs, or as it were, the more animalistic of man. This involves a lot of complex cerebral notions because I am more attentive and attracted to the psychological side of sex. Believe it or not, this can be more inhibiting that one might assume, especially when you consider the blind and somewhat reckless hedonistic nature of the male organ.

So much of my most exceptional experiences have involved fetish and kink, but I myself do not delve into them with selfish desire but rather I have a reverence to those who have embraced them - or better yet: those who have yet to discover these particular off kilter preferences.

I ended up in the room with two bald beefy hairy white men.

You would think that this would be enough for me, almost my perfect scenario - one that I've seen many times over and I could never get tired of, but it was the event that transpired when I least expected that threw me off my game and into a whirlwind of pleasure.

I usually prefer to be the onlooker in this framework, or "butt pusher" as I so aptly used to call it in reference to those scenes from 80s porn. I might argue that I actually enjoy watching sex more than I enjoy having it, and that is not a winnable debate because nobody loses if I play my cards right.

There was an older one with a thick dark beard sprinkled with grey and he was - by some twist of fate, an almost exact replica of my ex-husband. Not that I ever deviate from this norm as aforementioned (the hairy bald facial hair beefy impossibly white guy), but there was something in his eyes that screamed sleazy thoughts the same way my 7 year gentleman caller's did and it was jarring, alluring and disarming.

The other one was a bit younger, perhaps late 20s and he was big in a different way, though I admired him a bit more. Also he had a very large Prince Albert that coincidentally reminded me of my other long term ex, who bared one with pride and I had tons of fun playing with in a myriad of ways.

I did my best to make the younger one the center of attention and markedly the older one and I engaged in this technique of "filling him out like an application" (you do the math) and things were going well until we switched positions...then things went very well.

So the younger one had a very meaty dick. I'm just going to say it - and I was obsessed with it. The older one had a very perky dick, slightly above average - and hard as ice. That said, I didn't mind it, because I actually prefer the closer to average ones because I don't like pain, and also: My G Spot.

When I starting going down on the older one the younger one went crazy behind me and started fucking feasting my my hole like it was his last supper. Mind you - everything about this guy screamed total bottom, and he kept reiterating how he sincerely just wanted to get fucked .- on several occasions.

The next thing you know, this fucking beast is going to town on my ass and he got so excited, whacking himself off the whole time, that he couldn't help himself but to SHOVE it in when he finally came up for air. It hurt A LOT and the more I relented, the harder he pushed and he had to have it. I reached back and grabbed his wrist in a half assed effort to stop him but my attempt proved fruitless and all I could do was grab on to the thick thighs of the older one and brace for impact (I guess thick thighs really do save lives).

So I went into a bit of pleasure shock, or that floating headspace when you get something that you've wanted and it comes to you as a complete surprise.

You see - as much as I can pretend that this actually was a surprise, I'll tell you I went through a lot of work to get this to happen.

I have a divine aptitude for turning tops into bottoms and bottoms into tops and this was another notch on that auspicious bedpost.

There were little taunts and tricks that I've learned over the years that can coax someone to switch to the other side. When I first took the younger one in I was giving him "that look" while I fingered myself, and kept making sure that there were little moments where I would accidentally have my rotund hairy ass around or near his face, or at least in full view for him to spectate - especially under the conditions of having the older one experience it's greatness. Not gonna lie, while I struggle with self-esteem and body dysmorphia, one thing's for certain: my ass is amazing.

There has also been the times when I've accidentally slipped a karate chop shaped hand across a total top's ass crack and then several moments later his legs were up in the air begging for more dick and I can't tell you enough how much it turns me on to see some hyper masculine dude become a total bitch bottom.

It's a funny world out there and it never ceases to amaze me how gay men chose one or the other. I'm amazed because those choices while not always flexible, allow me access to parts of the brain that I like to examine, play with, and sometimes exploit. This goes for other sexual preferences as well, including folks who aren't at all into penetrative sex. I feel as though I have a skill or gift as it were to reach deep inside of them and in some cases either help them release themselves from the confines of repressed trauma, or open their mind to new experiences that are hidden in their psyche that they are too scared to confront or ask for.

The thrill of these sorts of things is what really gets me.

It was a bit crazy and I could see the guilt on the younger ones face when he finished. He was so sweaty and exhausted and spent and he held his head down in shame. It was very exciting for me.

Mission Accomplished...

I ended up in that room with a very specific purpose.

You see - something about this recent Aries Full Moon has made many men come out of the woodworks, and one in particularly who shows up on my radar at the most inconvenient times, did so again before the start of the holiday weekend.

Fernando, we'll call him, and I have been chatting for about 3 years now and it wasn't until last Spring that we met due to his geographic availability - he lives in a suburban part of New Jersey where you can't get to without taking at least two different trains.

Sure, it's obvious that ain't nobody got time for that - when you are so despicably jaded by the disposable nature of New York City Men, when you get a pleasant, provocative, prying, personable Prince hitting you up and telling you everything you want to hear (I haven't ruled out that he could possibly be a fully fledged sociopath) you loosen up a bit and start to think maybe it's worth the time to leave NYC for a bit and go get some foreign and stationary dick.

I decided to take the trek upon his charming convincing and while it was quite the journey to get to his place, I appreciated having just a moment away from the city. The fresh air, the trees, the quiet, the big houses, the quaintness...

We ended up having some of the best sex I've ever had and I admitted to him that this was extremely problematic - as did he, especially considering that it feels like we live on two totally different sides of the planet.

After I left, our texts became hotter and heavier than usual and I was amidst several revolving recollections of my time spent with him. He's one of those I-don't-need-any-foreplay guys, which is a guy after my own heart, and also we both seem to have that thing where we challenge our sexual partners to a pleasure duel, trying to out do one another over and over again. With that, one of the little benefits is coming up with new positions, and my dance training came in handy very much with Fernando.

So when I realized that someone who I actually kind of like, and I love having sex with, was not surprisingly not from New York I tried to counteract the affects with another man, and for the most part it worked...

Saturday, September 14, 2019

Good Bad Boy

I didn't spend the night.

Had I known it would be an option, things might have gone differently but in hindsight I can't really tell if it was better that I didn't. The rush that came over me when I ejaculated was something that I hadn't experienced in a long time. He was extremely surprised and impressed by my anal orgasm for which he could only claim 50% - of which he asked, "Was that the first time you've ever done that?" to which I scoffed a belligerent NO.

Frankly, I forget how young he is on account of his domineering nature. Not only does his authoritative nature shine through in his heft, but his attitude and demeanor scream charming clout - and in a bout of irony I cower to it rather than my usual contradiction. He is also dominant in the sack, and there isn't much that I can do to relent even if I wanted to and I have to keep reminding myself that he's only 34 and that means that he's probably up for anything and the world is our oyster and long as I'm willing to show him the way to my pearl.

Of special note is his love of fluids. He's a bit of a spit whore - something as a sufferer of sever OCD and germ-aphobia - is a bit to my distaste. Yes, I know, in most circumstances I can be quite the jizz trap, but that's different and honestly I don't like cum all that much unless I'm getting breeded (it's a power thing) because it's gross and nasty and sticky and reminds me of raw eggs.

That said, having tended to the proper precautions talk, I did let him get me pregnant, and as aforementioned in my last post - when he fell asleep inside of me, something changed in my mind (or was it my heart).

Again, he found this post coital slumber, and I went into that familiar shock. I wanted to sprint away, but I also wanted to argue him into my life. See, the flight or fight of good dick isn't something I've come to terms with in a very long time and I have to say that I was (and still am) leaning towards the former more so than the latter.

He's a nice sweet guy with an edge and has a very strong backbone. And he's fucking Gorgeous, which is why he's called Gorgeous.

But there is something strange about the secretiveness of our meetings and how when we are not together we talk of more open-ended rendezvous that might include something else besides (amazing) fucking. Perhaps we are both in the same situation that is indicative of all eligible non-trash New York City Bachelors: the inadvertent tying of strings and flings. It's like playing double dutch, we know the risk and the reward and neither one of us is brave enough to jump in despite our talent.

His dick is so gorgeous.

It's the right hue and has the most magnificent bush and the perfect size head and length and it feels like a bit of sunshine in my gut when he thrusts into me.

He's not adverse to backtalk and we exchange pleasantries in a backhanded way - which I love. I hit him up just yesterday and tried to plan something for the weekend and he offered himself immediately and me not being spontaneous almost ended up douching in a McDonald's bathroom but luckily he was hospitable enough and gentleman enough and horny enough to bypass my emasculating trepidation in regards to asking if I could clean out at his place.

For some reason, I wasn't being as affectionate as he expected when I arrived. For one, as I mentioned, he's very gorgeous and I am not use to his level of attractiveness and my insecurities cascade out of me in his presence.

He wasn't yet done with working, so I had the uncanny opportunity to listen to him talking to one of his colleagues, which on one hand was like Capricorn porn to me, and on the other I learned some things about him I rather hadn't and it was literally impossible for me not to judge him.

He seemed as though he might have had other plans for the evening so I immediately put up my guard and scratched all those hopeful possibilities off of my imaginary list - the likes of offering to make him dinner (which he mentioned in our texts) and/or spending the night (like I took a raincheck for the last time). I was doing so well until he said, "Spit or lube?"

This time was much quicker than the last - we were familiar with each other's bodies enough and we both seemed to want to get right down to business. I showed him another magic orgasm (this time he could claim 75%) and his snoring made me scared of whatever it was I was feeling.

"You have to leave!?" he pouted - to which I diverted my eyes. I really wanted to stay but like any hungry vampire - I wasn't able to stay unless he invited me in.

I grabbed my things and almost flew away - it was awkward and abrupt and I haven't been able to stop thinking about him since.

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

No I'm Not

He fell asleep inside of me.

It wasn't for a lack of effort on my part - we were both exhausted, and he deserved a nap for his hard work. I was in shock for more reasons than two. Though I'd been sleeping with New Yorkers for the past year with little or no strings attached, it was the first time in a long time I felt slept with.

He snored just like The Possession and markedly started to present other mannerisms reminiscent of that big burly Teutonic Bull that was my requited reproachful cerebral lover in Berlin (whom I still maintain copious correspondence with).

When he woke I wasn't ready to think out loud for him - it was so unexpected and sudden and out of bounds that I needed time to process it and his 3 minute siesta was far from enough, especially since I was confounded with the fact that he himself was [enough].


Not a week has gone by in the several months since my last post that I did not feel like more than less than myself. It is something most New Yorkers become accustomed to unless they take the other route and think they are everything or it. Perhaps there is a delicate balance between the binary of worthlessness and omnipotence, like virtually everything in this city, it's one extreme or the other. While we all have our good days and our bad ones - I'm pretty sure you can ask anyone here which category they fit into and they wouldn't challenge you to find a different one.

The Giant Ginger was my last foray into tumultuous attachment - and I am happy to report that after a rather hilariously sad (but fulfilling) hotel orgy he hosted a couple months back (I'll write about it later), I've rid myself of his presence in my life, and with it, my patience for the intriguing victims of the Big Bad Apple.

Since I haven't had a moment to breathe or leave this place since (Wintertime?), I've been suffocating greatly. Also since I have NEEDS, despite my greatest efforts to repent, I always end up between the thighs of somebody who barely has time for me and treats our business like a transaction. Granted, I am of a certain cloth that isn't opposed to a purposeful hook-up, but I've fucked all over the world and nothing makes me feel more disposable than dick from one of the 4 boroughs (Staten Island don't count, though I did shag a guy from there once and it wasn't half bad).

When I see a stretch of 36-48 hours I virtually sprint to the apps hip hunting again in spite of myself though I know full well I should call that Taurus Dad that's so fond of me and I always have a good time with. About once a month he rents a sleazy hotel (again, I'll write about it later) and invites his friend and we bang for a few hours and get on with our lives.

I don't know why I try for something new, I guess it's customary and has become so ingrained in our culture that it's to be desired and expected - I mean, it's in the city's namesake for christ's sake. Also a part of it is the teachings of the Berliners, where just "be" is in the title, so it's an ambivalent way for me.

There's not many times that I'm not covered in a stranger's jizz and the topic of Germany doesn't come up. I tell them how I was crème brûlée in Europe and now I feel like JELL-OⒸ.

What keeps happening is pretty simple on my end: the desire for common courtesy becomes an affront to someone's character, and much too much to ask for. Case in point, the last two dudes who managed some semblance of telling me "I'm not busy tonight" in reference to the possibility that I would be granted a time slot on their calendar to bang, were the end for me.

I take full responsibility for my end, I never really reach for much more than the aforementioned task, and perhaps my need to plan and schedule and stay on track may come off as bossy or worse: clingy. That doesn't make me inflexible, but at the same time I'm a straight-shooter and the ghosting culture has provided a lot of people the opportunity never to be confronted with their wrongdoings. I know it's a really morbid and perhaps cynical way of looking at it, but I strongly believe that there's a whole slew of people out there just repeating the same mistakes over and over again without any remorse and thinking that everyone else is the problem, making me feel like some sort of sexual Ghostbuster. I can't zap them all, and so many get away with treating people like less than human, which is totally feasible here because again, there's always something New.

New places, new positions, new names, new shapes, new sizes, new smells, new questions, new answers, new holes, new eyes, new lips, new sounds, new compliments, new sweat, new touch, new tastes, New York.

And with the advent of "gay" "marriage" you have all of these people settled down and looking for lust farther away from love than it used to be. Nobody ever wants to talk about how imposing it is for single people to have to deal with the very specific demands of the already wedded. Not only do we have to deal with all the checkboxes and the designations, we have to deal with the conditions, the parameters and putting our hearts in a safe place as not to get them dirty.

There is romance in the air from time to time to time to time - and we keep convincing ourselves that that thing that is right around the corner might be the thing to end all other things, but we still have to keep moving - keep going - finding more, wanting more, needing more. Anything new.

The crushing force of the city comes in this velocity - and it leaves you frail and futile from every so often until you find another magical moment with which to dig up an iota of hope. But over and over again, when he calls you an Uber and he's called it quits, you're back out in the jungle again trying to maintain.

Every once in a while I want something old. "All that stupid old shit," but then New York wakes me up and snap out of it.

This is not to say I'm not happy to be here, but don't believe the hype - the city does actually sleep - and if you're lucky enough sometimes it happens inside of you.


"You're so cute," he commented through his thick beard.

"No I'm not," I assured him.

Several more times he tried to convince me and each time I refused. He even tried other adjectives, ones I hadn't heard in ages; so long in fact that it almost felt like a foreign language.

Part of it was the jarring affects of my sexual history in NYC (every session is traumatic in some way) and part of it was that he was (is?) much younger than me - he has a very generic, mainstream attractiveness that I am not usually drawn to - or at least I don't pay attention to due to my own augmenting insecurities (it's not just New York, it's also social media).

He's tall and thick and pale enough to be a vampire, he's COVERED in gorgeous hair (even on his head which isn't what I usually go for) and he's got the sweetest demeanor - and it's all so unbelievable to me. Our conversation was great, I was a hot sweaty mess when I arrived to his apartment, and my nerves are still shot to hell from trying to understand why he wanted to fuck me.

We had met on an app and I refused to talk to him because he had no face pic (I'm vehemently opposed to this practice because it's just perpetuating homophobia). He persisted, sent his (gorgeous) face pic along with a picture of his (gorgeous) dick and slowly but surely, I had decided that I would give it a try and break my rule just this one last time.

For intents and purposes let's call him Gorgeous.

"You want to go for round three?" he asked, rhetorically, and once again I was cumming in a matter of moments. His heft was just what I needed for that moment, this new moment, this very New York Moment, and then he asked me to spend the night, something old-fashioned....

Friday, March 1, 2019

Daddy Issues

"I got you, I got you baby, you're my baby???"

I was laying prostrate underneath this guy who in a million years I would never think would be the one to bring this out of me or into me. He was calling me "baby", but not in the sweet term of endearment way, but in the Fatherly way. It was tender, and caring, and sincere (though I think I may have learned his name but only because it was circumstantial at that point), and raw and completely weird.

I never got around to answering the question, but I've been in my own inquisition ever since.


If you would have met my Dad when he was alive you would have fallen head over heels for him. He wasn't the tallest, wasn't the fittest, wasn't the most remarkable man - and all those things he turned into charm. Part artist, part handyman, a Libra in love with social proclivities and the finer things in life, he wasn't so much the provider per se, but obsessed with helping people experience comfort and joy in the simplest ways (a contradiction to the aforementioned, but again, oh so charming nonetheless).

I never had a chance to mourn his death and for the intents and purposes of these paragraphs I don't want to go into any details that aren't love, sex and relationshits related - though one could argue (and win) that every man I choose has something to do with my father.

When I attempt to date or fuck or even glance at someone without that certain parental quality - I come up with nil. I need that authoritative, caretaker demeanor at least if not in dress, style and life choices. It is not only my father's fault - I grew up a pretty broken child like my other two siblings probably on the account of my mother's frail size - we were all premature and I think none of us fit through her vagina and we had to be pulled out from her belly. My brother only had about a third of his organs fully developed, my sister was incredibly small, and I came out barely breathing with the umbilical chord wrapped around my neck (there's a joke in there somewhere).

Throughout my early years I was mostly in the hospital. I started school early and then had to be taken out for various surgeries, mostly asthma related or eye related or having to do with my one testicle that refused to descend in a timely fashion.

My peers growing up were elders in hospital beds next to me and big burly bearded smoking doctors. I don't recall ever being in a children's ward, I grew up in a small town in Maryland and everything was kind of done in the same place because there wasn't a lot of people.

I remember all my doctors - I remember feeling safe around them and only around them (there was a lot of chaos in my household, especially in part due to the the exuberance of my bad ass siblings and the fact that my parents were always fighting or fucking or fighting while fucking).

Though there was a lot of pain and embarrassment from eye patches to wheelchairs to inhalers to needing my back slapped every morning to release phlegm so I didn't die...I became comfortably accustomed to those older men who reassured me that I was a tough cookie who could withstand anything, with or without the added benefit of lolipops. Still the metallic taste of apple juice and Jell-o is a pleasant pang of nostalgia and the freedom from the rest of the world that I realized trapped in a hospital bed up until I was about 7, is favorably fond for me.

When that number hit, my parents separated (but never divorced) and I spent most of my days wishing we were with him when we weren't.

Fast forward 30 something years and I have yet to solidify a healthy relationship (sexual based) with someone within 5 years of my own age.

The last big thing was with a man in his 50s, the guy with all the books. He seemed to fall off the face of the earth and then allowed me to arrive in his orbit a week after he had reclaimed his phone after having "left it at work" for several days. Even in the event that this was not a falsehood, I couldn't grasp the concept of once again allowing myself to be the subject of neglect and constantly forgiving someone who always expects me to be there for them - hashtag daddy issues.

After the debacle with the Giant Ginger, I was fed up with the ideals of The New York City Gay. There's a man a minute (sometimes less) and the quality doesn't come near the quantity readily available here.

As far as maturity is concerned, Ginger had it tenfold, and though he was way below my median age, he was way above his years in spirit (typical Taurus) but still in hindsight I realize he was not only a child, but maybe even a sociopath???

The last time I actually heard from him he told me he was in treatment and despite efforts from his new "friends" to delete basically his entire phonebook, he decided to reach out to me, tell me he missed me and when I asked why he wrote:

I miss you because u are the first person I have ever met where I give into you completely. I also don't have many people that care about me and the real version of me not the facade. you saw me at my worst and still found the good parts of me. 

Call me crazy, cynical, callous - but that seems very template like to me, maybe even cut and pasted from an source with no citation???

After trying to rid myself of the book guy (he's since returned to my inbox), I accidentally ran into the Ginger online and he's back to his old self again, delving into the underbelly of sex, drugs and rock and roll (or in this instance Ariana Grande I guess).

I tried to intercept his newest stint diving towards the rock bottom, without interfering at all - it was a botched attempt because he recognized my request and then ignored me. Hashtag daddy issues.

I refused to go back to book guy after I had some inexplicable bout of what many might call "emotions" in regards to the fact that while sort of hung up on the Ginger, I recognized the obvious theme and circumvented that truth and manifested into NO MORE WHITE DUDES.

I decided that since I hadn't had a real day off in awhile, I would make my way to the sauna and check out the goods there. The goods of color.

I'll tell you this - being African American from a mixed race household, primarily it was assumed and iterated that you date/stay inside your race, even though my grandmother was white and there was a whole lot of swirl going on on my mother's side.

Facing racism from within really took its toll on me and I ended up hanging out with the white girls because they accepted me the most out of all the different populations in the many different schools I went to growing up (even from grade school to high school to college I went for the teachers, and that's another post for another time).

But I've been hellbent on going back to black on account of the current abominable sociopolitical climate and to avoid any more sexual trauma in this town underpinned by sexual racism.

So I met two really nice, really attractive, really meaty, kind of young black guys (with average dicks!!!) at this place and not the worst thing that could possibly happen happened, but I kind of have this adamant thing about not dealing with my own issues and a lot of black gays are so riddled with racism and homophobia they have a hard time not calling an asshole a pussy.


This may seem like small potatoes, but to me it just reminds me of the plight in a different way than it does when I'm with white dudes. Sure, there's a lot to unpack when I'm being packed with pink meat, but it's kind of raunchy taboo rather than sad abbreviation.

Also, did I mention all my teachers and doctors were white growing up???


He was lanky, and kind of amorphous. He had this scraggly beard and (ew) long hair, and was mostly smooth all over. He didn't really present himself in a fatherly form, but once I kicked this burly, masculine, meaty, bald, hairy beast out of my room after we fooled around with him a bit, he really got into caressing that debilitated boy in me.

He threw compliments at me at a mile an hour, he touched me like I was the best thing he ever touched, and he made the most thoughtful scooping motion as he dug into me with his meager but satiating pale dick.

When I was on my stomach and he was kissing me all over it was exactly what I never knew that I wanted. In a world where intimacy is this feigned thing doled out like a drug that gets you high for only a few moments - it was nice to get it for just a little bit longer than that.

I made him leave because I wasn't in the mood to confront those issues and I was feeling bad about myself that I have given in to the white man again - before him there was this strawberry blond short cake that had the perfect uncut dick and used me as a shooting range for a plethora of cum that gushed out of the thing. He too had a certain papa-ness to him that made me feel safe and warm and awkwardly appreciated. 

My door was still ajar for a long time after them, and there was some hot and heavy stuff that transpired but I wasn't feeling connected to any of it and I was longing for that temporary joy afforded to me by that hippie.

Before he left, he passed my room and looked in at me. And then, again, like seemingly a requirement, he walked away and I never knew if I would see him again.

Friday, February 8, 2019

The Giant Ginger

It. Hurt. Too. Much.

I was on all fours facing the foot of the bed - squinting at the reflection of us in the mirror, or wincing as it were. I was actually doing that thing where you grab the blankets underneath you, not in my usual attempt to spark visual appeal or because I was in subspace or because it felt so good I might implode. It wasn't even because I was holding on for dear life. It was because I hated myself for hating big dick and I was determined to make this work, if not for me - for him.

He was happily albeit casually ramming away at my sphincter of which I was trying to keep as open as possible (not that I really had a choice) but there are autonomic functions in the body that react to pain whether you like it or not. I adjusted my knees by spreading them in a botched attempt to welcome him more freely but that was a big mistake, huge - because it just gave way for more gigantic cock.

Thoughts like these flew in my head:

-I can't believe people love this
-How could someone do anything else but think about sex with that thing swinging around all day
-The Cockness Monster haha
-I can do this
-I should tell him to stop
-I don't want him to think I'm a pussy
-I'm going to feel this tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day
-I hope this feels good for him
-If I just relax and think of something - yeowch!

Etcetera etcetera etcetera.

I joke from time to time but it's no laughing matter. I don't like big dick (or any large item for that matter) inside of my mouth or anus. I'm just not built for it. The funniest thing I always say is a quote from the series Six Feet Under when Brenda's mom is considering getting pussy surgery to regain her tightness and she says, "Nobody wants to fuck a glass of water if you know what I mean...". Case in point, there are folks that can get stretched out and recover or just become a gaping hole for the rest of their lives, but I learned at a much too young age the importance of Preparation H and Kegel Exercises being the gateway to a man's heart.

I'm not your average gay. I do not like muscles, I think cum is disgusting and I want nothing to do with it (it reminds me of raw eggs), I'm not a fan of pop divas, and I most certainly do not crave big dick.

It's roughly 11 inches. Cut, with a curve at the last 2 inches and I think that's just on account of it not being able to fit in most places and the shape comes from being formed from all the impaling he's done with it.

I want to post a picture to show you but I fear (and also know) that it's a famous penis and I'd be relinquishing any sort of privacy this man already lacks, as I'm quite sure many of you have seen it before.

It kept hitting that spot where you know it's gone too far and with each invasion I arched my back in a convex motion, as does a cat when it's about to puke and coincidentally it almost felt like the whole thing was going to come up through my throat at any given minute.

I know I'm complaining, and we all know that it's much better to act like it's bigger than what it is to make them feel special but this was not a ruse and I was not performing but maybe I was but in a different way than you might expect. Sure, he, like most men, loved the feeling of hurting me, and while he did considerately ask me if I was okay (I lied, of course), there was a certain velocity that came with every shriek; he pushed further the more I contracted.

When he took my waist in his hands I had him. That was the best part. There is something about that control from being controlled that gets me going so hard - and admittedly, that's all I needed pain notwithstanding.

Not only is his cock tall, but he himself is as well, hence the title of this post. There are light dustings of amber fur all about his plump butt cheeks, his sturdy legs, his charming mature-for-his-age face, his warm blanket of a chest, and a few other places - most notably his short mane on his head and the tuft surrounding his trunk of a dick.

Somehow I ended up cumming. I wasn't masturbating and he wasn't touching my dick. This was the last thing I wanted but my body is a bit of an anomaly - even to me sometimes. I didn't want to tell him or let him know and I closed my eyes and tried to hide my face from the view in the mirror so I did a bit of a downward dog situation (and I don't do yoga so I don't even know what that means exactly) and I turned my hands into fists and braced his pounding the best I could as my want for him squirted out of me and for the first time the pain went away.


In Germany they have a cute moniker for track/running pants called schnellfickenhosen. Translation: fast fuck pants. America and the rest of the world appropriated them and now gray sweatpants are the modern day equivalent of a 15th century codpiece.

When he came up to the door he was wearing a pair of gray basketball shorts (the sluttier cousin of the aforementioned) and I did my best not to look at the horse meat going full commando down there as his pleasant smile and sad eyes greeted me.

I wasn't supposed to be there.

Let's get the worst part out of the way - we met online but not to hookup. He explained to me that he was high on methamphetamine and was scared that he was going to injury himself if he tried to do another injection.

Side Note: I do not ever condone or condemn any behaviors or activities involving sex or sexuality on this blog unless it is something nonconsensual and/or hurting someone else (big dicks notwithstanding), and if you take a look at my past posts - I have a history with most every sort of sexual encounter and I do my best to stay as neutral as possible. I've decided to be more open and concrete and direct about meth in particular because it is 99% unavoidable in the gay community and I have taken up the issue in my personal and professional life. Instead of skirting around it and mentioning it as an aside, I'm finally comfortable with "talking about" it "openly" - not in the hopes of making change or anything as I still want this site to be for entertainment purposes only. 

I have a lot of empathy for addicts and I have a torrid history with a few.

I knew what I was getting into and I knew I couldn't hear his story without offering help.

So I went over there and I went through my past experiences and told him about The Tornado and I told him that I was totally judging him and that I'm pretty fucking honest and he could feel safe with me. We had an agreement before I came and I surveyed the situation to ensure that I didn't need to take any desperate measures to de-escalate what was going on.

I was to give him his dose and he was going to go somewhere to do someone(s) and that was that.

Naturally, it didn't happen that way.

(Yes, I know he could've been lying as a ploy to get laid but I did actually review the texting receipts and he did have plans to go to a fuckbuddy's house - not my first time at the rodeo).

If you know anything about this drug - you know it's a very strong man-made stimulant that sends insane amounts of dopamine to your central nervous system. This Giant Ginger was a veteran user so his response/reaction wasn't an all out explosion and lack of control and loss of inhibitions (typically commonplace) and I respected the fact that his lust got pretty heated after I did the deed, and I talked him though it until he finally asked me to do something.

We didn't go all the way the first time nor the second time. There was about three to four weeks in between the first two meetings and they both were very business like and we stayed away from each other physically as much as possible which was kind of a feat considering.

This boy is not my type, or so I thought.

He's ridiculously tall, and I know it's sexy, but it's not my favorite. He's inexplicably young, below the age of 35 which because of my daddy issues makes me feel like he's barely legal. He's kind of arty so that's usually a turn-off for me because they tend to be dramatic, unruly and completely off their rocker, and hello, position filled: I like to be the crazy/interesting one in the equation. He's also pretty conventionally attractive and in most mainstream circles people would consider him hot. I always go for the more rugged, Cro-Magnon, hairy, bald and unkempt versions of the species and he's not really that at all.

Frankly, he's out of my league.

Between the second time and the third time he ended up hurting himself as his earlier portent suggested and when I found out about it I took the blame. He had reached out to me and because I wasn't available, he went ahead and tried and failed miserably and ended up with a horrible infection that landed him in the hospital.

A couple of weeks later I checked in on him and then a couple weeks after that I had him on the bed with his arm out and the sweet stinging smell of alcohol swab wafted in the air for a moment, I told him to make a fist, as he held tightly on the tourniquet, I told him here we go, pressed the sharp prick into one of his surviving veins, pulled back a few drops of blood that quickly swam along into the lethal liquid and formed a coagulation of dark crimson substance and I pushed in asking are you okay are you okay are you okay - okay you're done.

And his arm went up and his eyes lit up and his pelvis pushed forward and...

By this point it was a given that we were going to have sex. I was not at all thrilled that the Mr. Mom  in me was starting to get emotional about this child. There were so many things wrong with him and instinctively I wanted to make them right.

Cut to: our first BDSM session.

The not so ugly part about meth, or crystal or tina - is that it "helps" people get in touch with their psychosexual side. Alas, this part of the brain that is usually closed or repressed gets busted open when this drug comes into play and having lived in one of the gayest party cities in the world (Berlin) I've seen the best and the worst of it.

The Ginger likes to be tied up, he likes to be blindfolded, and he likes to be controlled.

I had this trifecta going with him when we finally got around to copulation it was nothing short of magic. He was obedient, fully committed to servicing me, he's completely versatile in both giving in receiving, and he's extremely sensual.

A lot of what I do with a Submissive on the first round involves questions and tests. It's imperative that I know what the limits are, what the dislikes are, what the likes are, where the soft spots are, how to get to that subspace, and most importantly, how to bring out that hunger and frustration.

This thirty-something year old had a lot of experience under his belt (as I imagine most well endowed men do) and not surprisingly, I found out he was worth a lot more than his huge member once we got into the darkness.

He took very easily to the first position, that is (in my instruction) standing on his knees with his legs spread and his cock fully exposed, his feet flexed, back straight, and hands clasped behind his head - allowing full access and exposure of his body.

I'm going to have to end this here for now because -

Monday, January 28, 2019


"Right now?!" I moaned, moreover a pleading sigh begging him not to make me do it. It had been so long and I knew it was going to make a big mess. Also - I was so frustrated not only by the fact that it had come to this in this way, but I wasn't really prepared to resign myself to the fact that we were going to fuck without fucking.

"Yes, go ahead," he calmly ordered and I did.

It wasn't your regular run-of-the-mill orgasm. And it definitely wasn't so big and great and seemingly superfluous (as if there was such a thing) because I had an at least 3 week drought that had opened the floodgates. This include lack of masturbation.

It wasn't just the methodology involved either. Yes, he is apparently a master of the craft and art form that is tantric sex and as I told my friend the next day via text, "my taint is still twitching from whatever he was doing down there."

Furthermore, it wasn't my hunger - though admittedly the buildup came in so many forms from so many directions...

There were so many books. Books literally everywhere.  So many books I had trouble navigating my way behind him after asking him to lead the way to the bathroom after three spontaneous bouts of necking had occurred and I couldn't take it anymore; I wanted needed to get down to business.

It wasn't that either.

I could tell you that it was his cock, the cause and the cure for this dubious dilemma I had found myself in, but it wasn't! Yes, it was the perfect size, shape and color, raging and dripping - stemming out from a nestle of thick brown bush...It tasted like sweet ham and chlorine.

"No" -- that's what I wanted to say instead of what I did. I may have muttered something about don't make me do it but then I did and it was almost painful how pleasurable it was.

A cross between a finger bang and a prostate massage and a first circle tickle - I was straddled above him engaging in one of my favorite pastimes: frottage.

I was bucking my pelvis in a scooping motion, sword fighting with his leaky curved prize of a dick - and he was staring at me with his weathered blue eyes, or through me as it were. Large globs of jizz vibrated out of me as I pulsed and then the puddle came more steadily as I told him to push back against me - and he obliged and furthered his one finger into me as he spread me apart with the rest of them.

But that wasn't why I wanted to do it and that isn't why I asked "Right now?'


Mr. Tantric.

That's the only indicator I can give you because he's very incognito and I could very easily give away who this person is and it's best if I don't if not only for the sake of mystery.

I will add though - for only those of you whom have been presently surprised to see my return, a hint: my favorite profession.

We had been chatting all day after "meeting" on Scruff the night before and before that a year before. Our initial conversation was very typical "you're an artists what do you do..." blah blah blah that fades off into oblivion like all of those sex app conversations do - especially in New York City. (I won't mention Berlin and how talking about art was the easiest way to guarantee a dick appointment).

We made the jump to texting and I told him I was in the middle of moving not too far from him and we did this whole joke thing about welcoming me to the neighborhood. He didn't have a lot of game and was much more inclined to ask me questions without much initiative to share his side of anything, but I get so tired of NYC Narcissism it was actually quite refreshing and I took it with a sprinkle of salt.

We complained to each other about how horny we were and how much flakiness turns us off. He asked me about my special spots (as in erogenous zones) - I told him about the first two after a botched attempt to be coy and then the third we tabled for a later time.

Speaking of tabling and a later time...

When I got to his place I was ridiculously nervous.

Real talk: usually my hookups are so sleazy and random and anonymous, it felt like the early 2000s the way we were chatting and talking and actually having a semblance of a date. I purposefully wanted to stay away from booze or drugs or even poppers and have some old-fashioned bona fide, write home to your mom sex, if not only to stop the -

He was very inquisitive, and when I just kind of released myself from the conversation (he's a Gemini and obsessed with talking/information and I myself, am not) he held out his hand, took mine in his and then leaned in to kiss me.

It was distracting enough for the time being and I pushed him away a few times, trying to reacclimatize myself to foreplay and vanilla. It gave me a little bit of a buzz.

We made it into the bedroom (there were so many books and I kept asking about them) and we took off our clothes down to our underwear and we kissed and then he straddled me which was cute and funny because did I mention he's a pocket gay?

I actually prefer shorter men because the tall ones are freakishly afraid of their limbs and tend to stay on their backs for most of the duration of sex which is completely unacceptable (prove me wrong, I'll wait.) With a shorter man, and me - a flexible/athletic dancer type, the sex is much more acrobatic and versatile.

Anyway, he started to touch me and then it happened: I thought of The Giant Ginger*.

It was bound to happen and I knew very well that I was there mostly because once again I had decided to move on from that tall, hairy, piggy beast that I severely desire.

Mr. Tantric noticed a change in me and acted accordingly and for awhile it was enough.

He paid close attention to two of the spots aforementioned in our precursory conversations which afforded me some time in subspace because his demeanor is very daddy and that Freudian shit always gets to me in that hyperactive entrancing way.

I teased the fuck out of him and I am happy to report that he's a submissive top.

"Isn't it so great when you're compatible with someone like this?"

My answer was half-hearted as I went to town on his dick in not the way anyone ever expects when I do it. It was deliberate and cautious and then ravenous and passionate and then STOP....repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Repeat - he was repeating on me, his red hair, his plump bottom, his reckless abandon, his ridiculous tallness matching the ridiculous size of his 11 inch dick. The way he took all of my commands like a pro and never relented against any of the cocks I demanded that he take, with or without the blindfold and told me over and over and over again YES SIR I wish it was him instead but it wasn't and I had to enjoy this because it was enjoyable and normal and...sober.

Mr. Tantric had a glass of wine and I had a sip of mine before we started. I let my fierce discipline take over me if not only to rid myself of all those intoxicated times with The Ginger in the past. This was an opportune time for me to prove to myself that I could be happy with something not so crazy, not so bad for me - I wanted to try to see how the other half lives with this nice guy. He was so nice and so nice to me, and as much as I knew that's what I should be doing, I wasn't ready for it then "right now."


He used my gallons of sperm as lube to jerk his perfect dick that didn't make it inside of me as I took care of his nipples.

I forgot to mention that halfway into our session he asked me to look in his eyes and posed some question about waiting to fuck until later because he wants to have things to keep building up to.


After he came, my butthole was still juicy from his tongue being buried in and around it for so long. The next day I would explain, "It was like someone was cooking bacon in the room during Sabbath, and you know how much Jews love bacon!" (I'm the Jew in the analogy). But who am I to complain!?

Somehow, still - I wrapped my head around the idea of this guy becoming a regular lover and I'm even entertaining the notion of us actually dating. He's got a lot of things going on that I like and I would enjoy the benefits of an activity partner and THE ACTIVITY partner but if this prairie dog situation persists he's getting the boot.

I'm sad to admit that I did think about the lyric "do you ever take drugs so that you can have sex without crying" by the infamous Sarah Silverman.

Here I was in this situation to try and cure my loneliness without getting attached - something I've had a hard time mastering in a city that is so dehumanizing.

I've been to sleazy bath houses and relaxed house parties and dark sex clubs and crazy hotel parties during my tenure in New York thus far and there's always this uncomfortable disconnection, sober or not. At one party of a friend that I made who lives in a quaint part of town, I ended up getting banged out by this beautiful little Latino whom kept his eyes closed the entire time. This is not the first time this has happened to me (in New York) - and I guess that's why so many people get fucked up before they fuck.

There is a heightened amount of intoxication amongst gays (more so than usual in the past two years) and I'm not afraid to talk about it.

I've been in touch with Mr. Tantric ever since and I somehow managed to find this fucking disgusting sex addict online to cushion the blow and have a backup in case I get too close for comfort with Mr. Tantric.

He's a girthy guy and we're going to set something up later this week.

It's nice to finish me off, but that should happen last.

*I met The Giant Ginger over the summer and he's an addict in rehab right now.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Black By Popular Demand

It might have been the fifth time I came but typically I stop counting after the third time.

I was amidst another refractory period courtesy of the bear and three goldicocks situation that was transpiring. Looking over at the mass of mix colored flesh had become somewhat of anathema to me now; as much as it was pleasure, so much of it sparked pain in me.

It's a puzzling array of feelings considering that this was the fantasy incarnate that so many men spend so much of their time seeking out. A wondering array of human specimens, all uninhibited, all horny as hell, all intelligent - articulate souls, none selfish, all sexy.

So why is it then when I looked over at them, aroused by their unwavering fucking that it washed over me? I realized, right then and there that I no longer wanted to be a part of The White Male Curated Sexual Experience.

We were jungle cats playing in the sweltering hot heat of the summer of '18, in Harlem no less - whose buildings seem to trap the outside weather within its walls more than any other New York City neighborhood.


It's been awhile.

Almost two years ago exactly since I found my way to this sight. The view of my nervous and eager fingers pounding much harder than necessary on the black, risen keys from this metallic memory saver - the negative space under my wrists sweaty from that confusing attachment to writing. The bright light of the display is entrancing and as much as I wish this could be the daily chore I love to adore, for some reason I've been compelled not to share the ever present wild stories of lust that are a huge part of who I am.

This is not to say that I haven't been taming the beast or seducing the demon in other ways. I spent the past two years buried in playwriting and screenwriting and though those stories were much more observations and much less introspection, there's still a lot of thinly veiled memoir in the hundreds upon hundreds of pages I've birthed since now.

I wanted to come back to this because I felt like I've been hiding from something for way too long. The uprising of The Right here in this country has provided me with a very unfortunate amount of mistrust and trepidation in regards to exposing myself on the world wide web. After a few months go by, I stop by this page (and the two constituents of this page) and remember what a damn good erotic writer I am.

But like I did with burlesque, leaving it behind to do more serious work in a botched effort to be taken more seriously (whatever that means), it has afforded me this dreadful sense of guilt for being less of myself and giving way to the puritanical affectations that are a very ugly sign of the times.

When I first came back from Europe three years ago, I had learned the oldest gospel of kink, and I came back here as some poor man's (or laymen's as it were) version of Dionysus, ready to share the wealth of knowledge of sex with anyone bearing even an iota of an inquiring mind. No fetish was too small or too big or two weird or too taboo or to strange or too boring, I wanted to let a large population know that it's not the fetish itself that can do harm, it's the repression.

So a year in, I left Philly because of those of which we never speak (coming soon in later posts) and arrived in New York City, where for some odd reason I thought my sex life was going to take a turn for the better.

It didn't.

There's something about the fast paced reckless and thoughtless ambition that this city breeds that makes the sex a little haphazard, forced and completely stick-to-the-script in scenario. A foreign friend of mine once commented that New Yorkers all look like extras in a film, which in a way is the most troubling thing I've ever heard primary due to the accuracy.

I did delve head and ass first into SEVERAL scenes - including but not limited to poly, bdsm, queer, naked etcetera etcetera etcetera. And as much as the grouping off and distinguishing characteristics of attraction is a viable way to get off in the way you want, the larger conglomerate that is New York City proper is some what of a treacherous way to pigeonhole pleasure, furthermore because of the glaring modern day Caste system this town provides, the disconnection (whether warranted or not) is far from sexy.

Sure, the Germans, and more specifically, Berliners, love to categorize their pschopathia situations. You have the sportif parties (for jocks and socks/sneaker lovers, that often times branches out to jockstraps, feet, hairy guys and the like), skin parties (for the more punk, nazi brand of of fuck boy which also includes some interests along the line of fisting, sadomasochism and bodily fluid play), leather parties (this specialty also branches out to men in uniform, smoking, poppers, and anonymous sex et al.) and so on and so forth.

But why is it that I feel so out of place when I go to a NYC gathering, sexual or not?

Was it because I was so heavily eroticized in public as a gay black man in Europe or is it because I am only eroticized in private as a gay black man in New York City (.)

The fundamental difference is very clear to me.

White men in America tend to harbor subconscious white guilt in terms of racism and typically look at the black man as a threat, encouraging them to desire to be dominated by black men.

White men in Europe tend to harbor subconscious empathy for black people and seem themselves as a threat to them - which is why they typically desire to dominate black men.

Either way,  I'm fucked and no matter how hard anyone tries, that issue will come up in interracial sex. We can talk about the dynamic of black-on-black sex and black-on-brown sex in the future but I must warn you, it's not my forte. What can I say? I love pale ass and pink dick.


I ended up spending a huge amount of time with one of the other black guys, I can't remember his name - he was from Barbados. He was so damned handsome but so approachable - almost as if he was intrinsically programmed to soften people up as not to be intimidated by his beauty.

As we ate grease truck food in the middle of Malcolm X Boulevard at 3 something A.M., stinking of sweat and cum and lube and poppers, we made small talk into big.

It was just moments ago that he, along with another gorgeous black man who resembled me a lot more than I'd like to admit, had all met the acquaintance of one another not so much on our own volition. It was through a "regular" "fuck buddy" "of mine" who for intents and purposes we'll cal The Goat - a rather exquisitely randy bearish man with a shaved head and ginger beard who I've fucked a handful of times in the past year.

All three of us gave each other that look when we once again knew what was happening.

As much as we learned not to mind it so much anymore because of the frequency of the occurrence, it was still the same story with absolutely no plot twist: the well off white man inviting a troupe of black dudes to his place for his ideal sex orgy experience.

Yes, it was hot, and yes I got fucked by and fucked everyone there (except for the Barbados beauty who was happily our bitch bottom for the duration of our tryst) - but after the dozenth time of this same situation, it gets old and seems suddenly problematic.

I had made plans with The Goat to stop by for a fuck or two and he never mentioned that the dudes were there. On one hand it was a nice surprise, on the other it was presumptuous and controlling.

I can't really blame him, because our society affords this kind of behavior - but in retrospect I think about my white husband and how open we were sexually and how we never got around to having a threesome (or the preferred foursome because we all know threesomes are the worst) because he was attracted to skinny black dudes and I was attracted to burly white ones. So instead of making that (selfish?) assertion or attempting a tolerant albeit loving sacrifice, we just opted to not even try to find someone we both liked, because it would prove to be a lot of effort for something so trivial.

Now with stories like Ed Buck making headlines, I'm compelled to come back to this place where I have told a story similar to this one. Perhaps it is time for me to work harder in working out this "issue" I have with white men - something my therapist is exhausted by trying to comprehend.

I keep reiterating my fear and disgust for the way white men treat me (us) but at the same time I can't stop fucking clamoring to them. It's like the fear fetish - things that you are afraid of showing themselves in sexual desire. But there are so many more factors. First of all, I come a very diverse background, and surely some of my ancestors were white slave owners. Secondly - as an oppressed minority within a minority, my peers tend to take on the behaviors of our oppressors, and third but not least or all - I'm intensely attracted to my opposite. I don't think it's so much a self-loathing thing (I hate to admit that most of the black men I'm attracted to do bear the same physical characteristics as I do) as a nurture thing - it was always the black dudes making fun of me growing up and still to this day.

Do I have those moments where I wish I was white?

I don't think so?

I love being black. But I hate being black in America.