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.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


...corner of the room my face against the rounded edge of the plastic mattress and the back of my head pounding against the greasy wall my hands gripping on for deer in headlights life my arms bent like chicken wings beside me with my neck twisted sideways and I'm on my poor sore knees holding my pounded ass up in the air with my toes curling and sweat everywhere and I can't even remember what this man looks like.

"Don't be nice with it, slam it. That's it, make it hurt."

It's who I became. With this a humungous roar came from this gentle giant and our symphony of forgetful fuck enveloped us in this dark dark - very dark place we were in. He was so quiet before - looking over all the other strangers with that prick poking through that precarious white towel, and I thought that he'd be the last one to "want" me. His hands were enormous and they spread my cheeks apart much further than they usually go - and with that, and his mammoth cock, I was split in two like I needed to be. I couldn't bear to be just myself anymore.

"Thanks, that wasn't so hard, was it? Only took 6 fucking hours."

And then it was done.


I haven't done much of what many people call "playing" since that fateful day in No No No November, when again I thought the world was ending, but not in the way that I used to...not in the groovy apocalyptic, live like there's no tomorrow way that I had grown so accustomed to in Berlin. This was the it's me versus them now, and they've put their foot down, stepping back so many years in history, and you're done for kind of end of the world.

In Germany they have this word - "Pause" that is assumed to be just that and it was a frequent part of my vocabulary there, constantly trying to get their sexual stamina to relent for a moment, a while, or at least so I could get a drink of water (most times they'd just keep fucking while handing me the bottle).

I miss that word.

For now, as aforementioned and so needless to say, there is no thrill and there is only hunt here in USA, and more specifically, New York City. And it really is a shame that so much of this world that I am in is obsessed with so many things in lieu of life.

So I decided to STOP. Perhaps I am flattering myself in that statement. I'll tell you firsthand that there is nothing like those looks I used to get. I haven't gotten them since I left, except from an import or three.

Since the nation seems to be rewinding, I'm trying my best now to fast forward - so I am recording as much of the art I have in me as quickly as possibly in case this world does end or I find another one. One more comfortable, one that wants me, one that needs me.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Running of the Bulls

It's time for another post about Taurus.

(c) Encyclopedia Britannica 

I wave my red flags and they some running.

First, let me again reiterate my entertainment only based admiration of astrology though admittedly, I keep track of zodiac signs (not to be confused with horoscopes - which do NOT interest me in the least) because I have a devout belief in cosmic influence. There are always these patterns in our lives that seem to have some intricate link to biorhythms that are affected by natural influences in the environment. Perhaps the variables of our homeostasis and pH balance changes our pheromones, thus affecting our attraction to each other.

Case in point, over the Spring it just so happens that I was being accosted by innumerable amounts of Virgos, then they faded away and a few substantial Sagittarius popped up. The Summer brought along a lot of Scorpio (per usual) and then an abundance of Taurus, and now that Autumn has fallen, I'm inundated with Pisces.

The first new bull to come ramming into my life is a fascinating too young of a creature (by "too young" I mean almost exactly the same age as me) who is Trouble personified. He has all the makings of a quintessential Lost Boy, a term I've coined to describe a certain specimen of the metropolitan gay male - much like many of typical Lost Boys I had met in Berlin.

There are specific parameters for this distinction and he fit into all but a few of them. Without going into much detail, he is single, lives in a major city, and didn't have the best upbringing (fill in the blanks as needed).

The first time we met I was having one of those moments. It wasn't abject loneliness or destitute horniness, which usually leads to me going online to one of THOSE websites to find some white ass and/or pink dick. I was genuinely on the hunt for something regular and reliable, that wouldn't weigh me down so much, as I had spent most of the Summer aggressively dating.

His username alone hinted at more than what the average New Yorker has to offer, and I was intrigued that he had some interest in hanging out as well as having sex (and seemed genuine about it). He appealed to my dirty side,  as I must say there aren't a lot of people in this town who are up for anything like the Germans are. And he had a place to fuck!

When I arrived, his gorgeous roommate answered (more later if I'm up to writing about it) and he was still in the bathroom preparing. He [the Taurus] greeted me while wearing a big towel and a big 'ol hospitable smile, and his big green eyes lit up like a watchtower. I felt instantly comfortable around this boy and soon enough we got down to business.

A self-proclaimed bottom (like 90% of NYC population), he was #thickandjuicy and it was nice to be with someone not over 40 for a change who didn't completely bore me. Luckily he was a slut, so he had enough experience to entertain the idea of not being a spoiled pissant.

"I never top," he laughed out to me later when were talking about how much we enjoyed each other and how flip fucking can be a lot of fun. He had a nice dick and I was happy to teach him how to use it because it felt really good inside of me and his face looked amazing as I was slamming my hungry hairy hole on it while grabbing the back of his neck. He was pleasantly surprised.

I developed a temporary little crush on the little green eyed creature - let's call him Judas, for reasons I'm not in the mood to mention, but it faded not too long after because he fell into that little bro category after awhile due to some of my judgement of his hopelessness.

I realized right away that he lived in a virtual whore house, his sexier than thou roommate (a slender, chiseled, bald headed, bearded, big butted black guy with piercing eyes) entertained guests while we were going at it in the room next door.

That along with his stuck between a rock and a hard place existence allowed for some pretty harrowing stories, and I did my best not to go back into that pattern of becoming attached to the impossible.

But he was so adorable, and like a good Taurus, obsessed with flesh - and he felt so good, and he was a good kisser, and very seductive.

The next time I met him we went too far and I completely detached. I knew that it was a bad idea, and I felt like the matador that was leading something on that should have been turned off even though he turned me on so much.

We talked of potential scenarios - much of which he urged me to take the lead, doling out those three little favorite of mine words I never grow tired of hearing: anything, you, want.

His reckless abandon was invigorating, but he still somehow maintained this earthy stability somehow. This is so commonplace amongst those born mid Spring, like a newly formed blossoming flower that relies on all of the other elements to survive.

The third time I saw him I did my best to refrain from anything serious. He was allegedly leaving town for good and for me it was a going away party of sorts;  I brought him some Crisco as a present. We got down for a little while and again the wall went up.

He became this glaring example of everything that is wrong with the type of situations I get myself into. In this city, there is an abundance of people who think black/brown men are only good for one thing - and while I did well contradicting this heinous stereotypical behavior, he was still enamored with the idea of the Mandingo, and I could not and will not accept it.

Like a good Lost Boy (with a plethora of familial issues), he struggles with the idea of intimacy because it is so elusive, so he finds a way to control the loneliness and meandering through emotions by becoming a void to fill. Like many boys I've met, what he desires in sex is the exact opposite of what he desires in love, and he is quite stubborn about it.

He's still in town, and every time I see him now I wish there was something I could do to help him, but instead I remind myself that I have to let my kindred make their own mistakes in the hopes that they will learn from them.


There is another too young guy in my life who I know on a professional level so I must do my best to tread softly in the way I write about him.

He bears a very similar resemblance to a quasi famous comedian I have a crush on, and I know now it's that combination of features (pale skin, dark hair, large facial features, hairy everywhere except the head) which drive me mad. He too is a Taurus, and like the rest of them, he gives the best hugs.

I've deliberately taken up a parental (ish), sibling (ish), type of thing with him but with what I guess could be considered an incest vibe. He's a really sweet, really talented guy, and might I add - he's quite impressionable. He made my summer a lot better, and we exchange silly little messages every now and again. I saw him recently and found out his girlfriend broke up with him so I'm doing my best to avoid him at the moment.


There's been a few in-and-out Taurus' here and there, coming into my life for a moment, whether it be at a party or through a business transaction or a chat on a dating app. I had a real actual date with one a couple of months ago - and you could see the pain in his eyes because he had to grapple with not being able to put and keep his hands all over me the entire time we were together. I've flirted with a few at bars, much enjoying their lack of a need for personal space, and resenting them for it at the same time. There was a very nice older Bull who I met that has taken over the role of "relief pitcher" - that is that guy who comes to me while I'm at a sex party and I'm exhausted from topping and he arrives just in the nick of time to fuck me and leave.

That's the thing about New York; It's all so fleeting.

There are so many boundaries to have anything relatively regular in the realm of repeating. Lots of folks don't have a place to play (as a Capricorn, I hate using the word "play" to describe sex), or a lot of time - so the options are limited and VERY EXPENSIVE. Of course you could get with an out of towner and go to their hotel or whatever, but you end up right back where you started again: nowhere near the finish line.

Every one is too busy to get busy here in the city that never sleeps around.


And then there are the Taurus abroad who remain such a vital part of my will to survive.

A good friend and MY bigger brother type dude, Martin, has been my rock since I've arrived in New York. He knows me from Berlin and he knows my strife and struggle and he knows me altogether. He's amazing compatriot and while our endeavors in flirting leave just a little bit left to be desired, I literally don't know what I would do without him.

Since he first came into my life, he's been this heavy beast of hedonism - like all Taurus, and this bull has convinced me so many times over to forget about my troubles. I adore him to no end, and I'm glad that we can share almost everything - almost.

And then there's my Teddy Bear, my Possession - the love I left in Berlin.

It kills me that I cannot see him. He is so close to my heart yet so far away. He too is suffering in so many ways right now due to extraordinary circumstances and I wish I could be with him.

He was my lifesaver in Berlin, and moments with him gave me such divine peace. I miss his touch more than any other who has ever put their hands on me. His smell - I can still feel it in my nostrils, as if it were some fragrance designed by Mother Nature just for me.

I miss the intoxication of his care for me, and taking care of him. I am so grateful for the intelligence he spoiled me with. And he too, solved every problem with pleasure - reminding me to be less of a Capricorn everyday. I'd do anything to be his china shop again.

And of course, while it stunts me with devotion, him being the capricious bull, it doesn't hurt that he's also German (or does it?).

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Couch Surfing

Being a man that is (mostly) into men - I know that we will do anything to get laid. These days with all the upheaval and awareness involving cat calling and rape - it makes for an obvious, age-old statement about the dangerous slippery slope that the Y chromosome glides upon. But this entry isn't about either one of those topics albeit relevant - though I'd like to state for the record, it's not just women who endure these strifes. Furthermore, this is a demonstration of our voracious and unruly appetites for fuck.

Gay men "invented" cruising. That is - this wordless, animalistic mating call in which you can accost someone and quite possibly have them sexually in a matter of moments. Cruising comes in so many forms and with the advent of so many technological advances and social media, in some areas of the world it is easier to find a piece of meat than a good slice of pizza. Checkboxes have replaced business cards, and slings have replaced flings - the necessity for any sort of social graces has been defunct for a long time not only because of the savage nature that men are typically accustomed to, but because of the every increasing speed of life.

Today I would like to illustrate one of the most sleazy ways in which men will propose or present themselves in the hopes of receiving intercourse...the not-so-innocent action known as couch surfing.

Circa 2011, just one year after my first visit to slut Berlin, I had already experienced my Passing Strange moment - that is I realized quite quickly that Europeans didn't have many hangups in regards to doling out their keys or their couches or their beds to strangers (or bedfellows) due to their lack of security paranoia and their overall aptitude for Socialism.

I knew from various sources that the best way for me to make the major move abroad was to couch surf until I found a place of my own as it would be virtually impossible to find a place virtually. So I joined the popular website of the activity's namesake and it took only a matter of moments for me to find a budding, handsome, blond, blue eyed German host who was more than willing to offer me a spot on his couch.

When I arrived I was randy. I was then at the time starting a new life and I was having what I have many times called my "Josephine Baker Moment". My host had another guest who just so happened to also be an African-American, and while we all had a great time and I later became friends with the other couch surfer, if I knew then what I know now - I would have been privy to the fact that there would have been an opportunity to bang had I not been so naive.

Fast-forward a few months and after a few stints here and there (many of which are penned in this blog) I found myself in my own place, away from all the troubles of having to dodge that seemingly obligatory request for sexual favors.

Granted, the Yerps are an open book when it comes to sex, and while to them it is mostly a harmless act to seek out pleasure, this Yankee was having a lot of issues with the expectations initially. I was reminded of song about the trials and tribulations of being a gypsy and being offered hospitality and the price you are sometimes expected to pay:

"What does my body have to do with my gratitude?"

I am no ingénue - and there have been times where it was serendipity that I met someone I wanted to bone or was a great cuddler or kisser...


When I made it to New York, I did what a lot of New New Yorkers do: I started subletting.

As a writer/artist, it is a grand experience to change spaces every so often, and since I was raised under these constraints, it was of more delight than detriment. Besides, I was down to only a few suitcases upon my return to the USA and moving around isn't that big of deal.

The one issue with subletting is that it tends to be an 11th hour hunt, and planning isn't always feasible. This can cause a lot of stress, and since you are typically taking over someone's overpriced room for a few weeks or months at a time, someone who is going on a trip, there can be a lag of a few days where you need to crash with a friend or stay in an AirBnB until you can takeover said room.

I now use couch surfing as a Plan C because I have found that in New York specifically - there are a lot of rich white dudes with spacious apartments who like to lure young foreigners to their place under the guise of hosting them for their temporary stay - and many of these rich white dudes claim to be part of "the nudist community" (which quite frankly, doesn't really exist) and require that their guests not wear any clothes.

There, I said it - the jig is up!

I was scrolling through and scrolling through, and yes, I could've picked a heterosexual of some sort - but there was the looming issue that shall remain nameless, and most women don't trust men, so I figured I save myself some hours and just go to the root of the problem in the hopes of solving mine.

Let me first say that finding a couch on that website is one of the most strenuous and mortifying processes you can ever go through. You literally have to send out dozens of requests in the hopes that you'll get a bite or two, and then you have to go through this grueling process of seeing if it's a fit, and  reading through all the preferences and rules of the house and then you have to schedule a time and it is so very exhausting.

I was intrigued of course because I am a writer and a satirist and I was seeing this pattern amongst so many of the hosts in NYC. There are groups that you can join on the site that revolve around certain interests - but for some reason, some very specific reason, I noticed that there was a tremendous amount of well-off caucasian males who were part of the nudist community groups.

So I bit the bullet, took one for the team and figured, hey, I lived with Germans for 3 years and they hate clothes and love sex, perhaps these crazy Americans were catching up with them.

I will say that all but a few of the hosts that I stayed with had other guests in tow when I arrived and they were all required to not wear clothes as part of the nudist lifestyle or whatever.

The first - ah the first. The first experience I had I was so wide-eyed about because it was not only a necessity and I felt a little bit dirty and taken advantage of about, but I was extremely curious and happy to infiltrate this atrocity.

There was some lowly (pardon my French) Brazilian boy there, not so much looking comfortable with his turkey necks and gizzards squashed on the $3,000 leather couch - and he was nice enough, happy to be eating his free eggs, but you could tell he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

The host was what many would call extremely attractive. He was a doll, and he was genuine, and I truly believed that he was just one of those Naturists (the proper term, I believe) and he had no ulterior motives in regard to hosting all of these (typically brown) tourists needing to crash for a few days while in New York.

Cut to: his beer can dick rubbing up against me in the middle of the night.

So - we became friends or whatever and a few months after I stayed with him I had another layover before my next sublet and he offered me his bed because the two couches were already full of two other brown naked boys staying over.

His touch was sincere and soft and soothing - and he gave me an amazing massage and we rubbed our hungry bodies against each other and I was so ravenous but I refrained because I didn't want the other boys in the other room to hear that we were fornicating.

The host explained later that it was lovely to have me because so many of his guest are heterosexual and sometimes he just needs a little...

This happened a few more times, and it wasn't always with people from that website, but there were people who were referred from that website or from AirBnB and it was always the same equation: white man with money requesting naked brown boys to parade their flopping uncut dicks and taut asses around their abode.

Damn I can't wait to be rich.

I started to get paranoid after the last one - perhaps there were cameras set up and they were perverts who had vast collections of these naked guys on USB drives and all the things that they do when they leave the apartment (more often than not, there is this expectation of trust that smells very fish to me - including the "rule" of no closed doors, not even in the bathroom).

One of the most enlightening hosts I met was new to couch surfing and he flat out asked me about my experiences and I told him that it was quite often used as a hookup site. Why not?

While the guy was nice and we got along and we had very detailed discussions about sex - it wasn't until he left the next morning that I noticed that once again, he was a man's man kind of man.

For some reason, in the dark of the evening when I had arrived (I stayed only overnight) I did not see the abundant amount of sexual accouterment that lay all over his apartment, including varying types of lubricant, several BDSM implements, and then I noticed that the bed was covered with sex stains and that there were trails of dried wax everywhere.

Had I known he was such a bad boy, I might have made my move.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Anal Orgasms

It's officially official - I'm a freak of nature.

Or maybe not.

I've come a long way since the "I'm working very hard for this!" moments that plagued my dear Toro, the sexy German bull from my Berliner years, who was persistent in producing the then elusive and magical anal orgasm out of me.

Through practicing an abundant amount of tantric manifestation and edging, along with regular intervals of Kegel exercises, I've mastered the art of cumming without masturbating. While I do have a way with words, it is not easy to describe how to make it happen for yourself or to demonstrate how it feels. I will give you three distinct examples of this happenstance which have occurred recently.


"What is happening right now?" Mr. Beef muttered in a confused and alarmed tone. I was spasming intensely, almost as if I was going into convulsions as my hole pulsed around his thick meat - my leg muscles tightening and wrapping themselves around him as he tried to build a less narrow path way with which to slam into me in the missionary position. I prayed that he wouldn't stop but I was speechless because between my uproarious hollers of pleasure and spontaneous bouts of embarrassed laughter - I was biting his neck to stop the noise because the feeling wouldn't stop coming. Also, I didn't want him to know what was happening for fear that he would actually stop and take a look at this marvelous feat as if it were a freak show attraction, for that was the primary reason he invited me over in the first place.

Mr. Beef had popped up on my Scruff radar - and as aforementioned in my last post I have been AGGRESSIVELY DATING. That means I have not been at all hesitant in taking people up on offers and I dole them out a little less benevolently that I used to, and I am utilizing new methods to find people to "hang out with", under any sort of circumstances that run the gamut from platonic to purely sexual. Mr. Beef fell in the latter category.

He unlocked his private pictures and I was taken aback by one element of his photos in particular. Yes, he was generically handsome and had a mainstream worked out body, and yes his penis was what many would consider hung, and yes he had a great tan, and yes he had a big ol' booty - but what fascinated me most (at first) was his profound bush. The photography did him great justice - it was one of those full body shots with just the chin showing (for anonymity purposes) and his curved, delicious looking dick, about at half-mast, was sticking out of this tundra of pubic hair so long it looked like you could braid it. All dirty talk and coercive seduction aside, that was all I needed to agree to a meating.

There was the inevitable hurdles one deals with in New York: the time constrains, the scheduling changes, the having one's place to yourself. He was very AGGRESSIVE about meating, and to me this was also a turn on - but more than that I just could not stop thinking about what that bush could have smelled like or felt like or tasted like or looked like or sounded like when rubbing up against my body.

When I arrived at his place in Chelsea (see: hung, tan, muscles portent above), he actually came down to get the door for me and he had that pained look in his eye that I am very familiar with. That look of introduction where the necessity for body contact was overwhelming. That look that someone flesh-obsessed gives. I denied him even a handshake - as much as I wanted to rip him apart as soon as we got on the elevator.

I looked at his jean shorts and noticed a rising tent and I wondered less about the package inside and more about the filling, that dark, superfluous forrest of hair that would soon be fully available to me.

"You speak Spanish," I said in Spanish and he asked me how did I know - and I explained that I was a writer and it's my job to notice everything. He had a lot of books. A lot of really good books. Some of them were in Spanish. My ass twitched, in a good way.

The design of the space was breathtaking so I knew he was married or whatever - again I would be enraptured by a handsome, sweet and sincere slut, who can't keep his heart or his dick in his pants. I turned the tables as soon as he started to woo - with his prompts to sit and his tender caresses and his staring into my eyes and going up my shirt and softly kissing me...If I was going to be the Mistress, I would do the job right.

I was spread eagle on him on this what must've been a $3,000 sofa, and as my jealousy augmented, I tried to prove to myself that I was worth more than that. Whatever that means. I sexily took off my white t-shirt like a prostitute and I looked down at him and teased him with my tongue, dipping it into his mouth like he was a baby bird, and quickly removing it then smiling and winking at him.

I removed his shirt and I scoffed at his muscles. Time better spent inside of me is all I can think about when I see gym bunnies. I too was wearing jean shorts and both of us had aching unavoidable boners poking at the denim cages we endured.

I removed his shorts after he found my nipples and I swatted him away because it was already too much too soon. He was wearing Calvin Klein briefs and I blowed heat on his erection through the drawers, and as much as I wanted to do that weird thing where you pull the dick through the fly hole, I couldn't - he was way too big and hard to even try so I just pulled out his stiff member and gave him a preview of my expert oral skills. His moaning was unbearable.

I got up and stood behind the midcentury modern coffee table and began to strip like a mid-priced whore. I don't know who I thought I was but he was enjoying it - his cock fully exposed from the lid of his briefs, him holding it in his hand like an Atari joystick as I turned around and slowly but surely almost removed my briefs; and then I turned around and did.

His kisses were wet and dominant and soothing and intense.

I became frustrated. While foreplay is an acceptable part of fornication, I'm not one to dwell in this area for any more time than is needed. I was a sure thing and this Casanova was doing a great job, but the job was so good that I was aching to have sex with him.

I took down his underwear and there was the bush on full display. I shoved my nose in it and took one long big whiff of it. It smelled like sweat, and vanilla, and rust, and iron, and cedar, and rotting flowers. And man. It smelled amazing. I licked at it and then ran my tongue down the creases of his inner thighs, next to his voluptuous balls, and down to his hairy crack. He was so hairy.

I could almost barely deep throat, but luckily I am a determined individual with great ambition. I did the thing that I do where I wet it on the sides, using my mouth/lips in the shape of a hotdog bun (appropriately) and I slid spit up and down the shaft around the circumference of the tool and then I go to the tippy-top of the head of the penis and slowly proceed to take the entire thing down into my mouth and to the base of my esophagus, inching down on it millimeter by millimeter, extremely slow, whilst holding down the groin area to avoid any eager rising up into my throat - for it's much better to sit and relax and enjoy this slow, delayed entry into warm wetness despite the body's automatic tendency to want to thrust forward.

"I knew it," I chuckled when he explained that he was a Taurus. It made complete and utter sense to me, from the exchange (or lack thereof) in the elevator to his constant need for touch, to his deft aptitude for seduction. I get along famously with Taurus in bed. Their earthy hedonism really gets me off, and I love how much of the work they like to do (not that I'm ALL selfish), and they typically are extremely sensual - and who doesn't love that.

I was so nervous about having sex with this guy because he was inexplicably hot. He made me very insecure which I rebounded with feigned confidence. Though - one of the many highlights of our foray was when he told me he really liked my ass and I asked him why and he went on this long monologue meticulously describing not only my butt but the many ways and reasons why he liked it so much including descriptions of angles and textures and smells and so on and so forth. The dirty bastard.

So he gets it in. And I'm holding back and I'm holding back because I'm so excited at this point. And I'm thinking about how when we were on the expensive sofa how he wanted to hear me moaning deeply in his ear as he was fucking me and I wanted to so badly oblige - but more than that we had a deal.

You see, during our exchange on Scruff he very distinctly told me and I quote, "Damn I really need to see your anal orgasm SOON."

Not really ever does this happen in the missionary position. The very first time it happened while spooning,  it's happened a few times while dogging, and not surprisingly, it happens the most while I'm riding. But low and behold, in spite of myself, his expert shovel/scoop motion hit my prostate over and over again and before not long at all I was getting a hot, quivering sensation in my taint and up through my balls that then shot through my entire dick and I was cumming. He wasn't rubbing against my dick, it was fully out and exposed all by its lonesome. But the rocking of his tool after the intense build up of some many close calls from his (did I mention) excellent blow job skills and taunting of my body in so many other ways - there it came, and boy oh boy it was a big one.

When he asked me what was happening I didn't tell him. I felt horrible. I looked up at him, thinking to myself what have I done to deserve this, and I egged him on with some dirty talk that I'll spare the details of here because I have a lot of shit to do today and I don't want to be tempted to call him up for another ride tonight.

He was hitting all the angles, he was saying all the right things, he looked great and then we changed positions, or at least he tried.

"Oh wait, I'm sorry - I made a mess," I muttered.

"No, it's okay," he cooed.

"Uh, no - it's not, look."

"Oh, you were cumming, is that what was happening?"

I looked up at him like a little boy who had just spilled milk. I'm sure the sheets were probably at least a 10,000 thread count. What was most shocking to him though was how hard I still was and remained for the rest of his rather impressive fucking.

I got out of there as soon as possible. That awkward "I got a thing," happened, and always does when you want to make sure you show no signs of attachment or any weird desire to want to see each other again, knowing full well it was amazing and it will take you a long time to stop thinking about it and the flashbacks will be distracting for the next few days.

"May I take a picture of your pubes? For artistic purposes?" I beseeched.

And then I was on my way.


There have been three distinct categories of my AGGRESSIVELY DATING regime that have included these scenarios: One-on-One, Threesome (Or One from Another One), Group.

One would think that the next story would fall into the Group category but I'm not so sure.

Basically, in a twist of fate - someone with a very intense voyeur fetish (same as I) was kind enough to let this little Latino Slut* use his bedroom as a playing field for fuck. I was invited over, not knowing that the other dude was strictly only interested in watching and though I am not the most exhibitionistic person, I like to pay it forward in the hope that the universe will bring it back to me.

So I'm hooking up with this Latino and he's really fucking hot and slutty, total butch bottom and when I asked him if he had any lube he cried out, "Spit!" and told him that I loved him.

The other guy (no moniker necessary, he was that anonymous) was just sitting back and enjoying the show and I had that otherworldly perspective of what others feel like when I'm the creepy watcher. I was getting exhausted from fucking this boy - he had an incredible hole though, nice, thick, muscled ass with just a little tuft of soft fur at the opening, and he loved getting it, over and over and over and over again.

So I'm taking one of many breaks between cumming and all of a sudden I see stranger guy getting up to open the door and in walks this hot latin papí - bald head, goatee, cut, gold chain with crucifix, basketball shorts and a muscle shirt - looked like he might have done time once or twice.

So he pulls out his caramel dick and I just go to town on it and I'm not shocked that he pushes me down and decides to take my ass while the slut and stranger watch, getting excited and saying all those things you say to people when their having sex right next to you. I pulled him out of me and told him that the slut had a really great ass so he tried his too and it was magnificent to watch. I wish I had brought popcorn.

The stranger and I commented as if we were judging an olympic event - the commentary was very articulate and appreciative of both of their efforts and then I was offered another turn at the sluts ass and then papí came behind me and started to perform one of the most pleasurable acts known to man. As he began to slide into me my hole opened up around him and when I arched my back, delving deeper into the slut and taking more of papí into me, I started to feel this contracting feeling, again on and through my taint, like a sponge was absorbing and releasing fantastic sexual energy and heightened feelings of extreme pleasure and I was cumming.

I don't want to tell you what happened next but I still wonder if that would be considered a threesome or group sex.


I've taken up a new lover that blows many of my other suitors out of the running. He has so many of the things that I desire in a lover (and maybe more) and my time with him is so easy and comforting and alarmingly hot.

He demanded that we meet for conversation/coffee - and while this is usually just a guise to get someone into bed, he was very sincere about it and we had an amazing time talking together before he was inside of me.

Let's call him Edward

I'll tell you that he is the most mature out of the bunch, and while I try not to have a limit, another recent attempt to change the cycle over to younger men failed miserably (more cumming soon).

Yeah, he's older, and much much wiser I might add. He's a complete bookworm, he's athletic, he's well traveled, he is very cultured, he's tall, he has got a pretty nice body, adorable big ears, peering wise eyes, short and conservative grey hair, heart shaped full lips, a deep sultry voice, and one of the juiciest dicks I've ever tasted.

What I like about "older men" (have to quote cause I hate that term) is that they've been around the block, they are confident, they don't mince words or play hard to get or any sort of games, they aim to please and they try harder. Also, they are very easy to be around and don't like wasting time with dumb shit.

We met for coffee and we had a great time and then he very succinctly explained that he would be more than happy to take me back to his place.

"That's a sight for sore eyes," I said, in some kind of Freudian Slip to harken back to a better time or something, when his dick had finally presented itself in full view. It was hard, and large and adorned with a string contraption cock ring - and while I was more than happy to see it (albeit scared of how massive it was) I thought to myself "He knew we were going to fuck the whole time and/or he always wears this thing on his dick, the dirty bastard."

I don't like length but I love girth and he had both of these things and I thought that I shouldn't be so fucking picky and thank my lucky starts that I got at least half of what I wanted. When he put it in it was a feat to behold because he wasn't some Millennial with something to prove, stabbing at me with this poniard thing, in a hasty, unruly motion. No - it was a considerate gesture and as he looked into my eyes and he saw me squirm and wince he slowed down but I told him it was okay because I liked when it hurt.

About 30 minutes later, after much ado about everything, I was hooked. He was nice, he was smart, he was generous in bed, and a very very good kisser. It was effortless to be with him (not just because he put in most of the effort), and he made me feel sexy and smart - not like some object. Though, just one thing, he is a Virgo. Meh.

I didn't mention my anal orgasm to him either as it happened. It used to be a thing I had to fight for, then a thing I could control, now it is a beast all on its own. When he grabbed me by the waist and had finally gotten all the way inside of me and hit that spot (it took awhile to open up to the wideness of him) I again started going into sweet seizures, my whole loins pulsing and twitching, and I was making wild noises but for some reason it just came off to him as feeling really good until I showed him the puddle of cum I caught with my cupped hand. We kept going, and I came again. But the next time, just to switch it up a bit, I used my hand.

*For the newcomers to this blog: unless otherwise noted, know that everyone I fuck is usually caucasian.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Aggressively Dating

How is everybody with somebody?

This is one of those questions I've sought out to answer due to my augmenting perplexity. I'm not so much curious anymore as I am baffled - and having had the opportunity to experience almost every type of relationship imaginable, I'm desperately on the hunt for an unprecedented one.

I see people everywhere - in pairs, perhaps due to socioeconomic factors or by love or by sex or by some other means unbeknownst to me. I really can't beat them so I chose to join them.

I've used all the usual suspect ways of dating and I have to say, as exhausting as it is, it can also be very rewarding. This is New York - and this is a place where the best things in life aren't for free, so I've had to adapt to the culture here after spending so much time in the Socialist state of Europe where the opposite reigns true.

I've been giving my number out at bars, talking to friends who might have "available" friends, going on blind dates, finding myself at places and parties where someone I might kind of like might be there as well...I've been online dating, using the dating apps and even going to events run by organizations that advocate alternative types of relationships. I've even asked guys on dates - not knowing if it was a date.

I've been bobbing and weaving through the interviews and the flirting and the correspondence and I've got a good amount of legwork under my belt. There are the coffee talks and the screaming conversations over gin & tonics and the sweaty walks through dirty parks - lots of conversations about books and how annoying dating can be. Awkward A hugs and misfired kisses on cheeks and hearing those old fashioned words "I'd like to see you again". I've somehow made it back to the other side. This side where I feel as though I myself am available again and/or ready, to include myself in being worthy of a relationship - after being shut down so long, I've finally rebooted.

The fast pace of New York allows only sweet splices of intimacy, but when it comes, it comes in a pang of a drove, and it lasts only a little while enough to hold you over until you're back on the subway - seeing all those faces, wondering where they are and who they are with and what they might think about you if they were introduced by fate.

It is hard to pin down a time to meet, for we're all workaholics and the facts of life are far from living because so many commit to the gym, to their pets, to their Netflix, to their rare bouts of peace.

For a few months I had stopped with the bar cruising and the sex parties and the dating apps - and it was so very refreshing albeit a bit trying for those around me due to the fact that I'm not the best company when I haven't gotten laid in awhile.

I relied on my pets back in Philadelphia of whom I visit once a month for sexual solace, and having them there helps me get through the many times frustrating attributes of New Yorker's contradictory prudishness - water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...

So then it is no wonder that I've gotten the butterflies and the blues with each new undertaking that lifts me up. It's great to meet new people - to learn about their lives, to succumb to insecurity, to hope that they feel the same or that they feel nothing at all.

I have a precious variety now, and I can't say that I don't have many a qualm with some of these gentlemen callers (and I attest that I am very wary of the lack of lady callers in my life at present). I do my best to manage expectations, but I have a few that are hellbent on getting all the BDSM out of me they can, instantaneously, then I have the two who are sweet as pie when I'm in the mood for Rocky Road, and then I have the self-assured one with little time for me at all, there are so many little peccadilloes that rise to the surface when you are dating. That's the great test: finding the balance.

Ideally I'll find myself in a polyamorous relationship again - that seemed to work the best for me. It's sad that I am so far away from my boys in Berlin, when we talk it makes nostalgic and regretful.

The good news is I don't have anyone sweeping me off my feet - and I would not be able to handle it if that were the case. It's nice to take it slow (hurry up and wait, more like) with some dudes and at the very least have some nice times with interesting people to quell the loneliness and wonderment of this crazy town.

Would you like to go out with me sometime?

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Repost: Twice the Trouble

I've recently involved myself in some conversations about voyeurism and double penetration and this old post came up on my radar: 

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Twice the Trouble

" this really nice hotel and I made a joke asking the receptionist if they charged by the hour," I said slowly in an attempt for them to understand my American humor.

"But an hour is only enough time to get warmed up," one of the Germans perplexed.

It was another culture clash and attempt to understand the Teutonic ways I've grown accustomed to and evermore frustrated by. I had ended up in another bout of botched escapism with two men, both smart, sexy, virile and impossibly German.

Not long after I logged on to that sacred and profane website known as Gayromeo (a contradictory moniker if I've ever heard one), I was double penetrated by two handsome and horny callers who wanted me to come over to have sex with them immediately. "We want you!!!" both of them proclaimed in separate messages. It was 7:00 am.

This was due mostly in part to my never ending struggle to deal with the request of a crazy man who will soon be known as "those we never speak of" - Bruno to Daddy to The Tornado - who so poignantly disguises his indiscretions under the commonplace torture of jealousy. His inability to remain monogamous to anyone is that psychological disease of possession that makes his victims (aka fuckbuddies or lovers or boyfriends) feel the brute force of his hypocrisy.

His claim to fame is that every single person he has ever been involved with has been a "slut" - and his insane reason for not being able to form a formidable relationship always bears this grounds for dismissal despite the well-known fact that (and I quote one of his ex-boyfriends) "He can't keep his dick in his pants." I digress.

I couldn't look at my computer anymore. Those We Never Speak Of was starting his stalking tactics again, as aforementioned in my last post in regards to the wonderment of Ficken Friday here in Berlin - that day where the drug dealers have their busiest business day of the week, as do the airports and sex clubs welcoming in all the sex tourists into this slut city, as do the hotels, the holiday apartments, the pharmacies and the liquor stores. It's the economic boost for Berlin that keeps the motto "poor but sexy" alive, for those 3-4 days of recovery as required by these party boy gays leaves little room or energy for them to spend their money otherwise from Monday through Thursday.

Xavier and Blane (I wish were their real names) had to deal with the fact that I had a life to tend to first, and I waited until well later that evening to meet them at whoever's house they were at (I was doubtful either one of them actually lived there due to the immaculate nature of its existence).

Beforehand, I dealt with a plethora of unmentionable (but I will mention) and obscene requests for the presence of my black hole, my black dick, my black skin, my black body, without much other just cause for my presence, certainly not my brain or my smile or my wit or my conversation.

I used to revel in these vague and provocative correspondences, an affable and laughable accumilation of fodder for my writing and my art - but the displeasure of returning to all of those gay dating websites abruptly re-entered my life to prove a point to Those We Never Speak Of  who so willingly lies about the fact that he has used those sites to meet men for fucking: I am not his possession and I am allowed to do whatever the fuck I want to do, including fucking.  

Here are some charming advances I endured:

DICK #1: Hi Sweety
ME: how are you?
DICK #!: Well after three days of fisting a bit done!!!
ME: ok


DICK #2: hey sexy what you doing now look for some fun
ME: i am just in bed right now. i am not coming to schlampenberg sorry.
DICK #2: than sleep well
(1.5 hours later)
DICK #2: so horny fuck and fist me
ME: no
DICK #2: ok


DICK #3: ich finde dich interessant :-)
ME: we met 2 years ago
DICK #3: sure? have other pics?
(10 minutes later)
DICK #3: und wast du nicht zufriden?
ME: no


DICK #4: hi sexy
(XXX pics attached)
ME: congratulations. you like black guys.
DICK #4: ja :-)
ME: genau.
DICK #4: und mal lust auf ein treffen
ME: What? 
DICK #4: I want sex.
ME: that is as curable as hunger.
DICK #4: :-)
ME: :-/


DICK #5: Ich kann deine Fotze riechen.
ME: what?
ME: maybe you should swallow your tongue?
DICK #5: And you your HCV virus
ME: I don't have HCV actually. but thanks for your concern.


DICK #6: hi. i like meet you.
ME: Why?
DICK #6: i would have nice time. i really like black.


"Langsam, langsam..." I was saying to one or both of them shortly after my arrival. I was still winded from the innumerable amount of stairs and flabbergasted by the white sheets that were covering the quintessential Euro sectional couch - both of which I readily  complained/questioned about in my constant plight to understand why it is so necessary for gay men in Berlin to always live on the top floor and why do they not understand the tribulations and irony of using white sheets and towels for butt sex; the whole thing eludes me.

It was my educated guess that Xavier and Blane hadn't slept in quite a while and it did not bother or entice me in any way. I was a little bit taken aback that I was offered a normal, untainted beverage before the normal array of  Party Gay Berliner gastfreundschaft accoutrement was offered in its staggering and no-stoned-unturned completeness.

I found out before I arrived that Xavier was a cum pig and a self-proclaimed top, or activ as they say here in slut Berlin (and whore Europe in general). Blane was the much less English speaking mostly bottom, or passiv, and by the end of the experience altogether, I had fucked Xavier and been fucked by Blane more than they so aptly expected.

I explained to them immediately that I am not thetypisch drug hungry, legs up in the air in minutes kind of guy and that talking was sort of a bit of a necessity for me, if not just for foreplay or to allow myself to catch my breath from 6 flights of stairs and/or to recover from the shock of once again seeing white sheets on the couch that were surely going to be stained with Santorum (Google it) in a matter of hours.

Xavier was the older, hairier (though trimmed) more dignified of the two. He was a sensitive and chatty Cancer who mostly relied on the thrill of feel and touch and constant attention. He was the nice guy and graciously struggled through the feat of translating both my and Blane's arguably impossible Denglish.

Blane was more the blue collar type, a little bit more carnal in his appearance and demeanor but was ever so hospitable and very accommodating. He was trimmed too, but hairy enough as not to be turned off in any sort of way. Both were very white and not tanned at all really, with mostly full heads of auburn hair and lightish eyes, and thick German jawbones. They had compact bodies that exploited that inherent Germanic strength, though the pecs and the abs and the biceps were once strong, the up and coming advent of gay self-destruction was showing its wear and tear. But they both had those meaty German haunches I've grown to be obsessed with.  You'd be hard-pressed to find a German without them (perhaps further augmented by the countless flights of stairs and lack of elevators in this town), something I find trouble releasing my eyes from. I wasn't so much of a Leg Man until I came to Berlin. 

I found out Blane was a Capricorn like me, and from that point on I knew better how to handle him - and at the same time I warned myself not to get attached to him, for there is something about the rare intrigue of being with a fellow sea goat that is captivating to me, both painful and wonderful, like fucking a mirror in that oh so narcissistic way. He became hotter to me, all of a sudden, and as this news was delivered, Xavier, the sensitive crab took note of this and began to show his insecurities. 

I recognized Blane. He, like so many Berliners, had paid the price of initiation into the pornography club, though I could not place which studio or film he had been in (this is something that usually comes very easily to me being the American Librarian that I once was). He admitted the truth of it all and when Xavier asked him to elaborate, in German, his head went down and he explained it away with something about it all being peinlich and he seemed somewhat aroused that I had known his secret, but yes indeed, he was embarassed. I laughed it away with a, "Well, sometimes you just really need the money, and besides, everyone in Berlin is a porn star. Except me."

After about the 20th "langsam" I caved. It was frivilous to try and keep these Germans off of me and I was appreciative that they contained themselves long enough to have a conversation about this and that, and soon I had Blane, the blue collar Capricorn, poking at my hole while Xavier was doing the deed of caressing me and telling me how beautiful my everything was. Then I realized his eyes were blue.

I was almost ignoring Blane, as much as I could, not only for my own benefit, but for his. There was an obvious attraction there that I was trying to prevent by having two men instead of one, that burden of emotion that I was trying to cure with distraction from Those We Never Speak Of, that wretched and fulfilling beast with 3 backs, the creature with 6 legs, the monster with 6 arms, the animal with 6 holes, the behemoth with 3 dicks, the savage with 30 fingers...

There wasn't much preparation to my hole, which I did my best not to scoff at, and I was all out of langsams to remedy this solution, so much that I once or thrice said "schnell" by mistake, which from those points on became a running joke for the rest of the evening and night that not so quickly turned into morning and afternoon.

Xavier, the talkative, sweet one, was much more charmed in an emotional way, typical of Cancer, and it was enjoyable to have this softness to compliment the HARDNESS of Blane. I could count the minutes on one hand how long Blane was not completely erect, and this was not so much induced by much of any sort of medication whatsoever, he was just born that way.  

My hole was preventing his entry at first, it all felt too comfortable albeit uncomfortable and I hated that this was who I was again, so easily bamboozled by these sexy and hungry Germans. But was it me that was tricking myself? Was it the regressed issues of my past and that of being Catholic and all of that other psychological baggage that was keeping me from losing control and letting go? Was it the annoying pain I was going to have to experience yet again from an evil person full of jealous rage named Those We Never Speak Of who was spending his time doing almost the exact same thing I was?

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was really making an effort not to conform to the ways in which my body had been trained by one man to enjoy and receive pleasure. I made it my duty not to ask for things that turned me on, to complain if something didn't feel right, or to tell one or both of them to move out the way so I could see the porn that was playing on both the laptop and the big screen - I waited about 4 hours before that plan all went to shit.  

There was no fisting.

I didn't let Blane stay inside me for long mostly because I wasn't ready in that way (later I pretty much demanded a long lapse of rimming and fingering in order to enter my royal sphincter). I did though give him a very surprising fuck that included a slow and steady teasing of my rigid cock that his hole began to kiss with its hungry lips at the first poke of me. Xavier watched in awe as I took this handsome animal's hole and rode it deep and long and then fast and hard, slowing down when close to culmination - that ever so satisying and painful game of edging.

It was hard not to come, with the both of them there pleasing me and each other. But because I knew both of them (Xavier more than Blane) were fluid pigs, I subtly explained to them the process of patience in that when the cum comes, it will be in abundance. Their eyes lit up at this, almost like students in the classroom of sex, finding out a new fact that is riveting in a way that they never thought imaginable.

"Kann ich eine Pause haben bitte?", I cooed, like I always must when in the company of Germans.

"You know all of the important German words," Xavier laughed, right before I had to push both of them off of me three of four or seven more times before they actually heeded to what I had asked. Sehr deutsche!

Then came a long conversation about how American I was and how I could never understand but I could always appreciate how sex-hungry Germans are and how I am always explaining to my friends back home the uncanny feat of sex for hours and hours and hours and sometimes days that is prevalent in the culture of Germans (with and without drugs).

They really don't excuse themselves for this and don't see any problem with this. I used the hotel joke as a paradigm for this conundrum adding, "In America we only need about an hour," and while they could relate, they still could not resist putting a finger in my hole or wagging a stiff German dick in my face while I was trying to enjoy my Sprite and my cigarette. It was back to business, the business of pleasure.

The first load came (pun) when Blane had somehow found that German rapey determination to enter me and was pounding me hard and then harder and then the hardest and my load came out profusely to the welcoming surprise of Xavier who quickly lapped up the 10 day load that I wasn't necessarily saving for anyone special. 

I needed another "Pause" which of course was humbly refused, and I somehow ended up inside of Xavier (so impossibly hard now, turned on by my gushing white semen) and Blane took up the rear by putting his dick inside me again. Some bottom.

One of the best sexual acts in the world, ever, is the feeling of fucking and being fucked at the same time. I can only imagine a similar feeling for anyone of any other sexuality and gender to be that of the hetero or bisexual female who has the amazing opportunity to experience double penetration - that being a dick in her cunt and her ass hole at the same time. Though comparatively, gay men still hold the reigns as champions of the most enjoyable sex acts in that we understand the male anatomy intimately, we get to fuck, get fucked, suck, get sucked, eat out and get eaten, and arguably, we experience double penetration in our own way, but two dicks in one hole is something I find a bit ridiculous (more later), so the ladies have us beat only in that department.

It took two pumps of Blane's NEVER NOT HARD DICK for me to come. The divine wrapping of skin, Xavier's sweet (top/activ) hole wrapped around my pulsing dick, and sucking on Blanes cock from behind with my hole - there is no real way to describe it. I was fortunate enough to be with two experts, both around 40 something, give or take 5 years, the guy in front of me further in years than the guy behind me. So they both knew (like any German) the method in which to receive and give pleasure in the most auspicious way: this starts with a still entry of the third dick into (my) the last receiving hole, and then sitting and allowing the second (my) receiving hole to do all the necessary movement without much participation from the first (Xavier's) receiving hole - then, after the motion is set in the ocean (in this case thwarted by the unabashed cumming of my dick from the absolute pleasure), the third dick taking up the rear (literally) controls the velocity of thrusts and pleasure, rocking from the second hole into the first hole, allowing both holes to rely on the third dick for release of pleasure. It is all very exacting. It is all very German.

A similar feat to this (though always expected and unwelcome when I am faced with two Germans in the heat of lust) was this double penetration thing.  "One dick at a time" has always been my motto. It was a very compromising and interesting position in which Blane, the Capricorn, always up for the challenge of being the best fuck anyone has ever had, somehow maneuvered his way behind Xavier who was slowly making love to my hole in the missionary position, and then for some time had just stopped and laid still inside of me, one of my many favorite things to do: to just feel a cock sitting there in your hole or to sit inside a hole without moving, growing accustomed to the warm wet welcoming fleshy space inside.

His EVER ERECT dick was poking into me from beneath Xavier's asshole, meeting mine, past Xavier's taint, and into me. For a moment, I resisted the urge to be the controlling bitch who took over the entire environment of the whole parade of fuck (I had already set up my own porn and pretty much regulated any and everything that was and wasn't allowed to happen from the 11th hour on), and then, just then, as my hole started to stretch open, much more than was necessary, and I started to feel like I was under the light of a surgeon rather than two hole hungry Germans, I told them quite assertively, "Nein!"

About two way too long minutes later, Blane relented, though the pain in his face was thick. I have and will never understand the necessity for two dicks in any one place except as some fucked up power trip thing or to expose the full on sluttery that any whore is capable of. I like to remain a classy bitch, no matter how sleazy I am, and something like two dicks in one hole is a bit too much for me, much like fisting. Ich habe eine Grenze. 

Prior to my arrival I had teased Xavier with the fact that I have an ability to shoot multiple loads. Naturally, I kept the first and second one at bay for as long as possible in my own fucked up power trip desires, which was met with an astounding amount of appreication. But what was even more intriguing was the aptitude of Blane, this blue collar Capricorn beast, much like myself, quietly ignoring me while watching my every move, pretending not to understand my English as I did to his German, and then having perfect conversations when Xavier left the room...this motherfucker, he had challenged me to a duel, a duel of cum.

In the end, he had come 4 times to my 3, but it wasn't so much that he had won.

I took Xavier to the bathroom upon his request and showered him with piss, and then came back trying to avoid Blane at all costs, but his dick was still there, INCREDIBLY HARD, bulking under the pressure of his cock ring. Eventually, I gave him what he wanted, after a long, strenuous avoidance of any eye contact, when he came into me with that curved poker, this time, for the first time missionary, I gave him my full attention, looked deep into his hazy eyes and with this, finally owning me in some sort of way, he moaned, he huffed, he puffed and he blew my house down with his cum. I smiled an evil smile, and like me, so many times like I have done before, he gave an embarassing laugh after he shot his load. Then I reverted my eyes again.

After a while I had grown tired, actually, after the first 3 hours with these Germans with the sexual endurance of any other German, I was utterly exhausted. I thought this was the end of the line, the last hurrah, that I could no longer commit time for all of this fucking sex. 

I found out that Blane liked to be dominated. I can not discuss this issue furthermore at this time.

In the end, I did my usual monologue and the partying continued on without me. I had to go - the sun was out - and life was calling (at least for me). Also calling was Those We Never Speak Of, who, per usual, was himself high on drugs and watching my every move online on all of those sites that I had been avoiding for so long. But because I was not a well suited stamina laden hengst for these Germans, I tried to reward them for their hospitality by going online as that bait that I am so infamous for - the young black smooth boy with the hairy hole, who could invite someone over to continue the marathon fucking that I could not handle alone. This is not to say that I didn't want to continue, I was just all out of fuck, and not German enough to keep going. Also, the sweet part of the bargain was getting the opportunity to watch, which as a consummate voyeur I was happy to have gotten from these two who were in fact not a couple or in a relationship, both were just friends. There is no bigger thrill for me than to watch people fucking and they were very generous in this regard.

I walked home - I got lost twice - not because I was dizzy from all the sex party madness, but because my brain was not functioning to full capacity. Those We Never Speak Of had returned in that psychotic jealous way and I knew that the next several hours would be excruciating due to the circumstances of his drug abuse and hypocrisy. I walked with my head down, heading in an abominable direction.

I did not feel guilty for fucking those two Germans who were exceptionally nice and weren't into fisting. It was an amazing time and though I doubt I'll ever see them again (though it would be keen for me to find a regular couple to fuck - my goal now for such a long time), it was a little bit of a battle for me because there is always this point with the people in this city who have no limit. I feel like a wet blanket or more appropriately, the mom who wants to take care of everybody and clean up the mess and tell everyone it's time for bed - but most times it is a lost cost because this is the city that only sleeps from Monday night to Wednesday morning. 

I spent the rest of the weekend in bed, dealing with exactly what I knew I would have to deal with. Germans can be very predictable too. As this unfaithful bastard preached his dogma of faithfulness to me in the most despicable, painful, psychotic and unattractive ways, I wondered if there would come a day where I would have my own family, in adherence to my personal desires, with a dad and son I could be proud of, appreciated by, come home to, clean up after, and every so often get to watch fucking each other. 

It's only a matter of time.