Saturday, May 31, 2014

If U # Us TruvadaWhores... Wear it with pride!

As you can probably tell from the t-shirt I'm wearing in my profile picture, I'm on PrEP, or pre-exposure prophylaxis -- using Truvada, a combination anti-viral, as a prevention strategy against HIV.

An awesome activist named Adam Zeboski has started a campaign to dispel disinformation about PrEP and to support The 474 Castro Project, the new gay men's health and wellness center at 474 Castro St. in San Francisco.

He's done two t-shirts to support the effort: the one in my profile pic, which says "#TruvadaWhore," and the one I'm asking you friends and strangers of the top persuasion to support:
(Worn here by the lovely and talented Blue Bailey.)

The shirt proclaims "I#TruvadaWhores" -- that's read as "pound," by the way. So if you do, please buy one now -- I know this is short notice, but if three more aren't sold in the next two hours, 27 of us won't get ours. (Hey, versatile here.)

And if you're willing to buy and wear the shirt, comment below -- we may have more to discuss...

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Hey, Buddy, Hold My... Place...

More coming soon, I promise. I'm in the research phase. :)

Meanwhile, comments on the last post are welcome. Let it out.

Monday, May 19, 2014


Since this is the first post, I could dither around with setting the stage, giving some personal history, and fleshing out the situation. So to speak. But the title of the blog, and the site's name, should provide enough info to hit the ground running. And then there's no better place to start than earlier tonight.

"Earlier tonight" started weeks ago. I spotted an obviously hot guy on BBRTS and Recon -- a perfect combination of interests for me. (His BBRTS profile lists the full menu of a balanced perv diet, in concert with the Recon one.)

Looking at his profile, I really like his style: kinda laid-back, matter-of-fact about his interests, nice build. And a definite top connecting with the definite bottom I need to be in this case. "Versatile top," yes, his profile says, but not this time. No need for versatility.

So I reach out. And we start talking... and talking hot and nasty... and start making plans. But my free time is oddly reduced as summer comes on, and on top of that, a family situation makes things defer. And we tried for last week, and misconnected.

But finally, over the weekend, we hit on tonight. So after work, I did a costume change -- off with the work clothes, on with the football shirt and, most important, the jock. Everything I'm bringing to the game is exposed, everything irrelevant out of reach. As it should be.

I drive there. His door is open, the screen door locked. He opens the door, lets me in with a smile and a look of expectation. He's a full head taller than me, his hair and beard as red as the pictures, the retainer in his septum piercing adding to the picture. He's wearing comfortable shorts. I step close, we kiss just a little, he pulls me close, starts kissing and biting. I lick, sniff, then move my head toward his armpit to make it clear I want his scent on me. He obliges, lifts his arm, pulls me into it. I pig out on his sweat and scent, slowly, deeply, throughly. The low grunts start coming out of me, unconsciously -- I'm in non-verbal mode. I can feel that he recognizes he has a hungry pig in his hands.

More grappling, biting (him), pit-service (me). "Let's go." And off to the bedroom.

It's homey but rough, leather jacket and sports gear, lots of caps. Sling hung up close to the ceiling, out of the way, but with promise. We strip down, he quickly -- he's just wearing shorts -- and me a little more awkwardly -- football shirt, jeans, gym shoes, socks -- why the hell did I wear socks? We're both in jocks, but it's obvious that the pouch of his won't be occupied for long. We make out a little more -- going for a second coat of pit sweat on my face -- and I work my hand over his jock, feel him hardening. I drop to my knees, put my mouth around it through the jock, and now it's his turn for the moaning. A half groan, half "Yeaaaaah..."

I take his cock out. Nice size, cut -- not sure why I'm a little surprised. That rosy color that nothing in the world has but ginger dick. I let him know I'm there for his cock, by taking it all the way down, to the root, and letting it swell some more in my mouth. Then I go for it, full, pig-hungry strokes. Like the only thing in my world is his cock. Because it's pretty much true. After a little bit of this, he goes through some of the ways of controlling and owning the suck and the cocksucker: both hands holding the sides of my head and thrusting; his big hand palming the top of my head and working it up and down at his pace.

"Turn around." He sits in his chair. He looks down. I drop to my knees, and once again, his cock goes deep in my mouth, down my throat. He controls the strokes in the same ways, and some new ones: thrusting upward into my downward-facing mouth and deeper into my throat, then palming the back of my head like a basketball, then grabbing my nipples and using them, holding tightly enough to control but not tightly enough to move my focus to my tits. Then one that promises a different sort of time: he holds my head with his fingers on my carotid, head control meeting breath control. That gets a moan out of me and a deeper throating of his cock -- I file away the possibility of more breath control in serious, but today it's only a small part of the total package.

I'm at that perfect, totally submitting, edge-of-gagging moment, where the thick throat slime is starting to flow, the tiniest of tears are forming, and while I could spend the rest of my life sucking this cock, I know there's more coming.

"On the bed." Me still in my jock. Finally, naturally, not touching the pouch at all. My dick is hard but irrelevant. Face down, butt up, shoulders and head down. He pushes my legs open, spits on my hole. Licks it just a little, wets his finger, works it in. My hole protested a little earlier when I was cleaning, but now, it knows why it's there. His finger slides right in. It's smooth enough that I worry I'm dirty, but in fact, it's just that I'm a hole and I know it. I'm his hole and he knows it.

His dick is still wet with the slime from my throat. There's no other lube. He has poppers -- he took a few hits when he was in the chair and I was in a world consisting of his dick -- and holds them now, but offers me none. I brought some too, haven't had a chance to take them from my jeans pocket, and don't care.

He puts his dick in. He doesn't quite go balls-deep in a single thrust, but there's nothing tentative about it, and my hole doesn't even consider offering any resistance. More moans. "Yeah." More moans. More "yeah." Then I say it.

"Breed me."

He says, "Yeah, I will. I'm gonna breed you."

And the fucking starts. In that position, then flat on my belly, then further onto the bed and with my butt higher. It's there to be fucked. He's there to fuck it. Insistent strokes, then an arm around my waist and some jackhammer thrusts. He's sweating, and it's dropping from his head and chest slowly onto my back. A low moan, a change in pace, some insistent thrusts. And through it, I can feel his cock throbbing, pulsing in my hole. Confirming, once again, what I've always known in my hole: you can feel it. Especially bare, you can feel it.

He lay there, still in me. We leaned over, almost lost the penetration but didn't, till he was part on his side, part on his back, and I was in front of him. It felt like that hot comfort sex thing where you're spooning but the dick is still inside. But, somehow, not. It was comfortable, yes, but it wasn't "after." And he wasn't pulling out.

So I haven't touched my dick yet. It's still in the jock, put away where nobody needs it. And that's almost the best reminder a bottom needs that he's a hole.


Because he decided to get me off. But it was still in his control.

He took it out, jacked it at his own pace, making it clear to me without saying a thing that it wasn't mine to touch, the stroke was his to set, and it was my job to shoot a load for him. Not for me. And he got me close to the point, higher, higher, not quite there... not deliberately edging, but just finding it. And I knew he might give up, and I wanted to cum. Not for me, but for his work. And I was reminded that the absolute best way to cum when I'm in pig bottom fuckhole mindspace is with a hard dick in my hole, fucking away. Had I mentioned that he was hard again -- still -- and was fucking that load out of me as much as he was jacking it?

And, finally, it builds, and it builds, and it happens. I didn't look or touch it, but it's far to say it's probably the biggest load I've shot in months.

And he's still in my hole. And he hasn't stopped thrusting. And then, he pushes me over, dick still in my hole, till I'm face down. And he's on top, and he's still thrusting.

If not touching my dick at all, cumming only when I get home and jack it thinking about it, running five-senses porn through my head... if that's almost the best reminder that I'm a hole... then this is the best: shooting my load and still needing to take it, to get him off in my somewhat tender fuckhole, where it belongs. Now my dick is not only irrelevant, but the impulse is to say, "Done."

But that's not what a real bottom hole is there for.

My hole was there for one reason: to make his cock feel good and to get that next load from him. If it took minutes, if it took hours, it doesn't matter: the hole is there for his cock.

If I thought I was relaxed before, now I am so loose and slippery and sloppy that I once again fear I'm dirty. But -- sniffing --  I'm not. I'm just a hole the way a real fucker likes it. (Even when I'm on top, I don't get the "tight hole" mystique. I can make it hotter for a top fucking me -- but being painfully tight isn't the way to do it. Anyway.)

He's jamming now. And I'm feeling it, yes, as thrusting, but also, as my hole getting what it needs. If there really are anal orgasms for queerboy fuckholes, this is it. The sweat is pouring off him now, onto my back. And he is riding it, thrusting it, plowing ito me until -- "Yeah. Yeah." and I feel the throbbing again. And if you can actually feel the cum hit, I'm feeling it, and if you can't, I'm wishing it.

We do a few more minutes of that lying-around-after bit. We start to get up. We find my clothes -- most of them, then the runaway second sock -- why did I wear socks? We make small talk about needing to go get dinner. But just a little, and then I say I definitely want to do it again, any time. And he agrees. And I'm out the door, and in my car.

And I feel FUCKED. Yeah, really fucked, used, like my hole was here for. I can feel that throbbing, that sweet pain of the used fuckhole that can go away slow by resting it. Or it can go away fast by putting out the fire with the next fuck. Slow is what's going to happen, I suspect. But... If...

[[Get the comments rolling. I want to know what's on your minds.]]