Monday, August 8, 2016

Chapter 2

“Undress me.” Quiet, authoritative. A command, not a request.

I reached out, hesitant at first, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Before I could grasp them, he grabbed both arms at the wrist.

“Look at me.” I dared not disagree or disappoint. “I’ve given you a direct order, do not hesitate, do not second guess yourself.  In this situation, there is no choice – I’ve made those choices for you and I trust you to do as I say. Let go of the thoughts that cause you to hesitate.”

He looked at me, waiting until I nodded that I’d heard and understood him. Then he released my hands.

This time I didn’t hesitate – I started unbuttoning his shirt from collar to waist, focusing, making my movements efficient. The entire time, I breathed deeply… steadying my nerves and inhaling his scent.

His shirt hadn’t been tucked in to begin with, and in short order he stood with his shirt fully unbuttoned, his skin warm beneath the cloth. In turn, he held out his left and then his right wrist, and I unbuttoned the cuffs.  I reached to push the material off of his shoulders and he gently stopped me. “Unfasten my belt.”

Looking him in the eye, I reached for the buckle, but he stopped me.

“No, I want you to kneel in front of me to do that.”

Without hesitating, I knelt. His jeans were faded, worn, fitted perfectly to his body.  The belt buckle silver, the belt black leather. Old. It was almost as supple as kid leather after years of use. I unfastened the belt and… stopped. From my knees, I looked up into eyes that were observing my every move.

“Good boy,” he said while a small smile played across his lips. “Next, boots.”

Black boots, short, under the rolled cuffs of his jeans. I looked from the boots to his eyes, “Yes Sir.” Another smile. He took my hand, and helped me up. Walking to a small sofa, me trailing behind him, still holding my hand. He sat on the sofa’s edge, me kneeling before him, and presented his boot to me. I reached to the heel, grasping the leather while my other hand held his calf. Gently pulling the heel toward me, I felt the boot begin to slide off. As the boot came free, the sole pressed against my abdomen, I leaned back feeling the boot move with me. Leaning back, naked, with his boot in my hand, I could feel the tread of the sole against my skin, while the buttery softness of the leather was in my hand. The smell—of the leather, and of his foot, wafted towards my face. I inhaled deeply and held my breath, slowly exhaling. Another deep breath. “Next boot, boy.” I realized I’d stopped focusing on his face and, when my attention was drawn back, another encouraging smile.
After removing the other boot, I sat there… continuing to inhale the scent.  He stood quickly—barefooted, with his belt unbuckled. “Now… the jeans.”

I reached to his waist, staring into his eyes, and unbuttoned his jeans.  As I pulled them to the floor, I found he was wearing jock strap. As he stood before me he remained in his unbuttoned shirt, his jock strap and socks. Standing up had placed the pouch of his jock in front of my face—so close I could feel the heat he generated.  He placed one hand on the back of my neck, drawing my face into the warmth of his crotch.  I could feel the cloth of his jock against my face, my nose buried in the crevice where his groin met his thigh. So warm, against my face, the smell intoxicating.  I buried my face, stroking his skin with my cheek. The feel of his warmth against my face.

“Do you like that, boy?” I was almost purring. “Yes Sir.”

“Good, then maybe later…,” leaving the promise hanging there. The implication, at least in my head, was ‘If you’re a good boy.’

Love stopped coming easy to me when I was still a child. Love always had some condition, some price from that point out. Oh, not literally—or, perhaps more accurately, not financial or monetary. Sex had been a form of collateral. And when I grew older, while I wanted to be held, sex was a surrogate, as close an analog as I got, at least from my standpoint.

“…if you’re still up for it when we finish, that is.” That smile.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Chapter 1

The room was surprisingly light, with shallow windows around the top of the walls. The walls were white, the floor dark—covered in the kind of material you’d expect in a gym. The floors were scuff resistant, with just enough bounce to avoid serious damage. The implements were clean… the smell of disinfectant in the air. The furniture led one to think of a combination of a well-appointed gym, and the marquis de sade.

“Make yourself to home.” His voice low, and closer than I’d expected, both startling and titillating.
I was torn. I wanted to drink him in with my eyes, memorize every part of him. I also wanted to avert my eyes, as was appropriate of a subordinate.  In this there was no second-guessing that I was a subordinate.

Turning my gaze to him, I found him looking me over, smiling. His smile spoke volumes, but mostly it spoke of patience. He understood that this was all new to me, he found a certain enjoyment and, dare I say it, joy in that.

Reaching across the space between us, he laid his palm on my cheek.  There was a gentleness.  A smile.

“Take off your clothes.”

The smile never left his face, though his hand dropped. There was a tone that spoke volumes. It spoke to ‘you’ll do this,’ and ‘you’ll do what I want.”

In my heart, all I wanted was to not disappoint him.

I stopped thinking. I stopped worrying… about what I looked like naked, about what it meant to be my age (nearly 50) and being a novice in this whole world and experience. 

I practically tore my sweater off, throwing it to the side. Next came my jeans – even before I thought to take off my shoes.  As I struggled with my shoes I thought, “he must think I’m an idiot,” but even as the shoes came off, I looked—his face radiated the same, calm smile as before.

So, shoes, jeans, sweater, t-shirt and briefs all found their way to the floor.

I stood in front of him, afraid. It was the first time, after all, that I’d been naked with him. There was no artifice, this was the unadulterated, unabridged version of me.  If anything, his smile grew.

“Such a good boy.” The warmth in that one statement… I felt myself shudder—as though the warmth was physical and touching upon every part of me.

“What do you want?” his voice both warm and, slightly, demanding. I looked at him, daring to meet his eyes.  “What is it that you want?” I saw in his face a curiosity, but also a hardness. “You need to say what it is that you want. You need to speak it. You need to tell me.”

“I want to please you.” – my voice low. Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t enough. It didn’t say anything.

“What does that mean, that’s a cop out. What do YOU want?”

The silence stretched while I thought about that question.

“I want to hurt.” Barely a whisper.


“Why?” Gentle, that question.

“I don’t know. I don’t… I hurt inside already, I just want to hurt where I can deal with it.” I wasn’t even sure what I was saying, in a way. Yet, at the same time, it was exactly what I meant.

Still silence.

“Tell me more. I need to know more.” His voice echoed in my head, in my chest. I closed my eyes and really thought about it.

“I’m so… trapped. I’m trapped inside my own mind, in my own thoughts. I feel so weak. There’s no joy in just getting through the day. I need to know that I’m worthy.” There I hesitated…

“Worthy?” he asked, “Worthy of what? Worthy for what?”

Even as the words whirled through my mind, I hesitated. “Worthy for what?” he reiterated.

“I need to know that I’m worthy of love. Of respect.”

Long moments of silence.

Finally, “You know, only you can determine if you’re worthy of those things.”

I felt my shoulders slump. I knew it. I think I’d always known it. But how could I… let myself believe that?

I stood facing the ground. I knew it. I knew the quandary in which I found myself. “God this is so fucked up.” I said, almost a whisper.

I could feel him standing there. Rigid. I needed to explain, to him, to me.

“It’s fucked up because I know, you’re right. There’s a battle inside me—because I want… I need permission.”

“Permission?” He gently drew me to continue talking.

“I’m afraid… of what I want. I’m afraid that asking for what I want is going to make me look… ridiculous.”

More silence. I was standing naked before this man, this remarkable, attractive man. I felt naked, but numb.

“So… what is it that has you so afraid? What is it that you want that badly?”

I thought about it. I’d thought about this – about a scene like this – for so long. And it had only been the surface. A man, a master, a dominant who would test me. He would physically test me, playing with my limits and helping me to learn about what those limits were and what they really meant.  But that was fantasy. That wasn’t enough.

“I…” as the word lingered there, I felt him move closer to me. He was so close.

“Tell me, and trust me.”  That was it. That was the key. It wasn’t just that I needed to tell him, to articulate it – for both of us – I needed to trust him. I needed to trust that he would treat with respect what I was about to say.

“I…” still I hesitated it.

Gently, I felt his hand on my chin—raising my eyes to meet his.  Those eyes, so intent, so beautiful. My voice caught in my throat. Seeing the expression on my face, he offered a gentle smile. He leaned toward me, gently brushing his lips against mine.

“It’s ok… “ as he pulled back. But it wasn’t – I didn’t want to be ‘let out’ of this situation. I was afraid I’d never have the courage to find myself here again.

“I CAN’T!” I said, louder than I’d expected… by his facial expression, I had surprised him too. “I mean, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t hold everything inside. I can’t… I feel like I’m so fucking fragile, like the wrong word, and I’ll shatter. “

I could feel and hear my heart beating in my chest.

“I need to know if I’m stronger than that. I need to know that I AM stronger than that.”

I hated the pleading tone that I heard in my own voice. I felt my heart in my throat. I felt more vulnerable that I’d ever felt.


I looked at him, my eyes locked with his…

“I need you to love me.” I gasped that out, terrified by what I’d said and by what it meant.

“To love you…” He looked at me, and waited.

It took me a long time to put it into words.

“I want to know that this means something. I need to know that this means… something. I want to be… I want to be more than I am right now – it’s asking a lot. It’s asking that this isn’t just academic… for you.” Before he could say anything, I need to add, “I don’t think this is just academic for you. I don’t. But I need to say it, to you. I get that this has… weight. I get that I’m basically asking you to help me become more than I am, or more than I feel like I am, today. I get what that can mean. For both of us.”

There was a pain in my chest. It wasn’t quite physical, but it was visceral.  Took me a minute to have several things register. First, I was shaking. Not the uncontrollable shuddering that happens when you’re cold. In its stead was an almost etheric shuddering. Second, that my hands were balled into fists at my side. Lastly, that I was, indeed, naked. It was like all of my awareness had been from the neck up and only now was the rest of my body catching up.

I know that my eyes never left his face, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall what his facial expression had been during my confession. All I knew was that his face was still, his expression unreadable. But I also knew there was no judgement in his gaze. He watched me, my eyes, my face, for anything he could read.

“You need to know that I take you seriously—that I understand what it is you’re asking of me. You also need to know that I won’t judge you for what you need.” He’d said it better than I could.
“Yes. Yes Sir, I do.” I could feel the beginnings of tears in my eyes.

Before I could look away, he reached out – grasping my face in both hands and making sure that I was looking at him, at his eyes, and all that was conveyed there.

“You are safe here, with me. I will never hurt you—well, beyond what it is you need and what you can handle. Can you trust me?” There was so much conveyed in his gaze. 

“Yes Sir. I can trust you, I do trust you.” My voice all but breaking.

I felt his lips brush my forehead. “That’s all I can ask of you.” A smile, gentle and knowing, broke across his face, “Let’s begin.”

Monday, October 15, 2012

I keep waiting

I keep waiting for you to stop caring.  The sad part is that it’s been the hallmark of our ‘relationship’ this expectation… like I need you so much more than you need me. 

I don’t think you ever realized how important you’ve become to me.  So much of our time was spent talking about what was going on in your life—not that I begrudge you that.  You have been dealing with a bunch of stuff—stuff that I don’t envy you at all. it’s just that, really, you were the only friend I felt I had in Seattle.  You were he one I wanted to spend my time with—no so much out of desperation for another person in my life, though.  You were the one that mattered.  You… I feel… I love you.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012


I’m often confronted by the realization that what I want frightens me.  I know that’s… vague.  but that is what the experience is—a vague feeling of fear. 

I want, but I’m afraid of, responsibility.

I want, but I’m afraid of, major purchases.

I want, but I’m afraid of, intimacy.

I want, but I’m afraid of, sex.

I’m coming to grips with a lot of the above.  And, reading over that list, the one that feels the most vulnerable to admit to is the last. 

Sex, as a youth, meant furtive masturbatory experiences.  There was no place for it in polite conversation, or in my every day. 

Sex, in college, meant struggling with what I was told was ‘right’ with what I felt was right.  I ‘should’ want a relationship with a woman, I felt I wanted—no craved—the touch of a man, instead.  For years, I continued to struggle with that juxtaposition and, afterward, with the bifurcation of my personal life with my ‘family’ life.  Secrets kept until my mid-to-late 20s.  I understood that part of myself, but did not have the strength of character to admit it to my family, or many of my friends.

Sex, in my 20s and 30s, was scarce—largely owing to my own insecurities and, yes, fear.  I’ve always been shy, and socially awkward—though as I’ve gotten older I’ve ‘covered’ that better.  It still terrifies me to be in social settings though, admittedly, less so when I don’t know anyone at all.  Weird? Maybe—but when I’m in a completely new place, when I know no one, I can convince myself that there’s no harm in making an ass of myself—if that should happen.  It relieves the pressure.  So to speak.

You hit your 40s, with only a handful of sexual experiences under your belt—so to speak—and you wonder if you know anything about sex at all.  I also, finally, admitted to myself that bottoming—scary, full of the fear that it would hurt—was something I had thought about, and envied in others.  In porn, if a bottom can lose themselves in the sensations of bottoming… that is what I covet. 

Slowly, I’m coming out of my shell.  every step is a bit frightening, and more than a bit empowering.  Every step, thankfully, has been a step forward.  When I lose patience with myself, I’m reminded of that. 

The other thing I’ve had to confront lately is that I’ve been waiting.  Waiting for something to happen—for someone or something to bring change into my life.  Fear again.  Of committing to a change, or an action.  Fear of taking a chance, and being rebuffed.  I’m tired of living in fear.  I’m trying to take ownership of my own life, and what that means.  

So, 45th birthday behind me, I choose to stop waiting and start taking chances.  I remind myself that I don’t have to change overnight—that each step is a step forward, to knowing myself better and to becoming a whole, healthy, sexual being. 

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


***Warning: Not the least bit sexy***

I will admit to a certain amount of melancholia at this time of year.  Birthdays do that to me.  It’s a reminder of where I am, and where I thought I’d be, and how disparate those two really are. 

Add to that a certain amount of upheaval—new job, new lifestyle (working from home)—and it’s a bit of a recipe for disaster.

So, imagine how my evening turned out when someone posted a link (below) with little preamble.  Once I clicked on it, I found it to be an 11 minute section of Prayers for Bobby.  Never having seen it, I watched it.  Fair warning—if the rest of the movie is anything like these 11 minutes—it’s an amazingly moving story, heart wrenching and uplifting in turns.  All the more so because it’s not just a story.  Bobby was a 19 year old boy who, having come out to his mother—a Christian (capitol C)—was greeted with all of the litany of things I feared when I grappled with the realization that I was gay.  You see, I was raised—at least for the latter part of my formative years—in a born-again Christian household.  I heard, often, how gays were sinner bent on hell and damnation.  It wasn’t my parents (or in this case foster parents) trying to convince me—though maybe, at some point, at some level, they knew long before I did.  It was just them espousing their beliefs.  Hell and damnation, and the knowledge that I was, less than.  To be prayed for, but not accepted.  “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It’s a charming little sound byte.  But what happens when a person realizes that, at their very core, it’s not a phase.  It’s not just a habit or behavior, but it’s who they are—as integral as their hair color or eye color.  I didn’t choose to be gay.  I didn’t choose to face a world where even your family aren’t necessarily your allies.  What I did choose was to walk away from my family.  From people who never really understood why.  How could they understand that ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ translated for me into ‘how could you love me when you reject something that is so part of who I am?’  It was, in a few small words, the assurance that they would never really be able to love me for me.  There would always be, at some level, a hope that I would change—that prayer, and ‘trying hard enough’ would make me different. 

Bobby chose a different way out.  At the age of 19, rejected by the ones who were supposed to love him the most, he took his own life.  I was reminded how often, at a similar age, I felt cut off from those in my life who were meant to be closest to me.  Thoughts of a similar fate weren’t foreign to me.  I’m not entirely sure what kept me going. 

Yes, this blog entry is atypical – for this blog at least.  I will say that, having watched the clip below, I was touched both by the memories of my own life and the way that Bobby’s mother changed.  She has become a strong advocate for gay rights, and sees how her rigid beliefs failed her son.  It is her goal to make the world a safe place for people like Bobby. 

I share this link with you because it hit so close to home.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

New experiences

Sex involves a certain amount of vulnerability.  In my life, I’ve been vulnerable—and clearly made poor choices with whom.  The result is that it’s not easy for me to be open to sex, or to be open with people.  One of the things I’ve chosen to do with my life is approach sex, and vulnerability, and try and gain back some of what I think I’ve lost.

I rarely feel visible, in uncontrolled settings.  Take that for what you will.  In light of that, over the years, a couple of ways to deal:

1)  self-medicate so that I feel less inhibited

2)  pay for sex

The former rarely has worked out well.  Though it has afforded me a handful of interesting stories to share.  I’ve shared them, though admittedly left out the ‘buyer’s remorse’ that typically hits the next day.  Sure, there was the time in NYC during gay pride when I knelt before two men and took care of their dicks.  Sure, there was the pair that I sucked off in a back alley in Chicago.  Yes, there was the time, at Folsom, where I made out—and more—with the attractive older guy in a bar.  The fact that I did so only because I was tipsy (I’m being generous) is what leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The times I’ve paid for sex, though.  Some of those have been truly eye opening experiences.  One I’ve already blogged about here.  The other that comes to mind is relatively recent.

I say ‘paid for sex’ but really, this was sexual but didn’t involve intercourse, or oral.  It involved a massage—both external and internal. 

Arriving at his home, it was very peaceful.  He’d set aside a private space for his practice.  It was soothing, and welcoming.  I’d had the chance to discuss with him what my goals were—to explore opening myself up to sex, both figuratively and literally.  In spite of a fairly open—and very accepting—conversation and well set expectations, I was nervous.  Driving to his neighborhood, I was nervous.  Parking on his street, I was nervous.  Walking up to his door, I was nervous.  Once I got inside, though, and we sat on the massage table and started talking… my nerves went away.  Instead, I was excited.  Vibrating, almost.  Hard to breathe.  That kind of excited. 

Laying face down, naked, on the warm table my nerves came back a bit.  Not debilitating, just… there.  The smell of sage, cleansing.  Breathing, deep.  In… out. 

The feeling of his warm hands, oiled, on my back while I breathed—relaxing.  As he worked his way down my back, ever closer to my butt, I felt my anticipation building.  Working on my butt—not the crack, not the hole—I breathed a bit more… then to my thighs and legs.

There was a moment when his hands spread my legs farther apart, something about the strength in his hands in that movement that was exciting but not overwhelming. I started losing a sense of timeline.  I remember the sensations, and experience in general.  It’s hard to break up the whole into snippets.

There was the feeling of oil down my the crack in my ass.  I continued deep breathing, but when he touched my hole—even to just stroke the oil over it—my breath became a gasp.  The sensation as he stroked my ass, while spreading the cheeks apart.  Then there’s the feeling of him reaching between my legs—while I continued to lie face down—reaching under me and stroking my hard dick.   The sensation of his tongue on my hole, the feeling of his mouth, biting the cheeks of my ass.  These come rushing back to me.  Gasps.  I’d rimmed men—and enjoyed that—but never been treated to that myself.  Was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it.  Unfounded fear, as it turned out.  Breathing.  Gasping.  Occasionally moaning.  There was never insertion—well not of cock into ass. 

Fingers, yes.  Toys, yes.  The overwhelming sensations of a toy inside me while he stroked me, hard and wet as I was.  Feelings of uncertainty—would I continue to like this? Would there be a moment where I just shut down, shut off.

There were three toys, I think, that night.  The last, as it vibrated inside me, he laid on my back and thrust with his pelvis.  Fucked by a vibrating, hard surrogate.  Feeling his warmth against my back.  The hair of his chest. 

Breathing.  Respite.   A moment to collect myself.  Then I was on my back, and his warm hands—slick with oil—played across my body.  My nipples, my dick, my arms and arm pits, nothing went untouched or unstroked.  No kissing. 

I can’t tell you the number of times that I laid there, overcome by tremors.  My body overwhelmed with sensations.  Each time there would be a few moments respite, and then the feelings would build again under his practiced hands.

When the evening ended, I was a sodden mess—wrung out.  I can’t even tell you if I came or not.  He told me I did, but I was lost to the moment.  Covered in oil, feeling a sense of connectedness and openness, I dressed and drove home.

Thinking about the experience, the drive home uneventful.  Thinking about the experience, the ride up in the elevator beneath my notice.  Thinking about the experience, I came, lying on the floor in my bathroom in three strokes of a wet hand. 

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


If you’re going to play with the item below—which I heartily recommend, for anyone who’s into it—I’d suggest a water based lube, such as Str8cam lube.  Experience says it’s just better.

Str8cam Lube

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Fun Factory Bandito