Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Letting the Pig Out to Play

This week marks my last week here in Maine, and by this time next week I will hopefully be fully moved in to my new Boston apartment. As I have said before, due to packing, moving, unpacking, waiting for the cable company to come, and any other delay I might have in being fully settled in my new place, posting will be erratic and may stop for a while. I'll try to keep you informed about when that will happen, but the best way to find out about my goings-on is to follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

On Monday I was feeling really horny after seeing my doctor. I play a rather fun game with my doctor and have been playing it for years now. The game is that I always wear some form of sexy underwear to an appointment with him to try and get a reaction out of him. Being a doctor he would never draw attention to anything like that, so the game is to try and get him to at least react. So on Monday I decided to wear a black 2(x)ist thong to his office, the skimpiest thing I've ever worn to see him. And I got a bit of satisfaction: he did pause and look for a second before moving on to check for testicular lumps or a hernia. My doctor is straight as an arrow and married, I just do it to tease.

The unplanned effect of wearing the thong for the half hour ride home was a giant hard-on and the sexy feeling of soft cotton between my cheeks, rubbing my hole. I needed to fuck something right away. So I grabbed some lunch and sat down at my computer to check for some fun online. As has been usual in my time in Maine, there was no one online. And I mean that literally. I was the only person logged in for long stretches of time. In my despair I ended up jerking off and shooting a load into my thong, taking it off to start packing in the nude. Normally once I get off I log out of the hook-up sites, dejected, but for whatever reason that day I didn't. I left the window open.

That's how I met Jim. I had checked him out before: an older guy with natural muscles, not ones made in a gym. He claims to be in his early forties but is probably more like forty-eight to fifty. He hit me up online a few hours later and asked me what I was into, telling me he thought my list of kinks was hot and that he'd love to flip fuck with me. "I'm more interested in topping right now," I replied, "If that's good with you, I'd love to have your ass." He didn't have a problem and asked me when I was free, clearly thinking that I was going to schedule for a later time. "I'm free now, if you are," I said. "Can be there in 30min." He was happily surprised (most guys in Maine hate to actually travel for a hook-up, which is why half of them never get laid) that I was ready and told me to come over.

Jim was taller than me. A lot taller, and I'm not short. It was just another way that he reminded me so much of Rob. He was kind, gently talking to me while I drank some water after the long, hot car ride. But all passion when we finally started to fuck. I was on his lap on the couch, making out with him hard while he stripped me. When I was down to just my Nasty Pig jock and him to his shorts, we moved to his bedroom. It had been a while since he was last fucked, though apparently that hadn't been too good. But while we made out and played with each other he talked about his slutty bottom past. We compared notes and I came out on top in a lot of ways. I matched him in his slut stories and had one better for almost every one of his. It was hot foreplay talk, but soon I wanted to see his ass.

When he lifted up his legs I was shocked at how much of a bottom's hole he had. Top guys will know what I mean about this. His hole was a sweet pucker with just a little bit of the skin pushed out like a small lump, inviting my finger and tongue and teeth to seek further and further in. I went at his hole with a deep need, eating it like a starving man. The only times I came up were to suck his cock and balls or to share his ass flavor with him. Finally I let him suck me off to get me wet for him. He did well with my cock but was unable to take me into his throat much at all. At one point he pulled off and said, "Oh, pre-cum!"

"Yeah," I replied, "I make a lot of it."

"I love it. Yours is so sweet. I could drink it all day."

I let him drink it a bit more before returning to his hole to finger him open with a purpose. He was nervous because of how low his lube supply was that it would be hard to take me. He need not have worried. I was able to stretch him open to four fingers without any lube at all. I just added a small amount before sliding my cock in and filling him up. He made me go slow, and I was willing to be patient. But I knew he was enjoying this a lot and that he was going to be a good boy and take all the cum I could give him. With his legs pinned to his chest I began to slowly fuck him.

Up until now our play had been pretty vanilla. Sure, we'd done some dirty talk and enjoyed the fluids leaking from our cocks and his ass, but that is just scratching the surface for me. While I fucked him we began to go deeper. We grunted and sweat over each other as I pumped into him. He begged for my hot load, my bare cock. I bit him and made out with him, alternating hard, quick thrusts for long, painfully slow ones. When I finally came I shot a huge load into him, fucking his ass as much as possible while I came.

"You like having a real man's cum in you, don't you?" I said. It wasn't really a question. I told him that I knew right away what he really needed was for a Dominant man like me to remind him what his hole was made for. "You are here to take my cum. Your ass is for my cock." I made him sniff my sweaty pits as I kept fucking him. He was amazed that I was still hard and still fucking him. "Just wait." I said.

I kept fucking him after I came a second time too. While I pumped into him we talked about how much we both like watersports and how little piss play there was in the area. He told me he has never had piss up his ass. When I offered to change that he thought about it, but said he wanted my cum to stay in and not get washed out. That was a great answer. We talked about other things too. Our mutual love of felching cum out of an ass, especially when the cum wasn't ours. He asked me about my younger slut years. He told me about a fifteen year old boy he had been with a few years back, one who had been lying about being eighteen online. He told me about some of the young college guys he had fucked and dated. We both lamented the fact that BareBackRealTimeSex was almost unused in Maine. All this while I kept fucking him. At one point I felt some cum just leak out of my cock and then the sensation of a near orgasm came back. I started fucking him harder.

"Are you going to cum again?" he asked.

"Yes," I grunted out. "Tell me a story. Tell me about the last time you pissed in a guy's ass."

"It was my ex boyfriend when he lived here with me. We spent a whole day just fucking, non-stop. I was buried in him, fucking my cum in deep when I realized I had to piss. Instead of stopping to go to the bathroom I just pissed right in his ass."

"Did he like it?"

"Oh yeah. He moaned out loud, loving the full feeling. I carried him to the shower and sat down with him still on my cock. When he finally lifted up all my piss and cum leaked out all over me. It was so hot."

That story was all it took to send me over the edge, shooting a third load inside his ass. I kept fucking him, but this time I felt my cock start to go soft and I slid out of him, thinking that I was probably done after three huge loads in his ass and one earlier on. He put his legs down but I quickly lifted them back up and started to lick his hole that was leaking some of my cum. I tasted great as I leaked out of his sweet little ass. I kept some on my tongue and fed it to him. He sucked it off of me with relish and looked at me with wide eyes. "No guy has ever done that to me before. I've never had a guy eat cum out of my ass and feed it to me."

"I'm surprised. I thought you liked the kink."

"I do. I just have never had that happen."

"I can't believe I just taught a guy as experienced as you a new trick." I was amazed. We talked some more about the things we had done. As the time moved on, he became more and more piggy with me. He started talking about how I had shot my hot seed deep in him. Three loads of my cum were inside him, spreading my DNA into him. I had bred him. He was getting me horny again. I was getting hard and we started aggressively making out. This time I didn't hold back. I was spitting on him, in his mouth. I was telling him that he was a filthy pig and needed to be fed. I shoved my cock into him as hard as I could and fucked him until I came again. He was working his cock when I pulled out and I fingered his ass to help him along. When he came close to shooting, though, his legs went stiff and he shouted in pain.

He had been crunched with his legs to his chest way too long. Especially because the day before he had ridden his bike for well over three hours. His legs just were in too much trauma to allow him to cum. I soothed him and massaged him and he never stopped trying to blow his load. It wasn't meant to be, however. During the process of trying to get him off, he sucked my cock a lot, slicking it up and slurping down the pre-cum I was still leaking. I jumped on top of his face and said, "Oh shit, I'm going to cum!" and shoved my pulsing cock into his mouth. He swallowed every drop. And right as I finished shooting he tensed up and his dick fired off a load of cum onto his stomach. I wiped up a bunch for myself and some for him as well. Then I pushed some of it into his ass to mix with mine.

When I finally left I was tired and very hungry from all the sweating and fucking and cumming I had done. I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts and got the worst service ever on my way home, but I didn't care. I had to get something in me. When I got home I had a series of hot texts from Jim on my phone.

Jim: That was really hot. Thanks! And I couldn't fuckin BELIEVE how much cum just came out of my hole! :) And it's not all out even.
Me: Ha! You should have taken a picture.
Jim: I was TRYIN to, but hard to aim, hold a cell phone cam still. But used a glass to see how much, and it was damn near 2 inches deep in the glass... And still more runnin down the inside of my leg... Licked that off my fingers. :)
Me: Hot. Did you take a pic of the cup? 
Jim: LOL... No cuz I'm and idiot... I got your cum all over my phone too. 
We both agreed that there will be a next time and that next time there will be a picture of the cup. He wants to take a train down to Boston the first weekend I'm settled in and let me fuck him hard, and he wants us to share a bottom. All things that I'm totally down with. I can't wait to fuck/fuck with Jim again.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Thinking of Chris

This week marks my last week here in Maine, and by this time next week I will hopefully be fully moved in to my new Boston apartment. As I have said before, due to packing, moving, unpacking, waiting for the cable company to come, and any other delay I might have in being fully settled in my new place, posting will be erratic and may stop for a while. I'll try to keep you informed about when that will happen, but the best way to find out about my goings-on is to follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Today I'm going to talk about a guy some of my older readers may remember named Chris. For those of you who haven't reached way back to my earlier posts in May, he features heavily in two of them. One is the post where he is the last man I have sex with before leaving Ohio and the other is about the first time we fucked and I took his cherry. Aside from my incredible second time getting fucked by Rob Steed of A Breeder's Journal fame, Chris was the only man I was having sex with towards the end of my school year. It wasn't because we were exclusive, but more because I was moving on and away. Plus I was beginning to get sick with what I would eventually learn was Mono.

I have mentioned in a few other posts that I was late in realizing my growing feelings for Chris. Not that it would have mattered any. He was leaving for a summer internship and I was heading to Maine and then Colorado and finally Boston. I whole summer's worth of stuff (most of which is cataloged here) was between him and me. So even if I had realized my strong feelings, feelings which I believe he shared, there still would have been no easy way to act on them. But I have been clear with myself from the moment I realized it: I love Chris. Not in the school-boy crush way, but in the way that let's me know I will always be there for him and always care for him.

I've also been talking to him on and off this summer. We text back and forth a lot and keep up-to-date on what we're both doing. He and I both had a similar dry spell earlier this summer. And while I've been doing my very best to keep myself (and by extension, you all) entertained with some fun sexual encounters, he has been working on a few of his own. Sadly, his internship hours keep him from performing as often as he would like, he has been having a few good times of his own.

Like the wealthy man in his early fifties who took him shopping and bought him some sexy underwear before they went back to his place. This man has a koi pond large enough to swim in, surrounded by hedges tall enough to block the skinny dipping from nosy neighbors. They then worked their way back into his room where he fucked Chris long and gently (not nearly as rough as I got, which wasn't even that rough by my standards). After they were done fucking, they lay together in his bed, and had to pretend to be asleep when the man's son came home. But that didn't stop them from sneaking in a second, muffled fuck that night and another in the morning.

I've been telling Chris about all of my adventures too. I try to send him pictures when I can, but it seems like I'm never sending him enough to keep his horny little self satisfied. I can see why I liked him so much. We've both helped each other make it through some rough patches and kept each other horny. We talk about the times we used to fuck around, and I always get a huge smile when he texts something like, "I miss having your hairy chest above me and your cock inside of me." Some of my stories have been all that comforts him in his horniness. And there have been days where his text or call has been exactly what I needed.

When that happens, when he really makes my day with his contacting me, I sometimes think back to how easy it was when all I had to do was walk a short distance to his room and fuck him silly. How comfortable I felt just laying my head on his chest to watch TV while we cuddled after sex. How easy it was to just talk to him. I think back to all of that and I wonder if I missed something. Did I miss out on what could have been a great relationship? If just his text can make me happy, should I have stayed with him, been his boyfriend, and really let him make me happy? Sometimes these thoughts just feel, well, sad.

I think this is normal. Or maybe I just hope it is. Both Chris and I started seeing each other knowing full well that there was no chance of us continuing past the end of the school year. We spent a lot of time together talking or fucking, and used up the time we had together well. I have no regrets at all about what he and I did, and I am so much happier having spent my last days at school with him. And yet, I can't help but wonder what would have happened to us if I had stayed in Ohio, or at least the Mid West. We'd be closer, and would probably have gotten to spend some time together this summer. Possibly have developed a relationship. I'll never know what might have been, and I don't usually focus on what-ifs.

Of course, this entire post has been a giant what-if. I have a reason for focusing my thoughts on this topic. As I get ready for another move, I find myself thinking again about the men I've met this summer in Maine and how I am not likely to see many of them ever again. I haven't had anyone strike me nearly as much as I was struck by Chris (or Rob), but a few were certainly ones I wouldn't mind elevating to "regular" status. And all these thoughts about leaving people behind have reminded me of one of my favorite things about any relationship: You never really know how strong they really are. The short time I've had this summer has made me really work to seek out great experiences and to truly treasure the moments I've had with the lovers I've met here. Because of this I've made some great friends and hopefully some lovers who will want to get together when I come up to Maine for visits.

And that is the lesson in my story with Chris. If you don't treasure every moment with the people you are with and really seek enjoyable sex, then how will you ever know when you've made a relationship? Don't get me wrong, some people (even some of you) are probably not looking for a relationship. I've read sex blogs by guys who are simply getting off. That's fine. I have that kind of sex too. But what I've really enjoyed about writing in this blog, and what I have really enjoyed sharing with you all, is the more complex side to casual sex. It isn't about a series of meaningless encounters for me. In fact, what I'm truly looking for is a series of completely meaningful encounters. I would love nothing more than to go to Boston and eventually cultivate a group of guys and girls to regularly have sex with, people who I have a lot in common with and who are not just a trick to me. I would likely still have sex with others as well, but what I really want is to have sex with people I care about. I don't want a monogamous relationship, and even if I did want one, I am not very good at functioning in monogamy. It wouldn't work. What would make me the most happy, at least at this point in my life, is a good set of lovers to care for and sleep with.

So while I'm moving to Boston, keep me in your thoughts and wish me luck in getting what I want. I've talked to Chris a bit about this, about how I would love a series of hot guys, and his response was, "I hope you get them! And take pictures. You know I live my life through my gay mentor. :)" That is enough to convince me that I'm going the right way. And though I'll miss those I'm leaving behind, I'm happy to know that I'm going to meet so many more people in Boston. I like making friends and I love meeting new people. I can't wait.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Formspring and Hurricane Hype

As some of you probably figured out, living on the east coast pretty much means I'm right in Irene's path. As much as I would love to tell you some horror story about the ways in which I am unprepared for the hit or am being forced to evacuate, it would be lies. Honestly, I'm really excited for Irene to come at hurricane levels. The last time a hurricane actually hit Maine, I was two years old. Don't really remember it. So I think I'll be ok. And if I do need to evacuate, there is a high school less than a mile down the street from where I live in which to take shelter. But honestly, if this place has survived blizzards, it'll survive this. I refuse to buy in to all the hype that seems to be growing from people NOT in the storm's path. Will there be flooding? Yes. Will my power go out? It is possible. Will trees fall? I imagine that they will. But none of these things are as bad as they seem. And for the most part, if you are inside you are safe. It is the people out walking and driving that get killed.

Kind of like these people in this weather report who run around outside (one of the guys even flops his dick out for a moment). Seriously. Those guys are the definition of "Too Dumb to Live."

What I really worried about is my doctor appointment early Monday morning. It will be hard to get to if trees are still in the road. And I'm worried about the internet going down and messing up my grad school work. I suspect I can do what I need from my cell phone, but that isn't for sure.

And I guess all these concerns are really overshadowed by the fact that I will be fully packed and getting ready to move on Thursday. I am supposed to be down in Boston early Thursday morning to get my key and start moving in. The process will take a while, I'm sure, and I have no idea how quickly my cable will be set up. So there is a chance that my posting will become VERY irregular for a while. Once I get settled in, I'll be sure to resume posting and keeping you all enticed with pictures of me. Yes. I have more pictures of me to share.

Anyway, on to the Formspring questions. Don't forget to ask me more here or send me questions in an email. You can also leave questions in the comments section. No one has done it yet, but I guess Facebook and Twitter work too. I didn't get many new questions this past week, so my backlog is going to run out soon. Ask me some good ones, because I love to answer them.

Ace, the Breeder has publicly stated that the thought of liver makes him queasy. Do you feel the same way? What if it was served with a nice Chianti?

First of all, that's a reference to Silence of the Lambs, right? Love it. Second: liver is gross. Anyone I know who eats it always gets the same question from me: Are you aware of the function of that organ? There's no way I'm eating what is essentially the filter at a sewage plant. Gross.

Plus, they smell. In college biology we had to do experiments on bits of chicken liver. I have never hated a lab more.

Ace, do you still have your roommate? I come from a wealthy family that paid for my own apartment to live in while I was in college. Well, it was a junior college. And it wasn't an apartment, it was solitary confinement at the mental institution.

I'm only answering this crazy question because it made me laugh. And no, I don't room with him any more. He is a year behind me in school, and I am halfway across the country now.

Ace, I've racked my brain to think of a clever rhyming moniker for your readers, but I can't think of any. What about using an unpronounceable symbol, such as Prince did in the 90's? Then we could all get tattoos. What do you think?

I like that a lot actually. :) The idea of my readers branding themselves to show loyalty is very...intoxicating. I kind of really want it to happen. I really do.

(EDIT: I'm actually working on getting an Ace's Wild tattoo designed for myself. Once I do, I'll put the picture up here if anyone wants to get it. I'm not saying you should [I won't tell someone to do something permanent] but I'll put it up if you choose.)

Ace, in these dry and arid long summer months, what can I do to keep my hair looking and feeling scrumptious, luscious, magnificient and shiny?

Well, conditioning as well as shampoo should go without saying. I also recommend going at least two days between washing your hair. This allows your natural oils to help keep your hair healthy. Also, it is important to remember that sun exposure is bad for your hair. A hat, scarf, or other cover can help. Other than that, just do what you normally do to take care of your hair.

What do you think about HANDS ON A HARD BODY?

I'm impressed that they plan to make it into a Broadway musical. Not impressed in that I want to see it, but impressed that they would find it compelling enough to make a musical. I saw the documentary and was unimpressed. Personally I wish they would stop making musicals based off of books or movies. The lack of creativity on Broadway is worse than the lack of creativity in Hollywood.

Sorry for any redundancy with your question about favorite writers, but what do you think of Armistead Maupin -- style, forms, themes, perspective?

Well, I haven't really read enough of him to have a firm grasp of his work. So instead of making gross generalizations based on only having read some of his stuff, I will say that I find him to be a good writer, though I sometimes wonder at why he is so praised.

Not to say that good writing isn't praiseworthy, but I mean, it seems like a lot of his praise is coming from the angle of "oh, how nice that a gay man can write such a good story" instead of focusing on his plot and character development. It isn't his fault, and not a point against him. Sadly our system of evaluating books is very much from a white heteronormative perspective, and anything that falls out of that is treated as exotic. The same thing happened to the poets of the Harlem Renaissance. To be honest, many of them fit better into the Modernist movement, but are removed from it for being black. Similarly I think Maupin is less a LGBT writer and more a writer who happens to hit on LGBT issues.

He is a good writer, but the critical perspectives on his writing are poorly focused. Hope that answers your question.

That's all for this week. Be sure to ask me more questions and I hope to have wonderful pictures of my new apartment to show you all very soon. And wish me luck with Irene. More specifically with the drain at the end of our driveway that can get clogged by leaves and needs to be raked open every so often.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

As Far in as Possible

Before starting today's post I would just like to thank my readers for the positive response to my post on Thursday. It does take a lot of courage to be this open with you all, but you make it worth it every time. Thanks. And fortunately by writing out my problems I was able to make this fun post remembering an event from almost exactly a year ago.

August 21st, 2010 is a fairly important date to me. Around that time I was packing up all of my things to move. Not just what I was bringing to college, but everything I owned had to be either packed or thrown out because sometime during that year at school my mother was planning to sell our house and move. She did, and now most of my stuff is in storage, waiting to be unpacked. But packing it all was a big step. I was essentially moving out of my childhood home (though really the 5th home total I had moved from). I was also dealing with the fact that I had recently had my last ever sexual encounter with my mentor Paul before he moved out to California to live on the West Coast. But why that day in particular is important to me is because that day was the last time I had a fist in a man's ass.

I love fisting, I really do. There is something almost mind-blowing watching anal lips bloom out to surround your hand as you plunge in, only to tightly grip your wrist the moment you're there. The way the man you're inside has to trust you totally, and you have to trust yourself. The warm sensation of being fully in there, of having the most of your body possible inside...It is intoxicating.

My talented bottom for this session was from out of state, but currently staying at one of the many campgrounds we have here. He was upfront about wanting a fist, and I was excited to give him one. He had pictures of him with his hole filled and clearly had experience in hole stretching and fisting. That's what I usually look for in a fist partner. I've had too many guys tell me they want to get a fist, but demonstrate a clear lack of experience in even slight anal training. Fisting is not something that a newcomer can do starting out. It takes time and patience, and even someone who is experienced can have an off day and not be able to take it. So fisting virgins and I have a bad track record. Lucky for me, this guy was a pro.

I was a bit unsure about fisting him in his camper, but he said it was plenty of room, so I figured I would go for it. The campground makes you pay even to just be a guest for a day, so I ended up leaving my car at a nearby park and ride and getting picked up by him. He was the perfect image of a pig in disguise. A late thirties man in a plain white polo shirt over light brown cargo shorts, but his buzzed hair and goatee told me what I needed to know. The first thing he said to me when I got into the car was, "I've got a big plug in me, getting ready for it to be your fist instead." The man was singing my tune.

I had never been in a camper before, so I was amazed at how open the space was inside. Whoever makes those things are amazing. My attention was quickly stolen, however, by the dildos of various large sizes laying on the bed next to a tub of Crisco. I was in my own little piece of heaven as the two of us stripped down and got on the bed. One thing that really get's me off is working another man's ass open with toys. Anal stretching has always been an interest of mine and I have developed a taste for seeing men invaded by larger and larger items. So when he pulled his legs back to show me the butt plug he had in, I was quickly shifting to that animalistic side of me that wanted--no, needed--to get that ass spread as wide as possible.

When I pulled the plug out of his ass I knew that it wasn't going to take much time to open him up. His ass practically gaped at me around the plug as I pulled. The plug was big. Bigger than any I own. I picked up the first dildo and got it nice and slick before pushing it into him. The entire time I was working him open with increasingly larger dildos, I wanted to watch his ass open wider and wider. But I couldn't. I found myself constantly looking into his eyes. There are many men with beautiful eyes, but only a few who have ever been able to capture me in them like I was. I think his lightly green-blue eyes are what makes this event so special to me, not the fact that he was my last fisting partner. They were deep, and I was hooked in them, and I think he knew he had me. We gave each other mirroring intense looks, the kind of look you get when you are staring at a man you are about to become incredibly intimate with, a man who will be in your mind forever. At some point I found myself aggressively kissing him, never closing my eyes or moving my gaze from his.

When he was ready for my fist, I thought I was about to shoot. I had been jerking my cock too much, so I had to take a quick break and fuck him. His sloppy hole did it's best at hugging my cock. The sensation of fucking a loose hole verses a tight hole is something that has to be experienced, even if it isn't your thing. I came in him quickly and immediately after pulling out began to push my hand in. With my fingers pressed tightly together I slowly, but steadily pushed in, feeling his hole opening. It was the only time I was able to pull my eyes from his. Instead I watched as my knuckles went past his sphincter and my hand popped inside.

We both gasped, but his was followed by a deep moan. I slowly moved around inside of him, rotating and feeling his hole from all sides. It was incredible how receptive to my motions he was, and I was feeling him on my arm the way one might feel an ass around their cock. It was sending intense feelings through my whole arm. But the best part was when I looked in his eyes again. We were connected very deeply now, and he was sliding ever farther down my arm. The more I put in, the wider his eyes would get, and we both would gasp and kiss roughly as I moved inside of him.

When he came, his cock shot intensely hard all over the two of us. I remember his ass spasming around my arm, taking me the deepest he had all afternoon. It was hot to be that deep in him. I don't have an incredibly long forearm, maybe fourteen to fifteen inches at the most, but he had a good eleven of them in him, and I'm not exaggerating. When he finished his orgasm, he didn't pull off like I expected. Instead he got on all fours with my arm still in him and had me keep going. At various times moving into the night I had two hand in him, my arm almost to the elbow, and my fist opening and closing right where I knew his prostate was. Everything I did inside of him felt like it brought us closer to being the same being, if that makes sense. Through my arm and hand, I felt like he had become another extension of myself. It was an incredibly intimate feeling to have. We were both in total piggy heaven, covered head to toe in his Crisco. I came more times that evening, and so did he. Then we sort of fell into each other, messy and happy, and rested for a bit.

I was in somewhat of a daze as he drove me back to my car (after a less that satisfactory shower in one of the campground bathrooms and some food he bought for us). I kept wanting to hold him and stare into his eyes again, but I knew I couldn't distract him. I was amazed that he was able to sit and drive the car, even though I had helped him in working his ass tighter before I left. He still had to be pretty damn open from what I did. When I got out of his truck and into my own car, I couldn't help but feel sad at leaving this man. I would say that he was the best fisting session I have ever had. Since then I've tried, but just haven't been able to get a session going. There were too many fakers and flakes in Ohio who said they would take a fist but never followed through. I doubt that my own sorrow at losing such a great fuck (probably forever, I don't have a way to contact him anymore) caused me to self-sabotage my luck, but I am a little sad that it has been over a year for me now. When will I fist again? Hopefully soon.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Like a Piece of Shit

This post is going to be two-parts airing dirty laundry and one-part rant. I'm sorry to break away from my normal topic (sex), but this post is something that is weighing heavily on my mind and I won't be able to keep writing until I post it. I hope this helps me move on. Don't worry, my regular topic will be back soon.

As many of you probably noticed, I didn't post anything Monday or Tuesday this week, even though I spoke on Twitter and Facebook about having a fun event from the weekend to post about. Monday's lack of post was mostly due to the fact that I went to bed early Sunday night after spending the day prepping and then relaxing. The idea was to be fully prepared to get up early in the morning and get online for my first day of taking online graduate classes. Being the worrier that I am, my nerves were eating me up inside. The fact that I was able to think at all and sleep soundly is amazing.

Things on Monday started off great. My classes were open and easy to get in to. I found out that I already had the first few books I need to read, so I could start right away, and the classes didn't have too much work required in the first week, which will help to ease me into the process. After Monday morning, I feel very much reassured that graduate school is something I can handle and that I will be able to emerge with an MFA.

Seeing that I have a manageable, if not easy, road ahead, I called my dad to tell him that I was going to be coming to lunch. My dad and my grandfather have a lunch together every so often. It used to be every two weeks, but I'm not sure if they still do it that frequently. The two of them were supposed to have lunch around the time that I signed my lease for my Boston apartment, but my father had been sick and couldn't go. They rescheduled for Monday, and my father invited me, but didn't tell my grandfather as neither of us were entirely sure how my schedule was going to work with class.

I give my father a lot of crap, and he deserves most of it, but he does give me a lot of support when it comes to achieving my goals. He may not agree with said goal of studying writing to at least a Masters level, if not PhD, but he will support me. And he is totally on my side about moving to Boston. Interestingly enough, he lived a little ways down the same street my apartment is on almost thirty years ago. He knows the area well, and knows I can handle myself on my own. All my life he has been telling me to leave Maine and make something of myself, and he is happy that I finally can.

Of course, not everyone in my dad's family is nearly as supportive of me as he is. When I first called my grandfather to tell him that I had signed a lease on an apartment in Boston, his response was something along the lines of, "Well, at least you'll get that out of your system." I was a little thrown back by the response (get what out of my system? Boston?), but I managed to recover and keep the phone call congenial. When I hung up my father had promised to make sure to convince my grandfather that it was a good idea at their next lunch. The one that didn't happen. So there was a little bit of business hanging around unaddressed between my father and I and my grandfather. On Monday my grandfather aggressively tried to solve that business.

Maybe his bad mood came from the fact that his car had broken down, making him late. The fact that he had been confused about the exact road he was on wouldn't have helped as my grandfather has a lot of pride and would not want to start losing himself to brain deterioration of any kind. Or maybe he had been planning this talk for a while and had simply not had the chance to have it with us yet. Whatever the reason, my grandfather really blindsided my father and I on Monday with a third degree inquisition on my move and other issues.

The hardest part of answering my grandfather's questions was that, no matter what I said, he would turn and look at my father. "And you're perfectly comfortable with this?" he would say. His voice would be inquisitive, but his look was accusatory. It was a look that said, You shouldn't be OK with this because I'm certainly not. And if you were a better parent or I was in control, Ace would have been reined in years ago. With every question he was basically accusing my father of being a bad parent. It was clear that he did not approve of my choice to move to Boston, but even more clear that he felt like he should have had some say in the matter. As if he should be allowed some control over my life. (Keep in mind I've been an adult for almost four years now)

My father did the admirable thing and stuck to his guns. He wasn't going to let my grandfather act as if my moving to Boston was the breaking point of our family. Apparently there are many people in my family who feel like my attending college in Ohio and now moving to Boston is representative of my desire to no longer be a part of my family. This may seem like a silly issue, but it isn't to my family, who are for the most part extremely xenophobic. The outside world scares them. Add to that the fact that I am the only child in my generation and a male, and there is a lot of pressure to carry generations of family tradition on my shoulders. It is a weight I have felt my whole life, but until recently I never had the sense that people suspected I wasn't carrying the load.

I suppose it doesn't help that I haven't really spoken to one of my aunts in over a year now since she said some very hateful things to me and then defended her right to say them instead of apologizing. Anyone who knows me should know that shit like that doesn't fly by me. My father is known in my family for not putting up with drama or antics, but I'm a step above him. Not only do I refuse to take shit from people, but I have no qualms with cutting the crap out of my life. I spent too many year suffering under depression and my own self-hatred to be affected by the dumb comments others make, and I will do what I need to protect myself. If one good thing came from lunch on Monday, it was that I finally was able to tell my grandfather all the terrible things my aunt had said about me. I did it calmly and evenly, causing my father to later applaud my ability to keep the emotion out of my explanation. Realistically, though, it wasn't a struggle. After so long I really don't care one way or the other if that aunt ever says a word to me again.

Overall, however, the lunch was a disaster, ending with both my father and I pretty pissed at my grandfather and the others in my family who have apparently been talking behind my back about me. It is one thing for my aging grandfather to be worried that I am pulling away from the family, but it is an entirely different matter if you a whispering lies and half-truths into his ears so to make him fear it. I feel betrayed in a lot of ways by my family now, as if they, in their need for superiority over my incredibly happy life, purposefully have tried to ruin  it. The joke is on them, though. I'm not going to let it bother me.

If they are dead-set on believing that I am leaving the family, then there is nothing I can say to change their minds. So why bother? I have been slowly crafting my own chosen family out of close friends. People I care about and who love me unconditionally. Is it a little strange to be collecting family members like I am? Maybe. Probably. But I'm not the only one who does it. There is simply no reason for me to operate under an oppressive family system. The solution is to move to Boston and make the close relationships I need on my own. I can make a family out of supporters instead of detractors. A group of people who love me for who I am, instead of my real family who would never forgive me if I told them I have sex with men regularly.

So that is where I'm at mentally at the moment. The move creeps closer and I have a lot to do, like renting the truck, calling the cable company, etc. I have to read a lot for grad school and keep up with my classes. I am trying to keep myself healthy so that I am over mono for good. Meanwhile I dealing with my new-found lactose intolerance and the new diet I have because of it. I hardly have time to think about my family, but the thoughts creep in anyway. I hoping that by writing this post I have exercised the thoughts, at least for a while, so that I can get out of what is clearly a funk and move on. Thank you for baring with me through it. I know some of you will be bored, but there are those who always enjoy these peeks into my very messed up world.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011


I drove out far away from what anyone would normally consider a reasonable distance from the urban area of Maine I'm currently living in. Granted, to get that far away I only really had to drive for about a half hour, but I was still on a dirt road after driving over many various winding, wooded roads. The house, however, looked like something one would see in a relatively new, suburban-but-wealthy area: two care garage, three stories, huge back porch, nice lawn, very newly constructed, etc. That's actually pretty common in Maine. As a state, we are still in the expansion phase of growth. More and more wealthy members of society decide that they want to live in peaceful "Vacationland" (as the licence plates say), and they build new houses on secluded dirt roads because of the aesthetic value. And it worked. This place was beautiful and full of new life, even if the area around it would have better suited a log cabin.

He was waiting on the back porch when I pulled in, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, like me, and sunglasses, which I lacked. He had short light brown hair and a goatee that was only slightly thinner than my own untrimmed beard. He was stocky, but handsome and as I surveyed him and his house, I was immediately happy I had made the trip. He was one half of a male couple online who I very much enjoyed talking to while setting the meeting up. It turns out that, while the two of them do often play together, his partner lacks an appreciation for more kinky forms of sex. I was here for the kinky stuff, so we were going one-on-one. His partner is a very attractive African-American who I would have loved to play with, but I was ready for some more dirty fun. I didn't want to hold back.

About the third thing I said to him was, "I need to take a piss."

It didn't take long for him to start undressing me on his porch in the summer sun. His yard was surrounded by full trees and there was no way anyone would see us without having to come pretty close. I was almost sad that we wouldn't be putting on a show, but I also wouldn't want to expose a young child to what this man and I were planning to do.

"No underwear," he commented with appreciation as he opened my shorts to find just my cock in its cock strap.

"Figured you'd like it if I made it easy for you."

He was on his knees, his own large, pierced cock in his hands while he gave me what I would consider a very good blowjob. In these opening moments we were still trying to feel each other out, find the limits we had. There hadn't been much discussion before I left to meet him, so I needed to gauge how kinky he wanted his play. I could tell that he was making the same assessment in his mind. I responded my slowly taking control and facefucking him more. I was slowly but steadily sliding us from vanilla blow job to rougher dominance play. I hadn't gotten heavy on him yet, but I started to force my way into his throat, first for a short time, but then longer, more frequently. Until I could feel him gag and he pressed his hands to my thighs. The first few times he did that, I pulled off. But eventually I was leaving my cock in as long as I wanted, and he learned that I knew when to let him breathe.

It took me a while to build up to my first orgasm, and even though he was a skilled cocksucker, I still had to jack my cock with the head in his mouth before I shot my load. I fucked the rest of my cum into his mouth and he swallowed like a good boy. I ran my hand through his hair, alternately stroking his sweaty face and ruffling his hair like I would with a child. He didn't take his mouth off my cock, just kept sucking me, and I started to get more verbal. "You liked that, didn't you, boy? You're a good boy. Did you like swallowing my cum? How did it taste?"

After a while he stopped sucking and held my cock in his hand. "You're still hard," he said.

"Yeah," I replied. He simply smiled and went back to sucking me.

Eventually it was my turn to suck him for a bit. You're going to be my first pierced cock, I had told him online. Don't be surprised if I'm clunky at first. He had offered to take it out, but getting my hands and mouth on a guy with a PA has been a fantasy of mine since the first time I saw one in a porn years ago. More than half my life time ago. I was determined to give his a go. But it wouldn't be easy. The man had a cock a little longer than mine, but much thicker. I showed you guys Massage Guy's cock and talked about how hard it had been to deep throat him. This cock was thicker. From experience I could tell it wasn't going to get much past my throat.

But I took to that PA like a fish to water. Licking the pre-cum off of it, tugging it, feeling it slide into my throat and gag me even when his cock head couldn't get that far. I felt it clunk on my teeth, trying my best to not chip anything even when I got more aggressive with my sucking. It was fun. I was enjoying moving the PA around, feeling the strength of it in his cock. I tugged it with my teeth, then moved to his shaft, biting it and then his balls and thighs.

Eventually we switched again and I stood on the sun-warmed deck while he took my cock back into his mouth. He was getting more into it, letting his kinky sub side out. He took long moments to sniff my crotch, around my balls. It was hot having him hold my dick and inhale deeply with his face planted in my pubes or my armpit hair. (Note: When a guys asks you not to shower, but you wore deodorant the previous day, you should wash it out because he will smell it)

"If you keep sucking me like that, I'm going to cum again," I said.

He looked up in surprise, but then happiness. "We can't have that just yet," he said, "Are you ready to piss."

"Of course."

Since he had just stopped blowing me it took a second to shift my brain into piss mode, but once I did it started streaming into his mouth. I went slow at first, letting him taste and then swallow my piss. I am really good at stopping mis-stream, so I did a few times to make sure he liked my flavor. I need not have asked, though, as he was kneeling in piss-pig heaven. I let my piss flow freely, filling his mouth quicker than he could swallow. I hadn't pissed since the night before and it was well after 2pm so I had a lot in my system. What he didn't swallow spilled out and down his chest, landing in a puddle on the deck.

When I finished he paused shortly to enjoy the piss, but quickly attacked my cock again. I got even more verbal than before. "Good urinal, swallowing my piss. You liked that, didn't you?" I slapped his face. "I wish I had a urinal like you ever time I had to piss. You like it when I piss in you. Those other urinals don't appreciate it like you."

"Man, the deck is really hot," he said at one point as we were making out, sharing the taste of our sweat and my piss. He pulled me inside where it was very cool and shaded. We were in the living room. He jumped on the couch, not concerned about getting piss on it, he had dried quickly in the sun.

We went through many different variations of my face fucking him on the couch. I kept calling him dirty, humiliating names. He wanted me to call him a fag boy, which I usually won't do on my own, but I have no problem saying it to a boy wanting the degradation. "You're a good fag boy, aren't you?" I would say. "You want that man cum and man piss. You need it so that you can make your own little boy cum. Right faggot?" I started hitting him harder. What had first been for effect, I was now doing for meaning.

After I came in his mouth a second time and then invaded it with my tongue, searching for my own flavor in him, I became my most aggressive of the afternoon. I was growling and biting and tugging whatever part of him I could get a hold of with my teeth. I told him to jerk his dick for me. "I want to taste your fag boy cum. Shoot that fucking load for me."

He shot his load into my mouth and I swallowed at least three fourths of it. The rest I pushed back into his mouth, sharing it and a few loads of my spit with him. After we finished making out around his cum, I slapped him and said, "I've got another load for you, fucker." He stayed where he was, leaning back against the couch. Not what I wanted him to be doing.

"Get closer!" I growled and grabbed his hair, pulling his head to my crotch level.

He got the idea and opened his mouth, ready to receive a third load of my seed. I was getting close, but I could also tell that after his orgasm he wasn't that into it. That knowledge only made me more aggressive and verbal, practically hurting my cock to get it to cum. He swallowed it again and cleaned my dick off like a good boy and then plopped back on the couch. I could have kept going, but I figured that he was finished so I joined him.

"Here's some water," he said, producing a bottle from what seemed like thin air.

As I drank I looked at the time. "I have barely been here an hour," I said, a little amazed that we had done so much in so many positions in such short time.

He nodded, equally impressed. "You shot three times in one hour."

"Not my record," I said.

We talked for a bit while I re-hydrated. The sex in the sun had been sweaty and I was only now realizing how tired it had made me. The water was definitely helping, but the fact that I had eaten very little that morning was not. But the talking helped bring me back to earth. He told me various things about himself and the house. It was interesting how moments before I had been calling him a fag and now here we were, talking like two normal adults who happened to meet at a dinner party. The juxtaposition was amazing.

When I drove away I made him promise to email me the many pictures I had taken of the two of us with his camera. He still hasn't, but I'm hoping he will soon. When I get them, I'll share them. They're hot.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Formspring and the Upcoming Move

As those of you who have been reading my blog for a while (or following me on Twitter/Facebook) know, I'm making a move to Boston soon. Not only am I uprooting myself for the second time in three months, but I'm starting a big new chapter of my life. It will be my first apartment by myself and my first time living on my own. I have no idea yet what I'll do for work or how I'll get by, but I am confident that I'll manage. Likewise, my graduate classes which I am taking online will start up tomorrow, so I'm actually going to be in the middle of grad classes when I'm moving. Because of these factors, I'm going to be very busy in the next few weeks. I'm not sure how much blogging I'm going to be able to get done, or how frequently I'll be able to have sex worth blogging about. These things are up in the air right now as I wait to be told what my schedule for classes/tests are and while I pack up my things and sort through what needs to be brought immediately and what can stay behind to be moved at a later date.

I'm a little sad to be moving because I've finally been able to get some things going here in Maine. I've found some guys who I would love to see on a more regular basis, but won't be able to now that I'm leaving. I would like to think that I will stay in touch with all of them, but realistically it probably won't happen. But if there is anything I've learned from moving around as frequently as I have recently, it is that these things all end in time. I don't mean that to be a sad statement, although it very much is; I mean it to be simply a fact. Not all hook-ups become more and not all fuck buddies remain in your life. We'll all move on, but for a long time I will remember them. And I will hope that Boston will hold many more for me to meet and fuck and grow to love.

Once I'm set up in my apartment and ready to entertain guests and travel to see others, I'll likely be able to pic the posts back up again, but for now you may see a lot of posts about the past and a few days at a time with no post. Or it could be the other way around. I'm only taking two classes this semester. Maybe the work load will be light enough that I won't have too much trouble writing the blog. This is the first time I've done something like this, so it is hard to say. It will be as much of a discovery for me as it will be for you, my loyal readers.

So just bare with me as I take these first steps in this journey that I am hoping will work out as well as possible. I don't know where I'll be in a year's time from now, whether I'll be renewing my lease, moving to a new apartment in Boston, or living somewhere totally different, but I hope that I'll still be here on this blog with you all, talking about my adventures and my experiences on the way.

To round off today's post, here are some Formspring questions. As always, feel free to ask me anything in Formspring or in an email. I'm always happy to answer.

What was the first movie you remember watching?

Hmm...Well, I know I saw the Lion King in theaters because I remember being the only kid who didn't cry when Mufasa died. But before that I know I had seen Aladin. And maybe the Brave Little Toaster. Maybe.

Have you ever made a painting of vagina lips to give to a lesbian?

No, but I do have a strange compulsion to draw a cat and then write a short poem under it every time I see a white board. It made my profs pissed sometimes.

Quick Ace! To the Batmobile!

Holy Awesome Nerdy Reference, Batman! Let's hop inside where you can do bad things to me in and out of these tights.

Ace, do you have blue eyes or brown eyes? Did you know that most of the gunslingers of the old west had blue eyes? Just sayin'.

I have blue eyes. And while I did not know that fact, it makes sense to me. Blue eyed people have better eye sight than most, especially in the dark. I'm great at seeing in the dark, which is helpful for some late-night encounters.

Ace, why do you draw a white cat and write a poem every time you see a white board? Do you draw it on the white board itself? If so, wouldn't drawing a black cat against the white make more sense? Or maybe even a tabby?

It isn't that I draw a white cat, it is that I draw a cat on the white board. And then I usually write a poem or something funny under it. And it didn't actually look like a cat. It was a blob with cat ears and a tail and eyes. Sometimes there would be and expression on the face, but most of the time it was neutral.

As for the why...Well, I am very interested in the idea of poetry that is active, but then lost. Like when the poem is on the white board and then erased. A professor once told me that when something is written in a book, it is only alive when it is being read. A text is worthless if it sits in a book closed on a shelf and never is read. So to heighten that sense of worth for a poem, I would write them in a mode that could never be permanent. And once I started, I never stopped. I still do it every time I see a white board with a marker.

Should children 18 who commit murder be prosecuted as adults?

I assume that there is supposed to be the word "under" before 18. And in that case: no. For a few reasons. One of which being that most children do not understand the evil that they have done and do not know how to deal with it. There are ways to help them and maybe save them from a terrible life. The problem with sending someone so young to jail is that jail will become their life. Jails are run like businesses now. They don't want you to leave.

When was the last time you had a day where you were happy from beginning to end?

Good question! I thought I would have to think about that, but I know that for about a week after I first met Rob the Breeder I was walking on air and nothing brought me down. The weather was nice, I was singing as I walked my campus, I felt perfectly at peace.
Of course shortly after that I got mono and haven't really had a perfect day since that started.

Ace, did you ever trace back to find out the dirty varmint who gave you Mono? Because it wasn't me.

It was probably my roommate. He had mono and his girlfriend had mono too. I'm guessing at some point we shared a drink or something and that's how it happened. Sucks, but it is possible. My roommate apologized when he heard, but I didn't have the heart to blame him.

That's all for this week! Thanks for reading.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Steve Wrestling

There is a picture of Steve and I that his father took years ago at the first wresting meet I ever went to. It was in December, before Christmas break, and I was skipping swim practice to be able to watch Steve wrestle (supposedly I was sick, but I won't tell if you won't). In the picture I am wearing a school t-shirt and jeans, the brown hoodie by Calvin Klein Jeans which I had bought at the going out of business sale at the local Filene's (which I only just threw away for being too tattered after many years as my favorite hoodie) is tucked neatly under one arm. Steve's arm is around my shoulders, his other arm in the air making the sign for "Number One." We are both smiling wildly at the win he had just made. His singlet was rolled down to about the level of his hips, and his father must have caught us before he had a chance to put a shirt on because in the picture he is just sweaty muscles and shaved chest, tufts of hair in his pits. I look one part exhilarated and one part mortified to be getting my picture taken next to the almost naked boy who I was secretly dating and sleeping with. I always laugh when I see the picture, though now it is packed away with a lot of other things from my past, waiting for me to get a big enough apartment/house to store them in.

I remember that night pretty well. I had never seen real wrestling before, not even on the Olympics, so I did not really know what to expect. I knew it was nothing like the WWE stuff on TV, but I knew nothing about the rules or how it was done. I sat next to Steve's dad who would help give me some idea of what was going on, though I remained mostly clueless the entire time. I guess Steve's dad had done some wrestling in college and enjoyed it enough to have enrolled Steve in some junior wrestling classes. So I was around a guy who knew what he was talking about. I was just confused, and a little bored.

Even though the wrestlers are in singlets and rolling around together on the floor, I honestly had trouble back then (and still do now) seeing it as an erotic experience. When done in porn, I find it very sexy, but in porn it is done to be sexy. A true match can get a bit tedious. They hit the mat, they grapple, the ref blows the whistle, they stand up and reposition, they hit the mat, they grapple, etc. There isn't a lot of erotic activity, at least from a viewing perspective. And the grappling mostly looks painful and more like watching a man twist through a curved pipe than like sexual positions. The matches didn't turn me on very much, but I did get into cheering very quickly. It was awesome to watch these guys flip-flop their way out of some incredible holds, and I saw some very small guys take down huge, muscled dudes. It was very fun to watch and I've loved watching ever since. I even volunteered to help keep score at my college wrestling meets once I was no longer swimming.

Steve had three matches that night and he won every single one of them. His dad and I were beyond excited about the outcome. As I think I said before, Steve was by no means the top wrestler in school, and he didn't make a habit of winning every match he was entered in. But that night he did it, and his opponents weren't easy. Well, to me they weren't. I really had no idea about how to size up a wrestling opponent. They all looked like they could bend me into a knot and knock me out cold in a second. But Steve powered through and came out on top every time that night. That is the reason why, in our picture, he is smiling big and holding up his pointer finger. He was number one.

I spent the night at Steve's house after the meet, having already dropped my things off earlier. I can't remember why exactly, but his mother was gone for the weekend. His dad kept saying strange buddy-dad things to us like, "Looks like it is just us guys tonight," that made Steve cringe and made me laugh a little. But when we got back his father disappeared upstairs after ordering some pizza to be delivered. Steve and I made our way up to his room where he proceeded to tell me all about his matches as if I hadn't been there watching them. He was so excited that I just let him go on and on until the pizza came. We ate it while watching TV and he continued to talk to me about his matches and matches he has had in the past. I loved how excited he was about his sport and how much he wanted to share it with me. I felt like we were closer now.

"Do you ever get a boner in your singlet?" I asked him when we were back in his room.

"Sure, all the time. Most guys do."

"Do you feel them while wrestling?"

"Yeah," he said, as if it were no big deal, "After a while you learn to ignore them. There are some guys who will get a boner on purpose and rub it on you just to get you freaked out so you lose."

"Have you ever done that?" I asked. He just smiled and looked away.

"Let's do something fun," he said. I perked up thinking it was time for sex, but he had slightly different plans. He pulled two old singlets out of a drawer in his closet and had me put one on while he got in the other. He had me get down in one of the starting positions while he got on top of me. "Flip me," he said.

I tried. And failed. I tried again. He didn't even budge. After the third try I said, "Isn't this when you're supposed to just let me flip you?"

"Not gonna happen," he said, laughing. But the laughing became something else as his hand snuck between my legs and cupped my crotch. I caught my breath and thought, is he going to fuck me in this singlet? He grabbed me at the shoulder, grabbed my crotch, and with very little energy swung me over and pinned me to the ground. We were both laughing and all sexual thoughts fled from my mind as he kept on pinning me in different, hilarious positions, making sure never to bend me badly enough to hurt me.

We did eventually fuck that night, and I fell asleep in Steve's arms with plenty of our cum swapped between us. But what I will always remember most is the joy of sharing that passion for wrestling with Steve. He clearly loved the sport enough to want to play around with me, pretend-wrestling with his lover. When I think back on my time with Steve, I inevitably remember him pinning me down and sneaking those chaste kisses of his between our crumpled limbs and causing me to laugh loudly before quickly changing me to another pose. His strength coupled with his flexibility kept every movement unique and fluid.

I remember waking up the next morning, still in his arms, somewhat sore from the previous night. And I remember him looking at me, kissing me, and then rolling me over and fucking me before we went downstairs and I had to leave. They are some of my favorite memories of our time together.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Ace Candy: The First Gifts

In a post last Friday I promised to take pictures for the blog of myself wearing (or whatever) any and all gifts I got for my birthday. Well, I guess one or more of you took to the task right away and bought off a bunch of stuff from my Amazon wishlist. Now, as you know, Ace does not go back on his promises, so today's post will be filled with pictures of me and the four gifts I've received so far. I hope you all enjoy.

And if you want to know where the title "Ace Candy" came from, my dear friend RJD, who you may have seen in the comments section, called pictures of me Ace Candy and I decided that was the perfect name. This dude always comes up with great names for things.

Now on to the gifts! All four of these wonderful gifts were purchased for me by another you might know from the comments section: a sweet boy named johnny. Sir thanks you, boy.

The first gift I got was this wonderful Nasty Pig jock, which I love. I have worn it almost non-stop since I got it over a day ago. It has my crotch sweat and three loads of my cum in it already. All it needs now is some piss and it will be fully broken is as a pig-jock.

My lovely ass framed perfectly in the jock straps. Even I would fuck that.
On of the loads of cum I have sitting in it, after I walked around with the cum, of course.

Yeah. I like to sniff my own jock. But you can't have any.
Going in for the prize.

The next gift I have to show you is a pair of soft, paper thin, Soffe running shorts. I took a few poses for you to enjoy not just the shorts, but also my body. As if you weren't going to do that anyway.

Running-ish pose. God I love my chest hair.
Flashing a bit of that ass.
And out of the soft shorts pops my soft cock.

And finally I will leave you with the last two of the four gifts I have gotten. I love these very much, as they are the soundtracks to two of my all-time favorite films: Labyrinth and The Lost Boys. These two movies are a huge part of my childhood. I used to watch them every chance I got, and I still watch them frequently on DVD.

David Bowie can have that effect on me...

Thank you so much for the gifts I have gotten so far! You guys are amazing! I honestly never thought that anyone would ever want to buy me something like this. Well, really I didn't expect anyone to buy me anything at all. I love all my readers so much, and will continue to write whether you send gifts or not. This is just the icing on the cake.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

A Trip Down the Hallway

I followed the back of his head down the staggered hallway. His hair was black against the white walls, and I remember it being short enough that I could see the skin below. I knew the way from when I had walked this hallway as a child. It still smelled the same: plywood that had been hastily painted a few days ago. Though that smell must mean something else if it has smelled the same after so many years.
When we reached the bathroom at the end of the hallway it was the first thing that feels unfamiliar. It had been years since I had been in this store, much less had to use the bathroom. Of course, back then I was using the bathroom for it's intended purpose. Or, sometimes, as a place to go and be bored while my mom tried on clothes.

This man and I made eye contact early upon my entering the store. It was the kind of eye contact that cannot be mistaken. I caught his eye while he was staring at my crotch. He couldn't be blamed for that; I was going commando and my cock was to the right side of a pair of tight jeans. I was practically asking for attention from everyone who would look. I had decided that day to give my exhibitionist streak a little breathing room.

He was older. Mid-thirties, I would guess. He was in a subdued blue polo shirt and very nice jeans that demonstrated the curve of his ass. We were both looking at dress shirts (I figure I will need some to impress at job interviews), though we started looking at each other a lot too. He would smile every time I caught him looking and I would smile back, not looking away, daring him to make another move.

He finally did after a while of playing cat and mouse. He caught my attention and nodded in the direction of the hallway to the bathroom. I smiled and quickly nodded back. He slipped in first while I pretended to be looking at a pair of Calvin Klein pants too expensive for my needs. Then I followed.

He hadn't made much progress down the hallway when I entered. I think he may have been waiting to be sure I was following him. And I definitely was. He smiled as he saw me turn the corner and that is when I began to follow him. He let me go into the bathroom first, not holding the door open for me, really, but nudging it with his foot and letting me pass. As I brushed by him I caught the scent of his cologne. Something rich, but used in sparing enough amounts that I could hardly sense it after I had moved past him.

The bathroom was smaller and in worse repair than I remembered it. It was cramped and seemed like there was barely enough room for everything it held. I've seen bathrooms in houses that were bigger than this. It was clear that staff did not frequently come by to clean. A child or maybe an annoying teen had thrown some paper towels around and the place had a strange feeling of utter disuse. Like something from a post-apocalyptic film.

But I wasn't there to admire the scenery, as dismal as it was. When I moved the man into the stall I had just one thing on my mind: Fuck him with the cock that was rapidly growing in my pants. I unzipped and let the cock out as he sat on the toilet to suck it. He did a pretty good job sucking too. He jerked his own cock off while he gagged himself on me. I wanted to suck him off a bit too, so I got on my knees and blew him as he sat on the toilet. He leaked a lot of pre-cum the way I usually do and I was enjoying slurping down the salty appetizer.

When I stood back up he went at my cock again, making content moans around my shaft. I pulled his head off and told him to turn around. His eyes opened wide and he said, "You're a top?" He was surprised, but excited. I think he expected me to be a young bottom, but I am no such thing. He stood up and braced himself on the wall while I spit in my hand and rubbed it on his hole. When I lined my dick up and pressed in he groaned out, "Oh, you're going in bare?" I couldn't tell if he was upset or turned on, but he didn't push me off so I just kept going.

He was tight, but not extremely tight. It didn't take long for him to adjust to me and then take me quickly fucking his hole. He was biting his arm to keep his grunts quiet, but I could hear them and it turned me on. Both his hands were on the wall but he would frequently take one off for a bit and jerk his cock. Eventually I reached around and jerked it for him, causing him to grunt at a higher pitch and a little louder. I tried to keep my jerking at the same pace as my fucking, but as I got closer to my orgasm that whole plan fell apart and I was fucking him hard. I felt his ass muscles clench and then he was shooting his load all over the toilet and the wall and my hand. I had picked up my pace so that I was pistoning his ass while he shot and that had made the cum go just about everywhere. Shortly after I was sending my own cum into his ass, shooting off enough to feel it spill out when I pulled out of him.

We both cleaned up the stall as best we could, but to be honest, I'm not sure anyone would have noticed the difference in that disaster movie set. He cleaned the wall and toilet while I got what was on the floor. He left without washing his hands, but I stayed behind to get the smell of cum off. As I did, I looked around at the bathroom and wondered how often it gets used as a cruising spot. I don't remember ever seeing another person in there as a child, so I figure it isn't a hot spot. I just got lucky. But as I've said before, my younger memories aren't as clear as they used to be. And when I try to think back now, they are muddled by my recent sexual romp. It is probably for the best. I'm sure the bathroom is better off known for having been fucked in than for looking like a town dump.

When I came back out into the store the man was gone. I have no idea if he ever ended up buying anything or if he simply extended his time in the store in an attempt to hook up with me. Either way, I left shortly after as well after not finding much of anything in my size. Thankfully the trip hadn't been a total waste of time.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

This Moment

It was like looking in a mirror, one that adds a few years, but a mirror nonetheless. He stood at roughly my height and had hair only a little shorter than mine and a bit darker. His beard was a little longer than mine (I had trimmed Saturday morning) but we had the same scruffy look. His eyes were like mine, only I realized that I was getting lost looking in to his. His breath was minty, but the smell of a cigarette still clung to his beard. He didn't use much tongue when he kissed me, and I had a strange feeling that his tongue was short, shorter than my own tied tongue. But he still gave plenty of light kisses to get me horny for him.

When I first came in to his apartment I was sure that I was going to fuck him a leave. The place was a mess, clothes and other things everywhere. I didn't want to look at any one spot on the floor too long. I tried not to blame him, he has been suffering migraines a lot recently, making it a blessing that he was headache free on Sunday, which is his only day off.

I almost want to describe him as a gentle giant, but he isn't that tall. There is a feeling about him, though, that makes it seem like he is. He has presence. Presence that has nothing to do with his extra weight. To me, he is the perfect size, but he carries a power in him. He has strength. He is a bouncer at a local gay bar (might be the only one in the area, not sure) and has been for seven years now. I've never been in the bar, having turned twenty-one while I was in Ohio, so I didn't meet him until this summer online. He has a reputation, however, for being an enforcer, someone who won't bend the rules and won't let you get away with anything.

I have no doubt that he could have hurt me, he probably could have knocked me out with one hit. But this man was not a violent man, even though between fucks he told me about some of the bad scrapes he has been in. He joined the army, and really embraced the lifestyle. And it is clear he hangs out with a rougher crowd in the local city. But I refuse to see him a a violent person. When we were rolling around on his bed and his hands were rubbing me and gently caressing me, I couldn't think of him as anything but the kind, smiling man who was holding me. He spoke in a way that suggested nothing surprised him. Even when I had shot my fifth load and my cock got hard again, eager for a sixth round, he laughed and called me trouble, but took the whole thing in stride.

Between the fourth and fifth times I fucked him, we were talking and I asked him what he lived for. "I'm a shadow," he replied.

"A shadow?" I asked, honestly not sure if I had heard him right.

"Don't know much about what came before or what comes after." What that has to do with shadows, I couldn't say. Instead I replied, "I don't need the past or the future. I just need to be here right now. I just need to be alive in this moment. That's what I live for: being alive." The words were heavy in the dark room, the way the absolute truth always is.

Each time I fucked him that night I built up more and more speed, changing the angles, hitting him harder, driving in deeper. I worked him to the point that as I fucked him for the fifth time his ass became too sore to go on. I ended up shooting my final load of the night onto his chest while I stood jerking off. My other four loads leaking out of his ass, ready to be tasted when I licked him.

"I am going to die soon," he said, "My thirtieth birthday is coming up."

"Wha--What?" I was blindsided by his comment as we watched TV after my fifth load. "Wait, is this some kind of gay death thing?"

"No, it's my death. I just feel like I'm going to die young. I always have, since I was in the military."

"Well, I don't mean to disappoint you, but I don't see you dying by your birthday." I was unsure what to say, how to react to something like this in a man I hardly knew. "Do you want to die?"

"I don't want to. I mean, I kind of thought I would have died from AIDS by now."

"Are you trying to get AIDS?"


"Then I wouldn't worry." I could tell he wasn't worried. Not worried about dying, about migraines, about the fact that he may be going bankrupt. He worried, but he wasn't worried. He didn't let those problems break the peace of the night we were spending together. It was a melancholy peace whenever he spoke about the bleakness of the near future. But as I kept saying (to his agreeing nod and smile) things always get better. He can't be in the gutter too long, he needs to make room for the others who are falling in.

I decided to join him in his peaceful state. I decided to actively not care about the future, what is in store for me. Why should I let that bother me when I had a beautiful man in my arms, one who I would gladly spend hours and hours with. One who I would love to talk to more. I have what can only be described as an awed fascination with his personality and his bearing. And a bit with the way he looked at me, the way he treated me like I was fragile. He viewed me as something that could get corrupted easily, like a pure soul. I don't remember the last time I could tell someone felt that about me; the last time I could see it in the face, written in their eyes. And in that moment, curled up with him, I felt like that innocent boy he saw me as. For that moment I believed in his vision, and I let myself be pure.