And clear

I got a tumblr notification and my face immediately flushed with embarrassment.  The screename that liked one of my stories is the same screename as one of my favorites from Growlr.  He lives down the street just a little ways, but our schedules never quite meshed so we've only met once.  I'm not sure why I'm embarrassed.  Just being discovered, perhaps?  Discovered as a whore when I make it seem like every person I meet is special and cherished.  Can't both be true?

So I immediately message the guy on Growlr and asked him if he's put two and two together.  Apparently he has.  For several months now and he still wants to meet up again.  And it comforts me a little at the heels of the panic of forgetting in that earlier post.  I really remember remember this guy.  I don't remember the actual details of the sex, but I do remember him.  His boyishly handsome face.  His Pillsbury Doughboy shirt, playfully and ironically apropos to his cubbish figure if that oxymoron makes sense.  And that hunger and lust.  I remember the visit being short.  I remember it being aggressive.  I remember fucking him pretty relentlessly and harshly and him messaging me again and again for more afterward.

And now I will always remember him.  Remember him as the guy that has gotten a deeper glimpse of me every post I put out there, seeing me figuratively a little more and more, and still aching to see more of me in the flesh.

Patchy

It was bound to happen.  Actually, I was on a string of business trips where I only saw home for about four days for a whole month.  In that time, I pretty much averaged fucking a new guy once a day for that entire month.

So he messages me and says, "Wish we can meet again".

Wait.  Did you say "again"?

I didn't remember the first time!  I mean, I remember chatting to this guy.  The pic was familiar.  But I don't remember meeting up at all.  That freaked me out.  I have absolutely no recollection of what this guy looked like in person.

Then he says, "You fucked me good."

Bah!  What's the point of fucking a guy if you can't remember how good it was?!

I searched through my notes.

Nada.

Then I just meditated.  For awhile.  And then it came to me.  Yes.  I remember him now.  And what he does for a living.  And our conversation.  And the fact that he had a really stylish suitcase that was kinda retro in a way.  Big fuzzy bear.  That carries a Coach murse.

But I still don't remember the sex.

The somewhere in between -type

So on the one hand you have that type that rarely hooks up.  You feel honored that they made the exception but a little guilty too 'cause you can't offer anything more.  Then there's the guys that are all about the numbers.  Load collectors, hole counters.  Guys that are already distracted by the next conquest before you're even finished fucking.  Those guys you get an ego boost when they contact you afterward 'cause hey, it's nice to be noticed in a crowd.  Then there's the rest.  Most guys are somewhere in between those two extremes and when it clicks right, you know it immediately.  It's not about what happens next.  The experience is validated right away and all you can do is laugh in the cummy mess you've made.

His Grindr profile said he was curious.  Airport hotel.  Lots of travelers looking for fun and the transitory nature of their stay makes it easy to indulge in activities with no strings attached.  You leave it all behind in a matter of days.  Turns out he's married.  7 years.  No kids ("Thank God," he says but I'm not quite sure why he's thankful.  Too much responsibilities?  Too much chaining him to his lady?  Just hates kids?  I'm not sure).  One of those average height beefy guys that pose in front of a mirror flexing, showing their natural musculature.  It usually makes me laugh, especially with the curious comment.  Kinda makes it seem like they're wrestling with some masculinity issues in defining their sexual identity, even though they don't really relate.

I had to fetch him from downstairs as he was staying at the hotel next door and my place requires a key to go upstairs.  I immediately notice his bouncy gait.  Side to side with a bit of a bounce like he's had too much caffeine and needs to expend some energy.  Bull in a china shop comes to mind.  Looked him in the eye, shook his hand and introduced ourselves.  Fuck I was floored.  Strong grip.  Blue eyes that I could see straight through.  And this raspy baritone vibrato that's so damn distinct.  Sorta like Vin Diesel.  I couldn't get him in bed fast enough.

There, we spent long moments making out like a couple of high school kids.  Long, lingering moments that swayed to and fro like poetry written in cursive.  Long dips below the line evolving into curves of other letters before they finally stop for a little space before resuming again.

I fucked him, wrapped.  Fucked him with our lips locked and his legs wrapped around me pulling me in closer.  Fucked him with my hand wrapped around his cock and our chests mashed together.  Fucked him until the motions of the fuck stroked him in rhythmic waves against the shore.  Fucked him until he sealed us together with his cum.  Fucked him until his spasming ass milked a load out of me.

He laughed.  I laughed.  I was completely drained.

Rolling off, I flung the condom off and landed on the bed on my side.  Rolled him over a little so that he was on his side as well and then pulled him to me until we made a pair of parenthesis.

I dozed off for a second.  Not much, I don't think.  Consciousness just slowly washed over me.  I was still holding him to my chest and my cock, though it never went fully soft, got hard again.  And with just a little bit of cum still oozing from my dick and his previously lubed ass, I started nudging at his hole again.  I was pretty much raw fucking him with half my cock.  With my one hand underneath him pulling him closer to me, my other reached around and found his cock had hardened up again.  And as I whispered random thoughts against the nape of his neck to send shivers down his spine, he shot again.  This time onto the sheets.

Something tells me that this isn't his first time.  The "curious" thing passed awhile ago.  And even though we talked about next time, it never happened.  I don't think we needed it.  Because at that moment, everything aligned perfectly.  And we didn't need any subsequent validation.  That was just fucking good, but we both still sought different fucks the next day.  Just two guys taking full advantage of being away from home.  No strings.

The expert hookup type

I guess an innocent reader would catch the headline and read it as "collecting rain to smell" but I don't think anyone on Grindr would be that innocent.  No mistaking what those raindrops and pig snout emojis meant.  Unapologetically efficient and direct, he sent me body and ass pics within the first couple messages.  Gave me the room number to his hotel in a few following that.  And he had no qualms about telling me I'd be load #4.  And as awkward as some guys are about a hookup, there are others that run the other extreme.

I was pushing the door open to his room within a half an hour of the first message.  Older than I expected, but the pictures were his.  Same slim body.  Same fuzzy chest.  Tiny waist and a big bubble butt that made me start to stiffen up before I even got my hands to my belt buckle.  He was waiting in a dark hotel room with porn playing on his laptop, his phone close by with grindr fired up and lube right next to him.  And he was tiny.  He was kneeling on the ottoman bent over the edge of the bed lining up the next load before I even got started.  And as impersonal as that was, the fact that he was on an ottoman was the opposite.  He knew the bed would be to high and his height made feet flat on the floor awkward.  The ottoman gave his ass the perfect height to line up and just shove in.

I thought the lube would be unnecessary.  I was the fourth guy there, after all, but fuck I needed it.  He has a talented ass, knowing just how to milk a cock.  Tight on the outstroke, looser on the way in.  And walls of heat that just seems to soak in any precum I may given him immediately.  I could easily have lost my load within the first minute, but I grabbed his ass and just marveled at it.  Two perfect globes sucking me in.  I hammered him hard enough for him to beg me to go easy on him just to keep on going and to push even deeper.  Then long dicked in.  Pushed all the way in and pulled all the way out to see if I could drag some cum with it.  He kept it all inside him, the fucker.

I gave him what he wanted.  Another load.  Didn't even kick off my shoes and only had taken off my shirt because it was getting in the way of the fuck.

He messages me later saying that he got a total of 8 that night.  And we continued to chat about our hometowns and the best places to fuck.  Two fellow pigs comparing notes.  It took him awhile to ask, but he wanted me over again.  That night or the next.  Seems like even the most experienced and even the most impersonal sometimes want to extend an experience, extend the strings that bond us together.  Even if it's just ever so slightly.

Not the hookup type

When Sam Smith achingly explains in that reflective tone on the cusp of falsetto that he's not that great at the hookup, I can't help but empathize.  Not because I'm the same way.  Ha!  That's obviously not the case as this blog shows, which even as it encroaches on a quarter thousand entries, it only captures a fraction of my experiences.  But it's not quite sympathy either.  See, I almost approach these encounters with the same hope of possibilities that I do when listening to the radio, or Pandora, or a music blog... Soundcloud...  It's that anticipation in the exploration that I crave and that big payoff when I listen to something new that penetrates the physical layers and strums something deep within beyond the actual, beyond the logical, straight to the emotional.  That moment of discovery that the record industry is trying so desperately trying to commoditize in light of the fracture of record labels.  That moment where something just utterly blows you away.  Yes, you think.  And you play it over and over to scratch that itch and revisit that flood of emotions, good or bad, that's an echo of that time that you found that new thing that just hit the right nerve and it harmonized to set the fuse leading to firecracker explosions of fuck yeah.

But that's just me.  My promiscuity that has resulted to a level of frivolity that not everyone understands.  It fills that space where I'm not looking for another significant other.  But my sexual conquests aren't anonymous disposable napkins either.  To fulfill that elation from discovery, you gotta dig in and know a guy or be perceptive enough to deduce it from his microactions.  Really drill it into a guy while you're drilling into a guy.  Thoroughly fuck him in five different dimensions.

So I get it when you're a Sam Smith.

He works for a university in the financial aid department and finally decided to move out to his own apartment.  We've been chatting off and on for a couple years and finally our schedules worked out.  He knew what was up.  I didn't hide the fact that I was partnered.  And he didn't hide the fact that he has a week off and wouldn't mind breaking in his new apartment.

He poured me a glass of wine when we got there and we talked.  Talked about everything and nothing.  Family, real estate, pets.  Educational institutions.  Technology.  My hand was always present.  On his neck, stroking his back, hovering over his forearms to lightly rake his fuzz in different directions.  He sighs and loses his train of thought every now and then when I do something that awakens something in him.  And as my questions probe to lighten the shadows in the picture I've formed in my mind, my lips formed things other than words.  Not words but symbols, a character he can reach at the crossroads of his mind between the personal and the sensual.  To the point that our lips meet to vocalize a need beyond the words.

And yes, we ended up in his bed where I fucked a load out of him, a load so urgent it rained down onto his pillow and shot his eye.  Cum right in the eye.  Funny that despite over a couple decades of experience, when I'm fucking and stroking a guy I forgot to aim somewhere other than straight at his face when he's about to cum.  You can't help but be distracted when a guy likes naked and emotionally bare before you.

He messages me an adequate number of days after to say he enjoyed the encounter and with as wistful of a sigh that can be expressed over messages in an app he notes that I was the first hookup in a long time.  Almost a year.  And he scratches as the memories of our passionate kisses and my hard cock in his ass to freshen them in his mind.  Then he offers me a place to stay when I'm in town.  I understand the sentiment.  But for me, it's less about shortcutting that path to intimacy, less about resting upon a proven foundation where the chemistry works and isn't awkward and is comfortable, and it's more about reliving that memory of discovery, that moment where I got to bathe in new perspectives and new ideas, new thoughts and interactions.  So yes, I'd love to play again.  But I'm gonna feel like a bit of a fraud as I evade the questions about my promiscuity.  I won't lie but through lies of omission.  Because I feel this intense responsibility to preserve that delight of discovery that first time, both for me and for him.  And next time I'm with him, I'll honor that by being fully present.  'Cause that's what he wants.  That's what he needs.  I see you kiddo.  And because I see you, I hide a part of me behind a (sheer) curtain.

Throat - splat, gulp

You can tell when a guy is close sometimes.  His legs tense up and relax.  Not quite thrusting but flexing to the point where the hand you have on his thigh feels like tightly woven nautical rope.  Impossibly thick strands of dense fiber.  Raw power under your hand before it relaxes into softer flesh.

Then the toes curl.  Wiggle.  Flutter in the air.

I'm with the supershooter cop again.  I don't always write about him when he visits.  But this time stands out because I'm in a quandary.  I really want to see him shoot.  But today, I also want that load flooding my mouth.

He's on the brink.  And I make my decision.

His cock is incredibly wet with that deep throat slime that his cock has dragged out of my mouth so my dry hands easily sop it up as lube as I cheat.  Sucking him off with a little hand action to assist.  And right before he shoots, I pull back just enough to see it shoot.  And with my mouth open, he shoots a hard squirt straight to the back of my throat even though my face is hovering serveral inches above him.  Before it can backwash, I gulp it down and then suck his cock back down again to get the final shots straight down the pipe.

My decision was to be greedy and have both.  Have my cake and eat it too.

Dirty daddy

I felt a little dirty, but also a little special.

The married cub that I play with is showing me pics of his newborn.  And then his two boys.  A beautiful family.  Not surprised at the prolific progeny since his fat seven inch cock shoots a big load. He's a skilled top that knows how to hit it deep.  I know from personal experience.  In fact, as we're talking about his family, I'm trying hard to keep his load in my ass, 'cause I know it's gonna leak down my leg if we don't wrap up our conversation soon.  And I'm wondering if he's feeling it too with my load up his ass as well.

We just flip fucked and loaded each other and here we are having a rather casual conversation about family.  I guess it came about since he no longer works near me.  If we're gonna meet up, we're gonna have to do it at his place now.  He'll be working closer to home and I'd have to sneak over to his house while the kids are at daycare.  A quick nooner.

I think he's pretty comfortable with me now.  We've shared a couple of fuck buds, spit roasting them, double penetration, the works.  I especially love fucking in his cum.  It's been well over a year.  And the raw sexual energy he has with the bottoms we share is completely different than when we play one-on-one.  Instead of fucking a hole, we're trying to turn each other on until one of us finally pants like a bitch in heat begging for dick.  And so I'm thinking about that.  That and how fuckin' hot this guy is.  Greying at the temples.  Pretty soft spoken, a stark contrast to his personality in the bedroom.  An Ohio boy with freckles all over his shoulders and back.  Cute but fucking wild as hell.

And so he lets his guard down and accepts me into his circle a bit.  Kinda special.  But so fuckin' dirty too.  Cause I'm staring at his pics but thinking about his leaking load getting fucked back into me.

Spectacle/s

I pay him a compliment.  Honest.  Sincere.  I just let it hang there as he sits with it and blushes.  I don't follow-it up with anything more.  Just one complimentary sentence.  And I try hard not to fill in the gap of silence with meaningless lyrics but instead letting the melody inbetween the spaces move him.  It's hard.  Hard not to explain or to cover it up with incessant noise that would detract from my intent.  I just want him to know how beautiful he is.

He's appeared in these pages before.  Back then, just a couple of years ago, he was a virgin and I was the oldest guy he's ever been with.  Just barely of legal drinking age and he stopped me with great courage when I moved to fuck him.  He was saving it.  He tells me this now, after I've just fucked the cum out of him.  Despite being quite clumsy with his tight hole, he remarked with astonishment after a couple of strokes in, "No fucking way!"  And then he shot.  Shot hard and far again, drenching the pillows and hitting the headboard.  He normally takes a long time to cum but I fucked it out of him in mere seconds.

But I wasn't his first.  That he gave to a couple that spit roasted him after a he had a particularly hard day at work.  He was just over it all.  And he wanted was to get fucked.  Just wanted to get rid of his virginity.  So he dove headlong into some piggy play.  No more saving it.  Just getting rid of it with a bang in the most spectacular way.  It had become a burden, just like work.

It was a beautiful story told in such stark nakedness that it compelled some empathy.  Not wistful regret or anything like that.  Just a noble spirit sharing a beautifully honest story.  And I thanked him for that with a compliment that ached to rise to the level of sincerity it was sourced from.

A pregnant pause later, he says, "I've lost some weight."

"Stop.  Look at me.  I don't mean it that way.  You really are beautiful.  End of story."

I wish my words were delivered with the amount of finality it was meant to convey but it came out haltingly as I measured in my head what the appropriate combinations of words would make him truly see.  The deep responsibility I felt in making him share my insight cut across the words and chopped everything up.  It just felt like I was saying something expected, something politically correct.

And as my eyes darted around the room for inspiration, they land on his glasses.  Spectacles.  An apt term as I offer him a compelling vision and he's instead enthralled by the spectacle of his clouded lens.

The giggles

One of the inexplicable pet peeves of mine are people that laugh at a joke and say "That's funny."  Or worse yet, "This is funny."  For some reason, the latter sounds like an even more formal way of telling you that your joke was a dud.  It's as if they're acknowledging the attempt at humor but instead of just laughing they're compelled to try and cover up any insincerity behind their laugh with confirmation that "Yes, that was a joke and I got it despite your utter failures in comedic timing."  And related to that are the laughter that comes from people in a way that you can spell it out.  Ha-ha-ha.  Literally ha ha.  Not just new onomatopoeia, a close approximation of the sound but more like a literal phonetic spelling.  That irks me too.

Well, it did until I met him.

He works by the airport.  Partnered.  A fellow cheater.  He couldn't meet up in the evening but could fudge the clock a little to leave a little early on the way into work for a little nookie.

And his body is so sensitive that he giggles.  Anywhere I touch.  Just the hot breath against his neck.  And his ears?  Forget it.  I have to scrape him off the ceiling.  Squirms and giggles.  Ha ha ha.  Stuttering of the ha tumbling out of his mouth in stark contrast to the sexiness I was trying to assert.  But it came from deep within.  Genuine.  Complete abandon.  Hahas from the core.  And I fuckin' loved it.

And his nipples were wired.  Every little thing I did to them made his cock twitch.  So I pressed the boundaries.  Soft touch up his side to the giggles stopped by a hard munch on the nipple as he thrashes.  Giggles and thrashes and sighs in wild abandon until I worked a little bit of spit on my cock and shoved in.  Hard.  Fuck he was tight.  He gripped it hard and yelled out in a mangle of laughter, pain and a moan of pure exhaustion.  I continued to munch on his nips while gripping his shaft and fucking my cock in and out of his tight hole until I felt him cum, setting me off in quick succession.

"Holy fuck," he says afterwards.  And giggles.  Pure and clear.

I was chewing hard on his nips in an attempt to mark them for a few days, to make him spring a stiffy every time he puts on his shirt, every time he walks and his shirt brushes against them just so.  And it worked.  I checked in on him after three days and he still remembers the hour we spent together.  His nips still sore.  A constant reminder.  And as I was reading his reply, I couldn't help but hear that giggle that makes me rethink things.  Not affectation.  Just a deep rooted natural reaction.

Trucker revisited

My cock led the way no matter how hard I tried to stick to my guns and snub the kid.  I reached out to a trucker that had a profile on the apps.  Younger guy.  Didn't realize it was the same guy that I chatted with months prior, the same guy that spun vehement fireballs of disdain for the flake that he pegged me to be, despite the fact that he was the one that disappeared at the appointed time "because his cell phone died." But fuck I wanted him.  Or at least the romanticized notion of what he'd be like in my head.  Turns out I'm glad I did.  In fact, I'm secretly hoping he strokes my ego a bit by dropping a note next time he blows through town.

Roll back to twenty years ago and I was reading this blog from a trucker that posted his exploits on geocities...  or was it the nifty archives.  I don't remember which, but what I did remember was the eloquent prose that drew me in.  And the cowboy motif that peppered his pages like rococo.  The sexualization of the stoic solitary masculine figure spending hours upon hours on vast open landscapes, only to reach out to others in fleeting, momentary encounters of raw, primal sexual instinct.  That struggle of the solitary introvert, tumbling out in majestic paragraphs of personal truths way before what Brokeback Mountain came to the table.  So, I'm completely aware of the fact that I've come to him both with heavy expectations and a filter that skews the truth, wanting some sort of vague prophecy fulfilled or quintessential archetype confirmed.  Regardless of whether the joys I experienced were just a fiction I've created in memory, I'll humble myself to throw myself at him again and again despite the previous misunderstanding.

Yes, the sleeper cab of a big rig is surprisingly huge.  Or maybe it felt especially big given that I'm only 5'8" and he's a good four to five inches shorter than me.  Quintessential cub.  I'm amazed that this kid, just a couple years older than what's deemed appropriate to drink is taking on the responsibility of hauling tons of equipment over miles and miles.  And I feel protective as he fits into my arms snugly.  His knees buckle under him when my fingers spider crawl up his back.  His skin leaps off his body in ripples of bumps as I caress his back.  His body aches for touch.  And perhaps that's the source of his frustrations.  The promise of someone to hold him snatched away by a dying cell phone.

When my fingers dug under his shorts, they found furry mounds that made my cock lurch.  Soft fuzz, not just peppering his globes but a soft pelt.  As smooth as he is above the waist, he was just as inexplicably furry under the waist.  That turned me on so hard that I pulled him even closer than I thought I could and started to devour his neck.  Bending him in impossible angles, we tumble to his bed and I continue to explore his sensitive areas with my tongue.  A flick over the nipple, a twirl.  Nibble.  Suck it in deep and hold with my teeth before simultaneously flicking the tip with my tongue.  The sides of his stomach are equally sensitive.  I play on the bridge of laughter as he squirms under me, never quite crossing but dancing on the cusp.  And his balls are equally sensitive.  A flat lick from his ass to the tip before lapping at the precum that pooled at the tip.  Rolling one in my mouth before lick a smooth part of his balls.  He nearly screamed when I started to chew the area between his balls and thigh, that crevice that just doesn't get enough attention.  His cock was the perfect size for me.  Not too large, but thick.  I had a good time sucking it deep to the back of my throat to let him feel the crown pop in and out of my throat as my tongue fluttered at the base.  I didn't realize I had worked him so close that when I worked my way back up and started making out with him, it only took a couple of tugs before he fired off, sheepishly.  His eyes half lidded in a permanent look of sleepiness, I could see an even deeper sense of satisfaction.

I licked him clean.  I couldn't find a handy towel to use.

And when I collapsed next to him, he curled onto my chest.  Rise and fall to my breath, and a contented sigh escapes his lips.  And he didn't need to break his tendency towards introversion to tell me all I needed to know.  I idly traced patterns of thought across his forearms in answer.  But my mind was also racing 'cause a part of me wanted more.  A part of me wanted to send the kid into the open road with a load buried deep inside him to keep him company, a physical gesture to accompany his thoughts.  And this fleeting memory of connection.