Monday, February 18, 2013
We often read from men who abhor the Chatty Cathies of the wireless world...'not here to chat' is a succinct message to all those timid creatures who blow big on the internet and much less so in reality. These characters get off on anxious adrenalin rushes and not so much on fucking, trading e-mails ad infinitum without the intention of fucking, and are perfectly satisfied to play that game. Those of us seeking real sex just wish they'd set up their website so they can Chatter Away with others of like temperment...maybe ChattyPatty.com. But... it's we don't have to dream the 15 minute hook-up among the men who get real and get down. Sometimes they really do happen. I'm in my favorite wireless access coffee shop in downtown Palm Springs with a cleaned out hole and a horned up attitude, post my intention to get fucked right now and then am genuinely surprised when I get three responses within the first five minutes. It's about 10 in the morning on a Wednesday, a ripe time to get fucked maybe only in Palm Springs. Naturally, I answer all e-mails as a matter of principle...yeah, even the Chatty Cathies...but naturally I'm going with the closest one. This turns out to be a mobile home in a park about a three minute drive away. The top texts me clear directions, while I'm starting up the engine...Kesha comes on the radio...before Kesha is finished, I'm on his bed and on my back getting drilled by a nice, stubby, thick cock. I love missionary style because I can make and hold eye contact and by now I'm an expert at reading faces and I love it when our eyes lock...it's all a matter of concentration. This top daddy then blasts a nice big load up my worked out hole. He took a quick image shot with his cell phone, which I can e-mail to anyone who's interested, but which I'm too dumb to figure out how to publish on this blog. It's all quick and intense and great, and when it's over, it's over. Not much apres sexchat here. We'll hook up with this Dad again, but for right now, it's over so I get the hell out. I get back to my car and the coffee is still warm. I get back to the coffee house and the same people who were there are still there and the seat I vacated, is still vacant. And I went right back online to check out what could be next. Only this time, there's a fresh poz load warming up my manhole.
Friday, February 15, 2013
I'm guessing that travelling salesmen have earned their place in the American sexual consciousness through the simplest of ways...by being available. These guys have also been characterized in various media, like books...movies, certainly...as being unattached in a new town...horny as hell...and an easy hookup...good for a quick suck, fuck...and then never seen again. True, maybe, unless you're part of the fisting brotherhood. A good fist is hard to find. Once found, a bottom can only want more of it. I think I connected with this traveler through Asspig. Yeah, Asspig.com. A hot bottom taking fist at a local Holiday Inn, obviously a business guest and posting in the middle of the afternoon. You know, you just can't decide you want to get fisted. Being a fisting bottom requires preparation, and sometimes preparation becomes a long and involved process; of course I'm writing about cleaning out. So when a man goes through the effort of cleaning out for taking fist, he doesn't want to let all that go to waste. So you post on Asspig and hope for the best. When I'm feeling up to fisting, I'll post on Asspig; but most of the time the avaiable bottoms are in Keokuk, Iowa or Binghampton, New York and here I am in San Francisco. But occasionally, things do work out. Imagine my delight to find a travelling businessman holed up in the Holiday Inn, conveniently just off Market St. and ready to go for RIGHT NOW. And oh, by the way, it's about two in the afternoon. It takes me a while to park my car in a safe (read meter maids, not break-ins) spot and take the street car to the Holiday Inn, but once there, we enjoyed a great session; he knows what he's doing, he's experienced and testing his limits, he wants me to probe more, he has fine interior buttchitecture. What's not to like? We give him a good time and he's appreciative since he's had at least one flake already, and a third guy does show up but he's not as commanding as I am and soon leaves, feeling a bit like a third wheel, so he never gets that guy's fist. I call the session out after about 90 mins., that's long enough for a break, but this guy is expecting somebody else later so I bid my leave, and hope I'm leaving him in good hands. Postscript: We buddylist each other and hope to meet up in his home town, a few hundred miles down the coast...I'll be there in April and hope to report on another great meeting. He gave me his Barebackrt handle and I checked him out, and he's poz...something we didn't discuss before I barefisted him. So much the better...travelling salesmen can sometimes be seen again.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
On a quiet, well-tended suburban street of neat, substantial houses in Southern California, a man is getting fisted in the middle of the afternoon. This appointment was arranged online through a popular website...a pretty ordinary means of getting laid, or in this case, fisted. I'm the fisting top and I love daytime sessions on a weekday because it usually indicates that both top and bottom are at leisure to play when it suits them. This hook-up is especially nice because it involves my first redhead...ever. Well, a blondish reddish sort of lean tiger with zero body fat and a stiff crewcut...basically, a novelty of the best sort, enhanced by a genial personality. And oh yeah, it gets better thanks to a nicely shaped dick that looks like a mouth watering plump pink pork sausage. So in this suburban setting, the session starts with my getting thoroughly porked and taking a very generous juicy poz load. That's good for a start. My part of the bargain is to stuff this lean mean fisthole with my very talented hands. At first glance the hole looks rather small but this guy is an experienced bottom...I mean, I noticed him a long time ago and buddylisted him and I've been tracking him like a bloodhound ever since. When I saw him online, I hit him up, but whatever his history, it still looks like a pretty small tight hole. Looks are often deceiving. This talented fistchute took my hand easily, one deep breath and I was in like an oiled slippery slide and I did the old five finger exercise hitting his interesting combination of deep corners. But while this was going on, I detected the unmistakeable aroma of cum. His cum. My ass. As I squatted to get a better fisting angle, I felt by buttlips quiver like they wanted to dump, so I quickly cupped my free palm under my hole to catch whatever might come out. What I got was the big fat load of poz cum that he had shot up my ass. This was just too good to pass off lightly. I withdrew my other hand and lubed both hands with him cum, and after asking him politely if I could fist him with his own cum, that's exactly what I did. This was a very satisfying accessory to the action, and one I wish would happen all the time. I had to ask him first, though. To get his permission. After all, there is an etiquette to fisting. And the first rule is mutual respect. Ah, like I didn't know he'd say yes. Thanks, my man, for a great suburban afternoon session, cum and all.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Super Bowl Sunday found me at a BBQ/fundraiser/sex party in Silver Lake. These guys generously open up their home to strangers like me on a few special occasions throughout the year. The game played on a big screen in their backyard covered patio adjoining a play area with gloryholes and slings, but sex play was extended into their bedrooms, balcony and a living room where I thought the furniture was too good to fuck on, though that didn't stop my fellow cockhounds. A shortish bear in glasses with a thick stubby dick who's fucked me twice (once, sheathed in the basement of Master TomFister's place in the Castro and another time in a now demolished sex venue in SOMA) barebacked a short sexy Latino I recognized from Barebackrt in the kitchen. Watching them get it on was hot, eventhough fucking in the kitchen personally never worked for me. The Latin cutie was atypical, though...this wasn't the West Hollywood crowd; this was the East Hollywood crowd, just guys tending to beardom...not many cell phone queens, steroid queens, gymbots or Andrew Christian types here. I found the crowd earnest but not into fucking somebody they didn't know already. As a matter of fact, though there was some energetic barebacking here and there, but it concerned only guys who knew each other, or at least that's how it seemed to me. In short, this was mostly an oral crowd with lots of cocksucking going on everywhere except the patio where an unwritten rule was universally observed. So with all this cocksucking going on all around, I didn't get more than a couple of feel-ups the whole time I had my ass in the sling. I got a lot of interested looks, but that was about it. As I drove home, I pondered why not one guy even tried to fuck me. Come on, I was one of the easiest fucks there, and I made that pretty obvious. It finally struck me, that since this was an older crowd, and quite possibly not exclusively bareback, with probably a good percentage of negatives, they weren't going to take any chances with a pig slut like me who obviously was ready to take it from any warm, moving thing. I qualify the 'older' comment because I understand that HIV conversions have substantially declined among older guys, while rising among younger dumb fucks. That's how I pegged this crowd, football fans or not, as wise, experienced, wary but convinced that I was an uninhibited, non-discriminating, unprincipled pig bottom. Ah, yeah, and guilty as hell. Anyway, these hosts put on a great party, they were gracious and the food was great. Did I mention that $20 got you in...it was a fundraiser, of course...but you got unlimited food (probably catered from a restaurant, it was that good) and beer. A cocksucker's paradise; a bareback bottom's desert.