(Who Made You) King of Anything

If for no other reason than my absolute and total resolution that my current unemployed/renting from the parents situation must and shall be resolved before winter, I am growing eagerly if cautiously optimistic about returning to, well, my life, to be honest, but specifically my home city, my own accommodations, my career, and…not least…my sexuality. Well, by “sexuality” I mean state of being conducive to a (relative) freedom to experience and explore my sexuality as I choose (as long as I don’t sabotage the effort with some brand of unwitting psychological terrorism, or obtain another abusive “partner” who will gladly do it for me). Naturally this brings about a certain amount of reflection on times past and mistakes made and lessons to have learned, and looking back now I just see all of the times I’ve let something get in the way of the sexual freedom I so desire that didn’t need to be there at all, and I will need to remind myself of this as I go forward so I make sure not to let more opportunity pass me by. Life’s too short. I’ve spent the last year or maybe two batting every little detail around philosophically, ethically, and so forth and have expended enormous effort to assure myself that the things I want are okay to want, and pursue. I don’t need to do it any more, and I have to remember not to let anyone make me feel like I do (especially myself). I’ve done all the work, and it wasn’t easy…now I have to remember to actually reap the benefits instead of doing the same work over again and again.

See, even now! I wanted (want) to write about something deeply hot and sexual and slutty and so forth yet I wouldn’t even allow myself to get into it without first semi-consciously laying down a deeply-thought philosophical defense. As if the people who give me shit about all this stuff actually bother to care whether the judgment they lay on me is justified before hopping inside the next life-in-shambles toxic narcissist/sociopath/addict/poser they see. (Yikes, I hate when that part of me comes out.)  I’m going to take a lesson from my experience with my grooming decisions a few years ago. A few years back I was introduced to an excellent method of body hair removal and discovered that it had a massive positive impact on my body image, comfort and self-esteem – so much so that for one of the first times in my sexual life I decided? Realized? Enforced? that in this particular matter, my preference for my own body superseded anyone else’s preferences or opinions on how I groom.

The interesting thing is, I soon discovered (somewhat to my surprise, although in hindsight not so much) that a lot of those things people talk about not being into (or, more often, ridicule and/or admonish) in online profiles or casual conversation actually end up not being quite as unequivocal as they often make them out to be. I can honestly say not one single man I’ve been with in the past few years has ever complained about or objected to the fact that I (generally) have no body hair between my thighs and my neck. Some have especially enjoyed it, a few of them having never realized it before. I have once or twice been hit up by gentlemen whose profiles decried the lacking of pubic hair to some degree and have been able to enjoy the satisfaction of responding with something along the lines of “Thank you/Very hot/Sounds nice, but unfortunately I have no pubic hair and that apparently doesn’t work for you. Good luck though!” (which is more satisfying the more enthusiastic their initial message), and sometimes those men decide the “amazing cunt” they were just clamoring over outweighs the hairless crotch and continue the chase, while others slink off either from embarrassment or because they really are so shallow that a lack of pubic hair simply isn’t acceptable, and those guys are lame and don’t deserve to enjoy my hole or my time. But on the whole, by deciding up front that I’d made my decision and that my decision was sovereign and non-negotiable, by and large the “issue” ceased to be an “issue” at all. There have been a few times in my life that I’ve realized that if I don’t have a problem with something about myself, it’s very hard for anyone else to have a problem with said something, or at least for their problem with it to make any difference to me.

There is one more step I can take to alleviate these kinds of problems in general in my life, and that is to start gravitating toward the right people, those who treat me with respect and who legitimately do find me attractive, my sexuality arousing, and so forth, and away from those who do not, for one reason or another, appreciate who I am or what I have to offer – everyone has scores of both types in his life, the trick is to recognize that you have both in abundance, identify who is whom, and, at least once you’ve taken the time to discover and become the person you wish to become, spend your time/open your cunt to the folks who already are down with everything you are just the way you are. I bet there are plenty of guys like that out there reading this who simply can’t believe that I find many people out there who don’t appreciate and wish to tear down who I am and what I’m into, but anyone who’s met me for more than five or ten minutes can see how severe are the scars from the many I’ve encountered who are just that. And it sucks! Jesus, I wish people would just stop and think before uttering some judgmental zinger they’ll have forgotten about within an hour and realize just how much those little things can seriously fuck a good person up for life. Take a second to ponder the possibility that just because you aren’t personally keen on a certain thing does not necessarily mean that therefore said thing is universally despicable and that those who happen to feel differently are lesser people than you. Who died and made you king of anything?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my sexual lifetime, it’s that different people like all different things, and to every person, action, idea, or characteristic, there is at least someone who thinks “that is fucking HOT.” I’m not into everything in the world – far from it! But when someone hits me up and asks me about my feelings on, say, scat (which, because I have an especially sensitive and dominant sense of smell, is something that doesn’t work in practice for me, although I have nothing whatsoever against it in theory), I either demur as I usually do when approached by somebody in whom I am not interested (because in my experience, not getting a reply is much easier on the ego than a reply that states “I’m not into you,” although people differ on this question) or I very politely state the explanation I just gave here, in such a way as to make clear that my not being into it does not equate an objection to or judgment upon the action itself. I would rather someone who enjoys external piss play, for instance, have opportunity to find and connect with one of the countless other folks out there who enjoy piss play just as much and have an excellent time than subject them to a rendezvous with someone unable to appreciate/enjoy/participate in the type of sex the person is seeking; in that decision, I am the poorer choice for that person. You’d be AMAZED at how many people either have never stopped to consider that possibility or actually believe it is impossible, and those people get boring in bed REALLY quickly. Believe me. I’ve been with plenty.

So, anyway, once again what was meant to be a hot sexual post has turned into a discussion of sexual ethics and etiquette. But gosh darn it, somebody has to say these things, because while I always considered a lot of this stuff to be simple human decency programmed into nearly everybody alive, apparently this stuff is news to many people. Look, to be fair, maybe if homosexuality wasn’t under fire from all corners throughout the entirety of human civilization and we were allowed the freedom to develop ourselves and our sexuality like the remaining ninety percent of the population (not that their freedom is entire, either, but that’s another story) we gay men might manage to develop more of the relative openness and “oh, I’m NOT the only person in the world!” understanding of our straight brethren (who, again, are far from perfect…simply a few steps further along). But let’s be honest: after age eighteen (yes, that’s when you become an adult) there is simply no excuse for being a narcissistic asshole, even though there will be plenty of horny older men eager to make as many excuses as necessary to get the chance to fuck you, because they don’t care about you becoming a decent human being…they just want your ass. Which may be nice and all when you’re 21 and as a bonus you can use it as ammunition to emotionally destroy the 27 year old you call your ‘boyfriend’ (oops, did I get a little personal?), but eventually you wind up in rehab, or worse, you never even get that far. Was it worth it to be the hot pussy of the moment for a couple seconds?

Okay, I need to head out on my day, so I won’t be able to tie all these (rather pointed) thoughts neatly into one happy moral why-did-I-write-this-and-why-should-you-give-a-shit ending. But I’ll make it up to you by giving your dick a happy ending in my unbelievably hungry hole, if you like.

You think I’m joking?


Part of Me

This year has been so frustrating for so many reasons; one of the more relevant ones to this blog is how the difficulties in other major fields of my life at present (i.e. my continued unemployment and similarly continued living situation away from LA/civilization in general with the parents, and residual damage from previous relationship still in healing process, although that last has been less and less an issue recently) have also, not surprisingly but still frustratingly, severely impaired my sex life and even my sexuality itself to some extent. I’m getting to the point, as 30 grows nearer and nearer, where I am becoming more concerned that years of my life are going by while I hover just one or two steps away from the sexual freedom I’ve dreamed of and worked hard to obtain my whole life but am kept from reaching it by just one or two particularly stubborn obstacles. First it was my health and then my anatomy as I healed from surgeries; then it was my goddamn relationship, then it was the emotional nuclear winter following the breakup, and now it’s my being unemployed and stuck living in the middle of nowhere! I have been telling myself that soon everything will finally be the way it ought to be, as soon I can surmount this particular obstacle, but then once I do another one plops into place! And I have thought long and hard about this and I honestly do not believe these obstacles have been self-inflicted, at least not in the self-sabotaging way of someone who deep down doesn’t really want what he obsesses over wanting after all. So what can I do to take control and get past this bullshit and enjoy sexual freedom and the immense weight off my mind and ego I know it will be?

I have found myself pondering many times in the last year the notion of moving to a new city for a brief period of time. Usually this would not be something I’d entertain, but the upside to unemployment is that I have literally no work ties keeping me tethered to Los Angeles or Southern California right now; I have been feeling some of the same things as I did the year I graduated from college, of having run out of new opportunities and needing a sabbatical of sorts after which I could return to a fresher start a year or two later, as I did when I returned from London. Certainly every indication has been that I would find myself being much more eagerly welcomed and much more desired/valued in any city other than LA; I would so relish an opportunity to have a clean slate somewhere, even for a bit, and to develop my own reputation based on my true self as of the present moment. In Los Angeles there is too much past affecting how people see me, and seeing as my past couple years have been pretty much bust that’s an especially debilitating truth. On top of that, I think the very last city whose population I’d place any faith on being open-minded would be Los Angeles, much as I do love it.

When I stop to think honestly about it, I would really like to relocate for a year or two to San Francisco, or possibly Chicago, and work whole-heartedly in various segments of the professional sex industry, in which I have real work experience, (untapped) skill, and, most importantly, legitimate and informed interest. If I’ve learned anything over the past decade it’s that unless you decide to focus fully on a certain life goal, as opposed to hedging your bets and putting just enough effort into a bunch of different things at once, you will never be able to achieve any meaningful excellence in anything, even if you end up putting in the same amount of effort over a longer period. The possibility hasn’t eluded me that if I just devoted all my efforts and attention on my sexual aspirations, professional and otherwise, for a period of time, I very well might manage to finally get beyond my obsessive goal-oriented sexuality and not only be able to enjoy myself sexually without all the stress and pressure but also have a chance to focus on and identify my career/academic/personal desires and get a sure-footed start down the path of the rest of my adult life. In other words, if I just let my sexuality free and embrace it and incorporate it directly into the rest of my life for once, I might finally be able to get it done with so I can move on to another chapter of life, ideally one in which I no longer play the youth struggling to find and forge his identity but rather the young adult using the foundations arduously laid to launch a career that means something.

So, now that I’ve done my customary rationalization treatise on the matter, how about it? Should I go with the relatively safe choice of San Francisco, a city I’m not enormously fond of but haven’t given much chance whatsoever? Or should I listen to the unusually large number of folks who have suggested Chicago might be a perfect place for me, despite the existence of one of my geographic deal-breakers (snow/winter weather? Or should I follow my younger brother as well as an unexplained long-time hunch to Boston? Or, on the extreme but  possible end, do I take my good friend’s half-serious suggestion and join her in Detroit? I think those would probably be the only options I’d consider, with the possible addition of Philadelphia; Seattle, which I know I would love, doesn’t quite have the robust and diverse enough gay community to make sense moving there for these aforementioned sexual-related purposes; New York would simply swallow me alive at this point in my life and personal state, although I still believe that I would be able to conquer New York at the top of my game. Washington DC is a swamp that I’d rather visit than live in; Denver seems to have the same drawback as Seattle but without the whole me really liking it part. Ditto St. Louis. Every other city of sufficient size is in the South or at least the Red State column (another deal-breaker), and I’m trying to get AWAY from assholes, not immerse myself in them.

Typically I am one to shy away from even the idea of this kind of major life change; the only time I’ve ever found myself taking a risk on that level was six years ago when I decided to decamp to a city on the opposite end of the world with no money, no housing, no idea what to expect. And I made that decision because I felt my life becoming stuck in much the same way I feel right now. Sure, I hadn’t dealt with experiencing what happens when risks don’t work out in the end like I have now, but that means I had much less to be running from than I do now, which would seem even more reason to take another such plunge.

I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that for the last week or two I’ve had the Katy Perry song “Part of Me” running through my head for no logical circumstantial reason (it came out months ago, and I didn’t really get all that into it in the first place). “Days like this I want to drive away/ Pack my bags and watch your shadow fade,” go the opening lyrics, and though they refer to a former lover, I feel much that way not only about my former lover but about my home city and, more broadly, my life in general as it stands at this moment. Nobody who’s spent time with me in 2012 would argue that I could really use an opportunity for a clean slate in some form in order to both practically and psychologically emerge from this particularly nasty rut, but, as is increasingly becoming clear to me, the only one who can make that happen is, in fact, me myself. And considering how much is beyond my control right now in this economy and with this damaged psychiatric and psychological health and with this leviathan of an ex partner and this credit rating that prompts surprised reactions from people who had been unaware they even went that low, shouldn’t I really be jumping on anything that actually is in my power that could help turn things around at long last? 

Unwrapping a Black Stud’s Cumload

I arrived last night in Oregon for a two week vacation visiting my grandmother and seeing plays as I’ve done nearly every summer since I was eleven. One of the only downsides to being up here is that there is a desperate shortage of cock, especially cock that likes to fuck the way I do, although over the years I’ve managed to get a decent amount of dick up my ass considering. But I’ve become used to the fact that finding cum for my hole up here is unlikely; that doesn’t mean I stopped trying, though. And good thing, too; it’s just my second night and I’ve managed to get a hot load of cum inside me, even if it took a little creativity and a few exceptions to my usual sexual requirements.

After I got home from my first play of the trip, I went online and saw a message from a 28 year old black guy with a nice smooth body and supposedly 8.5″ dick, and while I usually ignore messages from people with “Safe Sex Only” in their profile unless they tell me otherwise, I replied and we got to chatting. He finally said “I want to be inside you – is that too forward?” and I told him forward was the way I liked it best. He lived only five minutes or so away, but because it was so late I didn’t want to take the car out again, and I tried to encourage him to give in to his obvious desire to fuck me right away instead of tomorrow or later. Finally he decided to drive over and pick me up, and he drove me to his place and soon I was on my knees deep throating a legitimate 8.5″ black cock and making him moan rather gratefully.

We got on his bed and he pulled out water-based lube (I can’t stand that stuff, as in it actually irritates my skin) and a condom. He asked if I would do a hit of poppers with him, and I obliged, reaching down and slipping the head of his wrapped cock into my hole as he did his and then letting him slide in all the way as I did mine. I wanted to ask how he was able to feel anything through that latex but pretended that this was all par for the course, and I could tell he was really enjoying my ass even despite the condom. He stopped a few times, then I gave a sly hint about wanting him not to pull out when he came, and after a couple minutes of rapid, deep fucking he shot his load, making more noise than most guys make (it’s nice to be in a detached back house instead of a crowded apartment complex I guess) and stayed inside me for two or three minutes, filling the condom with jizz.

As he pulled out I hooked a finger under the band of the condom so it slid off his dick but stayed mostly inside me, and I pretended to pull it out of my hole while in reality I was pushing the rest of it inside. I handed him a couple tissues which he assumed held the used condom, and he tossed them in the trash. I rode home with the condom still inside me, and in fact it’s still in there as I type, but I’m about to flip it inside out inside my hole to unload its contents into my wet pussy like they should be. It was a lot easier than I’d imagined, and I’ll definitely be more open to hooking up with super hot guys who won’t bareback but will cum in the condom and not pay attention to what I do with it once they’ve shot their wad. As I tell people (and as you can see in my Knightbreeders debut video, in which I receive a load of cum from a condom), my fetish is cum in my hole, and ultimately it doesn’t really matter whose it is, or how it gets there.


The “Bossy Bottoms'” Bill of Rights (or, If You Wanna Be My Lover…)

(Adapted from a series of tweets, because not only did I need to say this for myself, I think it needs to be said on behalf of bottoms everywhere.)

The ratio of time I spend doing something a guy likes to him doing something I like is ridiculously out of proportion. You know what? No more.

Unless he is paying me, I expect my sex partner to put in as much effort into getting me off as I put in to getting him off. Is that so hard? If that makes me a “bossy bottom,” then so be it.

And another thing: tops who can’t cum cause there’s “too much pressure” – I spent at least 30 min cleaning out/prepping before we even got started. THAT’S pressure. Tops had better not forget: by the time I arrive at your door I’ve already put in more effort on your behalf than you could imagine. It’s expected of me, almost required; what’s required of the top? A workable erection and, typically in my liaisons at least, an ejaculation. (Hint: we are designed to do that, without much work at all either. Not a high-effort task.) So if there’s “too much pressure,” grow a set, man up, and cum like any twelve year old virgin can do in his sleep. 

Also, as long as I don’t allow it to be uncontrolled and thereby create problems that affect you, I decide whether or not I party, not you. Whether or not I party is not going to affect you at all (that is my responsibility) so whether or not you do shouldn’t affect me either. I have been screwed over by just as many stone cold sober guys as tweakers, if not more. I’ve been doing what I do (sexually, etc) for a long time now and I’m doing just great. I know how to manage my stuff better than you do. 

If I respect your needs at the cost of my own (and I often do), that is my choice and a favor I do you; it is not something I owe you. I am so much happier to make some concessions for your sake if you request & understand that I am choosing to than if you act like I owe you (this is true in sexual terms as well). Because until you dump that load of cum in my hole you offered to me, I don’t owe you jack shit, and don’t you forget it!

WHEW this feels good. We bottoms never get to stand up for ourselves it seems. It all boils down to the simple but so often forgotten fact that mutual respect, communication, & kindness are all it takes to have HOT sex. Don’t be an asshole, and you’ll get to have so much more fun inside mine. I think those who’ve been there would say that my hole is worth the hassle of having to be a decent human being.


Now can we please get back to the fucking?


If you want me, don’t play games

I promise it won’t be in vain…

Jewel – “Intuition”

The Three Foolproof Tricks to Get Inside My Hole (Guaranteed)

Most guys don’t believe me when I tell them that there are a couple of ways that any male in the entire world could get permission to put his dick in my ass if he so wished, without exception. But I will tell you with complete and utter honesty that it’s true. There are a couple of things that, if done correctly, would guarantee absolutely anyone on Earth access to my hole for at least long enough to achieve climax.

And not only that, I’m about to post exactly what those tricks are as public information for anyone who might wish to know about them. That should tell you a lot about the kind of boy I am.

1. The magic buttons 

It’s baffling that despite how vehemently I despise the word “nipple,” the two attached to my chest are seriously magic. Play with one of them, you get me going; play with both of them and you have a total slave at your disposal.

2. “pussy” and/or “cunt”

I know not everyone is into this, and that’s fine, but the moment a guy uses either “pussy” or “cunt” in reference to my ass, he’s automatically granted entry.

3. Getting a load into my hole

This might seem obvious or nonsensical, but notice the wording. It’s true that once a guy shoots his load in my ass he’s a member for life and welcome any time, but if you’re trying to get in there in the first place one could still theoretically use this trick with a little ingenuity. Hence the wording: getting A load into my hole.


So there you have it. And if you don’t believe me when I say these are foolproof, try me. I’d love the chance to show that I mean it!

Lookalike Load

Yesterday morning I happened to meet a guy who lives out in the boondocks near where I’m living at the moment, which was very exciting. He also happened to look a lot like my pledge bro Mike (here’s Mike):

That’s why it was doubly hot when the guy was pumping his load into my hole before he had to leave to pick up his mother or something of that nature. Now if only I could get Mike’s load. And the rest of the fraternity.

So that’s only two loads so far in 2012, which isn’t the best start by any means. But it’s a start…



I made up a little survey to learn a few things about my followers and what you like about me and/or my sexuality that brings you here in the hopes of keeping you cumming :). I’d love if you’d fill it out for me…and be honest, and blunt, and nasty please.

Here’s the link.