hard out there for a ho (part 3)

i used to be annoyed and mystified by those bloggers who, without any explanation to their readers, just stopped blogging one day for no apparent good goddam reason--until, that is, i became one of 'em.

because now i understand why it happens.  one day, you just look up after years of doing this shit and realize you've pretty much shot your wad, said everything you have to say.  but you don't formally call lit quits--you figure you'll come back in a week or so, when the muse whispers into your ear once more.  and then that week turns into weeks, and the weeks become months, and…well, here we are.

so, yeah, i'm still (1) battling my demons, (2) having lots of age-inappropriate sex, and (3) watching the western world devolve into chaos exactly as predicted, but, having had nothing new to add to these three pillars upon which this blog rests, i've kept my distance, figuring if anything truly outta the ordinary came up, i'd maybe check in again.

well, something finally did, so here i am.

this story started out ordinarily enough (for me, anyway), back in late december, with a truly memorable night with a cute 20-year-old named ruben out in riverside. came home the next morning, packed up the car a couple days later and headed east for the holidays.

it was the morning after christmas, in wichita falls, texas, in the bosom of my family, standing there sleepily contemplating the big jesus-loves-you cross hanging over the toilet whilst waiting for the stream, that i first felt the burn.

i dismissed it as nothing, of course, because denial always comes first.

it was only later that day, standing in fronta that same toilet, when i whipped it out, cautiously gave it a pre-piss squeeze, saw the unmistakable, tell-tale pearl emerge, that i knew for sure.

i rotated through the other four stages in a matter of minutes--first, goddam you ruben you little whore, then please god no, then kill me now, and, finally, fine, deal with it.

i went out on the front porch, sat down on the steps, lit a smoke, called ruben, wished him a merry christmas, broke it to him gently, told him he needed to get tested immediately.  (how did i know it was ruben, you ask?  simple process of elimination--ruben was the only one i'd had sex with in the past two weeks (due only to a bad cold), and there had been no one after.)

a word now about STD etiquette:  blaming poor ruben woulda been pointless, because it really doesn't matter who clapped whom--we're both reckless sluts, and if that guy in amarillo hadn't flaked on me two days after ruben, i'd have no doubt passed it on to him.  so you gotta be philosophical about these things, is my attitude.

at this point, faithful readers, you might be wondering why mkf has broken several months of radio silence only to tell you this sorry little story, and you might have a point, if i didn't have a point, too.

see, i was in a mess--here i was in a strange town in texas, about to leave for another one, and then another one two days after that;  it wouldn't be until i was in austin nearly a week later that i'd have even a hope of getting treatment for what suddenly ailed me.

and i couldn't wait that long, because it was bad, and getting worse.

so, two excruciating days later, as soon as my mother, sister and i arrived in dallas (i.e., semi-civilization), i made my excuses and burned rubber for the nearest whole foods, where i picked up the two strongest natural anti-bacterials of which i know, started dosing myself with same at staggered intervals throughout each day and night.

and prayed.

all for nothing, so it seemed--by then, the pus had given way to blood, the bowl turned dark every time i pissed, and the pain was intense.  but i kept on.

the darkest moment, i think, happened the night i finally hit austin.  intensely horny, and having had to cancel a long-standing appointment (with the hottest, hungriest boy you or i have ever seen, trust me), alone in my motel room, and for the first time in ten days, i gave in and jerked off.

before that night, i had never even imagined such a thing as red semen was possible.

but, yeah, it is.

*     *     *     *     *

austin free clinic, four days later

she was the coolest doctor i've ever met--about my age, years in the trenches, had seen it all, yet still retained her humor and humanity.  which is probably the only reason i told her the story.

she listened, as i explained my regimen, and how i'd obsessively jerked off repeatedly those last few days, tryin to shoot all the bad stuff outta me, and how it got progressively lighter and lighter, until, just that morning, i had delivered a load that finally looked normal.

she seemed interested but dubious, took a swab, disappeared for a few minutes, and came back and told me with some surprise that, while white blood cells showed up under the microscope, indicating a reaction to infection, there was no infection to be found. to make sure, she had me piss in a cup for lab analysis and gave me the shot anyway, told me to call back for the results in a couple weeks.

which i did.  the results:  negative for any STD.

fuck gut-destroying antibiotics and drug-resistant superbugs--using natural methods, i cured my own serious bacterial infection, bitches.

and i'm betting you can, too, should such an eventuality ever present itself. which is the point of this post.

get you some of this stuff, ok?

and yeah, i'll be dosing myself with same before and after all future encounters with all present and future rubens, you can damn well be sure.

the art of the slam piece

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i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 1)

or maybe it's more i'm getting tired of living 'em.  whatever--


he called outta the blue last week--a very pleasant surprise, because joaquin is special.  when last we'd spoken, he was preparing to head down into mexico, the land of his parents, to research indigenous ingredients and recipes for a cookbook he was writing--joaquin is a fine young chef--and he'd call me when he got back, fix me a great meal. that had been almost two years ago.

he was back in LA, he told me, working as a private chef for a family in the hills above sunset plaza, they were outta town, he was without a car, he'd love to see me and could i come get him?  we arranged for late last night, and when i texted him that i'd arrived, he emerged from the house looking much as i'd seen him last--lanky and cute, with thick, black hair falling over his eyes, and that smile.

and those lips--he gave me a hungry kiss when he got in, and as we drove the narrow, twisting back route connecting his canyon to mine, i remembered how it had been with him, and sped up a little.

he'd done a lot of living in these last two years, he told me during the drive--from mexico, he'd gone on to work on film locations all over the world (sixteen-hour days, nothing glamorous about it, he assured me), and was happy to be back home in a low-stress job that would allow him the time to finally finish his book (and maybe even spend some time with me, i hoped).

and then at my place, in my bed, he broke away from me at a moment in which he would have never broken away before, to reach into his bag.

"you don't mind, do you?", he asked, as he started fiddling with the paraphernalia.  "i wanna feel it with you this way--the instant the needle comes outta my arm, i want your dick going in."

and i just said, "well, we'd better time it right, then--gimme a minute, 'cause i've lost it."  and he did, and i put it outta my mind, rose to the occasion like i always do, and then we did.

and it was wild, and he was wild, and not joaquin at all.  i entered him much faster and harder than i would have joaquin, and his tightness gave way and i was deep and he was clawing at my back and gasping into my neck and sweating and bucking and straining for more, and his eyes rolled back and he was off into some place that didn't include me at all.

but whatever it was he was experiencing, it wasn't sex, i know that.  sex with joaquin had always started slow and sweet and ended with him coming like a freight train, all the while kissing my lips and looking into my eyes.  but this--whatever it is these walking dead experience, and as transcendent as it may be for them, it's not sex, or at least not human sex, because the dick always knows what sex is--and when the mouse stays soft, small and sleeping inside its little house when the body it belongs to is doing what we did, it's not sex, and i don't care what anybody says.

afterwards, drenched in sweat--mine and (mostly) his--i asked him if he's gonna be able to sleep, and he said yeah, it leaves him quickly.  and it did (after he showed me all 68 apps on his ipad in three minutes, that is), and he fell asleep in my arms, and as he snored gently like he used to, i pushed the wet strands of hair out of his eyes, looked at his face, kissed his mouth (he responded in his sleep, just like he used to), and wondered what would become of this boy whom i'd once thought was so focused, so grounded, so together for his age and so immune to this shit.

oh, joaquin is 25 years old.


stay tuned for part 2, and lorenzo

denver

from an email to a friend:

so tonight i ran my usual "here i am, come and get me" ad that i always run on craigslist whenever i hit a new city, to (i'm happy to say) gratifying response.

but i had specific needs tonight which had nothing to do with being a performing donkey, and i finally settled on this wholesome, cute, buffed-out 30-year-old white guy as my best bet to fulfill them.  because his ad was interesting--he was looking for an overweight daddy, and i knew there had to be a story there.

i opened my reply with "look, i may be too thin for you (words i don't get to utter very often these days, so that was nice), but...", and he came back very quickly, invited me over.

i found his place, and it was clean and bright and nice, and so was he.  he led me down to a basement bedroom, away from the sleeping roommates, and when he turned to me i took him in my arms, kissed him and gently/roughly felt him up and down for a long while, loosened his pants, while he melted.  when i felt the time was right, i breathed into his open mouth, "so tell me about your first time", as my hands and mouth continued their work.  between kisses, he breathed the story back to me.

he was 15, on vacation with his family at a resort, had left the pool and wandered into the locker room, and then into the sauna, where he came across this--you guessed it--fat daddy in a towel, whom, i have no doubt, took one look at this little vision and knew his every dark dream had just come true.

"so you were wearing a swimsuit"

yeah

"baggies, i'm guessing."

yeah

"what color?"

lime green

"with your adolescent boner standing up just like it is now (i lightly feathered my fingers up and down his rock-hard dick, making him shiver), except in a little green tent, right?"

oh yeah

they eventually retreated to a shower stall, but he didn't get fucked that first time--that would happen during the following year's family vacation, with the following year's fat daddy.  we eventually worked up to that--we're in bed by this point--and i recreated the experience for him, while we breathed words back and forth into each other's mouths until we came simultaneously.

i left him dazed, surprised and happy in a puddle of sweat and cum, came back to my room, showered, flipped open the notebook and started this letter to you.

i don't fuck around with kids, victor.  there are a number of reasons for this, but the main one--the guttermorality--behind this Rule is simple:  i refuse to imprint my baggage on a brain and psyche that are not yet fully formed, leaving 'em with fat-daddy fantasies for the rest of their lives.  hell, i have enough work picking up the pieces all those fat daddies who lacked this particular scruple left behind.

but i love the roleplay, when it's right--taking these kids in men's bodies back to the moment of their lifelong fixation, making perfect--for them and for me--what probably wasn't the first time around.

i haven't decided whether this is wrong or not.  i'd love to know what you think.

mkf offers a couple helpful hints

while this blog garners few comments, i do get emails--boy, do i get emails.  which is somewhat understandable since, judging from their tone, the majority of these emails come from folks who wouldn't be caught dead publicly commenting on a blog such as mine.

said emails fall roughly into three categories:  the ones condemning me to gay hell for taking exception to my politics; the ones accusing me of making shit up (as if, were anyone to take the time and trouble to construct the elaborate fantasy life of which i am so often accused, it would be this one); and, last but not least--and the subject of this post--the ones from closet fans asking for help in transforming their sad, sexless middle-aged selves into perpetually priapic love machines like the mysterious mkf.

*sigh*

it's not that i don't wanna help other men achieve this exalted plane from which i gaze down upon you mere mortals, it's more like i honestly dunno how much help i can be.  because, you gotta understand, i'm very different in some key respects from most men you'll come across.

see, most men--and, i mean, throughout history, and regardless of the degree of wealth, power, talent, intellect, accomplishment or romantic prowess to which they might lay claim--seem incapable of escaping obsession with their shortcomings in at least one (and usually more) of the following areas:

• baldness
• penis size
• body dysmorphia
• loss of vitality and virility with age

and, while i wish i could say i relate (oh who am i kidding; no, i don't), here's how mkf deals with each of the above manly existential crises:

baldness:  the realization i was losing it roughly and, for a minute, happily coincided with the introduction of rogaine to the market--until, after a quick calculation revealed to my then-broke ass that it would be either rogaine or cable, it was really no contest.  because like going bald should be my biggest goddam problem.

penis size:  what can i say--other than a regrettable early surgical choice in which i had no say, i wouldn't change a goddam thing.

body dysmorphia:  i gaze, naked, into the mirror at my doughy face, sagging posture, pasty skin and childbearing hips, and say to myself, "damn, you've got a big dick."

loss of vitality and virility with age:  again, what can i say--use it or lose it, motherfuckers.


but fuck most men--let's get back to gay men.  because, in addition to the above, so many of our little tribe seem condemned to eventually and inevitably face a special hell reserved only for us; namely, loneliness, isolation and sexual starvation once we've passed our prime.

and, again, i dunno how much help i can be in this regard, because staving off this inevitability seems to come naturally to me (so far), but if you're one of those who really wants to extend your dumbass adolescence into middle age, then i'll do my best to give you some pointers.

next time.

[sorry, got too chatty, lost the point and ran outta steam.  been happening a lot lately.]

mkf breaks a couple rules

disclaimer:  i can already tell this one's gonna run long, ramble and be very inside.  why?  because i'm enjoying my first serious cocktail in over a month, and feeling a little chatty--sue me.

study the above text exchange from last night carefully before proceeding, because there are at least three important points contained within its brief bounds that i'm gonna expound upon tonight.

but before parsing its meaning, a little background:  back when i first--some would say finally--came out at 33, and knowing even then that, unlike most of my peers, my slutty kid-in-a-candy-store phase would extend well into middle age and probably beyond, i took note of the stark differences between the fresh-faced types who reveled in their sluttiness and the burnouts who were just going through the limp-dicked motions, and determined to learn from the latter group's mistakes and not repeat 'em.

to that end, i started developing a set of rules the adherence to which i figured would be most likely to ensure a long, happy run.  for the most part, i'd have to say i've succeeded in that goal, but what i've discovered over the years is that there are rules and there are Rules, and have learned through experience to differentiate between the two.

rules with an upper-case "R" are the hard-and-fast ones, never, ever to be broken--eschewing hard drugs, for instance, and fetishes like leather, S/M and bondage, and fucking underage kids no matter how tempting and available they might be (and often are), and walking away when feeling even slightly hinky about anything.  these, among others, are lines i don't cross, ever.

but then there are the rules that started out as Rules but have devolved to lower-case status as exigencies arose and flexibility was required, a prime example of which would be my once ironclad prohibition against having sex with crystal meth users.

which brings us to the subject of this post.

when the above guy hit me up last night, saw my face pic and still wanted me to come over, i was at first quite happy to indulge myself in his lean, smoking, fresh-from-miami hotness, until i looked at the clock and remembered the first of the three points i alluded to above; namely

anybody looking for sex at 3:03 am is probably up to no good

and sure enough, came the dreaded question.

see, to mkf, the two ugliest words in the gay lexicon are "u partying?".

the question itself can be interpreted a couple ways;  for instance, if it's asked before midnight, you've got a 50/50 shot at it being a non-partier trying to weed out the tweakers.  but at 3:03 am?  not bloody likely.

so i reflexively responded with my standard

and immediately kicked myself because i hadn't thought it through.

because, see, there's two kindsa partiers:  (1) the early-cycle ones who'll rule you out if you're not one of them; and (2) the late-cycle ones who, after three days with their own kind, would sell their soul for a hard dick that actually works.

with that in mind, the non-partier can offer two responses to the question:  (1) if you don't care one way or the other, a flat "i don't party" will do; and (2) if you do care, you can lie and say something like "yeah, i did a little earlier", just to get your foot in the door.

and the thing was, in this case i did care--i knew i'd do this boy no matter how fucked-up he was, and by going with option 1, i may have aced myself outta the running.

but nah, he came back with

which leads me to point no. 2:

when it comes to partiers,"sometimes" always means

"i'm currently tweaking my ass off"

so i was still in, but, never one to leave well enough alone--and even though i knew the answer--i had to push it by asking

and then looked at his pictures again and immediately did the the only sensible thing.

*     *      *      *      *

when he opened the door, the boy turned out to be as advertised:  140 pounds of young, tight, compact, hard-bodied, thoroughly tweaked-out cubano.  i pushed him into the apartment, shoved the door closed with my foot, pulled him into my arms, and, just as i was about to take a bite, he stiff-armed me, said, "wait", and looked back toward the kitchen, where out stepped the evening's surprise.

which brings us to mkf hookup postulate #4:

when it comes to hookups, surprises are rarely pleasant

i remember back when i first came out during the glory days of weho street cruising, there was this breathtakingly adorable boy who used to ride his bicycle back and forth through vaseline alley and i couldn't figure out why he never got any takers--until the night i went home with him and found out that, to get him, you also had to do the 80-year-old daddy he had waiting in the wings.  this experience, and many others like it, caused me to tense up as soon as i sensed movement in the kitchen last night.

but. you know what?  sometimes it's the exception that proves the rule, because outta that kitchen stepped not the troll i feared, but the boy who would finally allow me check off that antonio sabato jr. box on my fantasy roster.

if cubano boy was hot, this boy was a fuckin' vision--lustrous coal-black hair, perfect olive skin, limpid-yet-piercing eyes, voluptuous lips, gymnast body...i could go on and on and on.

which suddenly brought to mind the second rule i'd be bending if i went through with this; namely, the one about hooking up with guys spectacularly better-looking than me.

understand, this rule didn't arise outta any particular insecurity on my part--i know what i bring to the table, and i know its value--it was more a practical thing.  see, the spectacular-looking guys almost always come into the deal with the assumption that their looks give them the advantage, and the time and effort it takes for me to disabuse 'em of this notion is usually more goddam trouble than it's worth.  but one look at this boy's eyes as he fixated on my crotch and licked those luscious lips told me that wouldn't be a problem this night.

so, with high expectations of being the ham in this lovely sandwich, and even though i shoulda known better, i let these boys lead me to the bedroom.

*     *     *     *     *

mkf hookup postulate #22:

there are three kinds of tweakers, only one

of which is of any practical use to the non-partier in bed

remember david?  back when he was using, he'd often call me at the tail-end of his binges, knowing i'd be the one who could finally push him over the edge into that volcanic orgasm he'd been both straining for and holding back the whole weekend.  and i was always happy to oblige, because his epic climax always made me come with him (and then he'd lapse into a coma for two days, but this post has too many tangents already so we'll leave that aspect of partying for another day).

i was really hoping that at least one of these boys would be a david, but fuck, no--instead, out came the cock rings, and what i got was one of each of the other types.

antonio jr., turns out, was an Obsessive, and cubano boy was an Organizer.

in practical terms, this entailed antonio jr. spending the next two hours directing me to alternatively one and then another of his chosen and anatomically-perfect erogenous zones at specified intervals whilst moaning mechanically; while cubano boy bustled about checking messages, fluffing pillows, monitoring drugs, searching for fresh porn, and sporadically throwing himself into the mix with vigorous, graceless and ultimately pointless thrusting of various body parts in, onto and around me.

this literally coulda gone on for hours, but eventually, because as somebody really smart once said (and i'm modifying it only slightly, and in this case you can multiply it times two)

show me a beautiful man,

and i'll show you a man who's bored with him

i called a halt to the proceedings, but not before planting one of 'em on each side of me at strategic positions, assigning 'em specific tasks, and stroking my hard dick (the only one in the room all night which could claim such a distinction, btw) into a high-flying cumshot that both shocked and awed--one of my specialties, btw, and done to make a point.

as i drove home, i reflected, and not for the first time, on how i had massively outperformed two boys whose ages, added together and graded on a generous curve, did not even approach mine, and everything that implied.

and i wondered if they'll think about that, too--about how they're spending the prime of their lush young lives in dante's ninth circle, flogging away at limp dicks in a pale, sick simulacra of the sex they rightfully should be having right now, but can't.

but mostly, i chided myself for not remembering point no. 3 implicit in the text exchange which started this post:

unless you're flying with 'em, sex with even

the most beautiful tweaker is almost never a good time.

____________

update:  while i was writing this, antonio jr. hit me up--wants me one-on-one.  will i do it?  yeah, probably.  did i mention how fuckin' beautiful he is?

not to mention it told me a few things about myself, too

for those regular readers of this blog who know how i live to unlock people, lemme just say that this little video gave me the master key to about 75% of the guys i've slept with over the last 15 years.

as i've said here before, unlike most guys, i really don't have much use for porn--to me, most of it looks a lot more like work than any kinda sex i'd wanna have--but i think what's presented here holds true for most any activity in which people tend to overindulge.

or put another way, it just reinforces my long-held belief that the human brain handles scarcity so much better than it does abundance--it really, really, does.

give it a watch--i think you'll find it enlightening.

well, what would you have done?

you gotta understand--i have a special thing for brazilians colombians costa ricans venezuelans--especially ones that look like this boy here--and, possessed as i am of a selfless, giving nature, will go to great lengths to make 'em happy.  my givingness, however, was tested tonight.

preliminary negotiations went smoothly, right up until he said, "there's just one thing."

ah, here we go--there's always just one thing.  i rolled my eyes:  what was it gonna be this time?

see, if i had a nickel for every "just one thing" i've accommodated over the years--round-trip taxi service, roleplay the teacher, coach or pervy uncle, smoke a cigarette and ignore 'em while they blow me, wear fancy underwear or black dress socks, let 'em suck my toes, climb carefully and quietly in through windows, hurl myself head-first and half-naked outta windows, ruin their bathrooms, fuck their roommates--well, you get the idea.  but this one?  this was new.

"you want me to do what?"

i quickly worked the pleasure/pain equation:  aside from the weirdness, this one would have long-term consequences, not to mention the explanations to every new customer for weeks if not months thereafter.  then i looked at his pictures again.

"but can't we just--"

"no.  the smooth down there, i like it."

well, when you put it that way...

"ok, fine--you want smooth, i'll give you smooth.  but you have to do it for me when you get here."

"why?"

because if i denude myself into an 8-year-old boy and then you don't show up, i will have to hunt you down and kill you.

"because it'll be sexier that way."

deciding that my 8-for-a-dollar disposables might not cut it, i went to rite-aid, picked up a deluxe gillette three-blade number and some shaving cream, and awaited sweeney todd.  he did not disappoint.

the deforestation went pretty well--i tried not to watch--until he started heading down the back forty, which is where i drew the line.

"whoa, boy--you plan on spending any special time back there later?"

"no, but--"

"then forget it."

when all was said and done, i gotta admit--the novelty of fresh, tingly, slick, hairless sex does have its appeal (and oh my god, you oughta feel my balls). but was the hour or so of pleasure experienced worth the price to be paid?  i'll let you know in about three days.

mkf weekend in review (so far)

[sober update:  back in the drunken glory days of this blog, it used to take at least sixteen ounces of alcohol to get me to a state of sufficient inebriation as to be capable of producing a post of such smug, pedantic, self-aggrandizing obnoxiousness as the one which follows.  now, i can apparently get there on a quarter of that amount (progress of a sort, i guess).

and since the morning-after policy here at guttermorality is to remove only those drunkenly ill-advised posts which have the potential of harming or embarrassing others, i'm gonna let this one stand--if for no other reason than to serve as a reminder to myself and others as to why mkf should never succumb to the temptation of a twitter account.

besides, it's what happened.]


from a similarly-titled email to my friend rob:

so this afternoon i'm trolling around adam and it's slim pickings as usual (saturday afternoons being a traditionally low point in the weho weekend sex/drug cycle, as i'm sure you'll recall), when to my surprise i get hit up by a boy i'd never seen online before.  mutual interest is quickly established--he's happy because, well, you know; and i'm happy because i'll finally get to scratch that robby benson itch i've had since i was 14 (see attached pics).

he lives in anaheim, and, as is typical with such boys, has neither a place to host nor a means of travel.  this does not deter me--i tend to favor boys from the wrong side of the OC tracks (as opposed to the laguna/HB/irvine assholes) because they're generally unworldly, unaffected and so cut off from the gay milieu as to be unruined by it, and thus worth the drive--and i ask him if he knows of a cheap motel nearby.  whaddya know, he does, so with that, i'm off to disneylandland.

i pick him up, and he doesn't disappoint--a young 27, and he's let his hair grow since the pics were taken, so that when he cuts his eyes up and smiles adorably at me from under that shaggy mop, he's not only channeling robby at his twinkiest, but i get a little taylor lautner thrown in for good measure (so there's another box i can check off).

on the way to the no-tell, he surprises me--this boy is well-traveled.  starting at age 18, he's taken solo trips to each of barcelona, madrid, paris, rio and australia, saving up between each adventure for the next one.  "a car would be nice," he tells me, "but i'd rather have experiences while i'm young."  (on the other hand, he had never heard of laurel canyon, much less knew where it was--i suspect that will change, and probably next weekend if i have anything to say about it.)

that first kiss tells me everything i need to know--this will be good. i decide for this one, i'll pull every tool outta the bag (so to speak), give him everything i got.

you've asked me more than once how my nondescript, aging ass has always managed to move with such seeming confidence and ease through the cutthroat, youth-oriented minefield that is the LA gay hook-up scene, and i thought about that question tonight on my way back from anaheim.  it comes down to three things i can put my finger on, rob, and at least one thing i can't.

first, not giving a shit about much of anything does have its upside; the resulting detachment allows all the inevitable rejections that force so many older gay men outta the game to roll right off my back--i really don't care that much one way or the other, guys sense it, and that gives me power.

the other thing that detachment has done for me is made me a keen observer, and thus, a good lover.  when it comes to sex, i never get lost in what i'm doing; i'm too busy watching--facial expressions, body language, tension, breathing--all the little signs that tell me when to plow ahead or pull back.  for me, it's always a performance, and while i've never derived as much pleasure from my sex life as i would have liked, i can console myself with the fact that i've damn sure made a lot of people very happy.

and then there's that last-but-far-from least, the "pleasurable peen" factor (a term i picked up from one of my favored bloggers/commenters, who apparently has one too).   simply put, a big, fat dick that functions reliably is the great equalizer in our little world.  i don't care how young and/or pretty you are, how much time you spend in the gym, how extensive your toy collection or practiced your techniques happen to be--there really is no substitute.

anyway, back to our story:  two hours later, we're lying in a puddle of sweat and cum and he looks up at me with shining eyes, says, "that was unbelievable--you're the best i've ever had."

i raise an eyebrow. "including rio?"

he laughs, snuggles his lithe, limber lil' yoga-body closer to mine and says, "yeah, including rio."

oh, that fourth thing, the one i couldn't quite put my finger on? i dunno, but whatever it is, i've apparently still got it.

the art of the deal

[why this post?  because sometimes it's fun to try and see if i can turn the little everyday nothins' into somethin']


one of the problems with being a middle-aged boyhound is that the really choice targets tend to suffer from the misconception that they hold all the power, a delusion which is only reinforced by all the desperate daddies out there, and one which must be broken if (for me, anyway) full enjoyment is to be gained from the experience.

the truth is, daddies, they need you just as much as you need them--it's just a matter of getting them to understand this.

in gaining the necessary upper hand, i've found the guttermorality indifference technique to be invaluable, coupled with a little advice i once got from good ol' uncle don way back when i was a lad:

"when it comes to any deal, mike, you gotta care, but not too much."

of course, uncle don would be rolling in his urn if he had any idea how i'm using that advice today, but whatever--here's a recent case in point.

now, right off the bat, there are at least two things in the above that would normally disqualify this boy from consideration, but the accompanying picture tells me he is so totally up my alley in every possible way (and yours too, trust me)--plus he's far away, short on time and lives with roommates--that i'm willing to give him the car.

the blindfold?  that's something else entirely, because it implies a degree of anonymity that's generally a dealbreaker for me, no matter how hot they are.  so i ask him.

and, sure enough

i do the pleasure/pain equation.  he's hot and wild enough that it'll probably be good even without my mouth getting anywhere near his.  but he's also obviously used to calling the shots with the old guys, and i decide if i can't change that--put a dent in his bubble, alter the balance of power a little--i'm willing to walk away.  plus, his replies are coming back so quick, i sense a weakness in his position.  i wait five minutes, hit him back with

well, you can practically hear the howls of disbelief all the way from torrance--this is not a boy who's accustomed to being turned down, especially by the likes of me.

mercy kissing?  i don't think so.  besides, kid's tipped his hand--he wants it more than me.

and, just like that, he gives it up.

i magnanimously agree to come down, just so long as he understands that i expect him to hold up his end of the deal.  but he can't resist one more try for the upper hand.

nope.

and, you know what?  he did.

sorry, readers--if i have to suffer, then so do you

because, really, following a blog is all about living vicariously through its author as he traverses the ups and downs of his endlessly glamorous and fascinating life, right?

yeah, unless you come here--then, all you get is another installment of the mistake who will not die.

i'm thinking if i could figure out a way to connect with my fellow victims (because they have to be legion), maybe between us we could scrape up enough cash for the coffin and silver dildo it'd take to put this beast to rest.

a craigslist ad should do it, complete with picture and vivid description.

could i be that mean?  at this point, i'm thinking yeah, i could.  i'll keep you posted.

my magic wand opens many doors

so tonight i'm doing a little mild surfing of one of my favored hookup sites preparatory to heading off to bed, and, there amongst the tired regulars, i spot a fresh new face.

what's extra-adorable about this 24-year-old's profile is that he's got it all done up in a harry potter motif, which totally complements his insistence that, unlike all us depraved sex pigs, he's new to the game and is just looking to chat and make friends.

uh-huh.

so, consistent with my duties as self-appointed welcoming committee for the newbies, i fire off a quick, friendly email warning him that no one on the site is to be trusted but me, and move on.  (this little gambit is generally ignored about 90% of the time, but i persist because it's the 10% who reply that keeps things interesting--god, i really should be an insurance salesman.)

this one hits me back, we chat innocently a few minutes, and, outta several face pics i keep on hand, i text him the one i figure will most closely fit his needs, and the following exchange occurs:

yeah, looming over him.

and outta the mouth of this babe in his lil' dumbledore t-shirt, here it comes, pretty much as i'd expected:

he's far away so he probably won't, and if he does we won't do most of the above, but it just goes to show that when it comes to boys these days, a top who's been around can almost always can judge a book by its cover.

and really, i should probably stop bitching about the decline of the american family and thank the sexual revolution for sending all these lost, daddyless boys my way.

but i can't quite bring myself to do it.

a little taste of what competent tops in this town have to deal with

presented for those among you who think i am prone to exaggeration--i swear to god, getting rid of this boy is harder'n snappin snot off a fingernail (that's a texas expression).

after months of ignoring his incessant emails and texts, and against my better judgment, i finally relented the other night, answered him, and--well, read from the bottom.  i'll let you figure out whom is who.

and there you have it--a classic specimen of the genus bottomus pushyolus* if ever there was one.

if i was even slightly more of an asshole than i actually am, i'd post his picture, too, over a big "warning--cute but deadly" sign.

[and in case you're wondering:  no.  no, i didn't.]
_________________
*colorful plumage designed to lure the unwary; hardy, bulletproof, impervious to insecticides, hints and downright insults in pursuit of its eternal goal.  once has its prey firmly ensnared in its web, will extract every last drop of its juice, leaving nothing but a worn-out little stub.

breaking news

the hunt is over--you'll be relieved to know that, after a painstaking search, the upgrade for the ill-fated carlos 4 may have been found.

lest you dismiss this as a trivial matter, understand that not just any common, garden-variety carlos is invited to join the elite squad of signed and numbered guttermorality-grade carloses (hell, if i didn't have standards, i'd be well into double digits by now).

but this boy?  in addition to meeting and exceeding all the basic requirements, he possesses that rare, intangible je ne sais quoi that has always moved me for reasons i can't quite define.

study the following carefully, see if you can discern for yourself his subtle appeal.

and yeah i know i'm going to hell when i die--what's your point?

the sex therapist, part 3

.
seriously, i didn't think there was gonna be a part 3 either.


for those who don't wanna bother with part 1 and part 2, the short version is, i booked an appointment with a TV therapist, he flaked on me and i sent him an email expressing my feelings about same.


so today, lo and behold, and at long last, the following email arrives in my inbox:

hmm, he must've read my post.

after mulling this over for a few minutes, i did what i shoulda done in the first place:  a little digging into mr. donaghue's background revealed that his presence on television might perhaps have less to do with his penetrating insight and therapeutic acumen than the fact that he was fucking jai rodriguez (you know, the cute one from the execrable queer eye for the straight guy)

[and yeah, noblesavage, i would--in a new york minute]

at about the time said mr. rodriguez was forming his own production company and decided a reality series featuring his hot boyfriend would be a really great idea.

with this in mind, i tendered the following reply:

asshole.

[and in case you happen to be reading this, mr. donaghue, be aware that i really don't take my life and what happens in it too seriously, but it does tend to make for good blogfodder.  thanks for your contribution.]

the sex therapist, part 2

.

read part 1 here.


a few months back, i discovered i had the logo channel--you know, lifetime for homos.  and what a trainwreck it mostly is--bad movies interspersed with endless drag reality shows, boring talk, and, god, those A-List fiascos.

but one day they featured a promo for a new reality series.  it was called bad sex, and it offered to take the viewer along as a motley crew of sluts, compulsives, late bloomers, intimacy-phobes, cheaters, romance junkies, substance abusers and/or obsessives--in other words, my people--underwent a 10-week process of intensive individual and group sex therapy.

so i DVR'd it, and when i'd racked up six or so episodes (because i like my reality TV like i like my men--lined up one after another), i sat down to watch.

each episode focused on one group member and his or her particular struggles, daily routine and interactions with the others, taking him/her from start of the process to finish, with a little epilogue at the end letting us know how each is doing now.

it was a diverse group--men, women, gay, straight--with a wide range of issues; the unifying factor was the therapist, chris donaghue.

is he a world-class therapist?  i dunno, but i liked the way he handled this group of people, challenged them and held them to a standard--plus, the fact that he's gay, practices locally and is now somewhat of a known quantity helped.

so, after giving it more than a little thought, i emailed him, asked him if he had a slot available. turns out he did, and at a time that worked for me, so we arranged for a meeting this past tuesday at two, to feel each other out.

*      *      *      *      *

what am i hoping to achieve with therapy, you may ask?  well, let's talk about that.

am i looking to give up casual sex?  hell, no--at a time when so many men my age are content to sit on the couch and let their balls shrink-wrap into old age, my slutty ass still wakes up every day with morning wood, my prostate is the same size it always was, i never get up in the middle of the night to pee, and i still cum in the same gushing spurts as i did when i was twenty.  give all that up?  not on your fuckin' life.

what i want is to achieve a balance.  as noblesavage so astutely and tactfully pointed out in his comment to the previous part of this post, much of the sex in which i indulge is, and always has been, of the mediocre variety--an inevitable by-product of pursuing quantity over quality.

i wanna learn to get past the yearning for strange and focus on those partners (or maybe, god forbid, one partner) with whom i have a real connection, drop my shields, develop some intimacy and thus add a dimension to my life that has heretofore been missing--you know, that thing grownups do.

i knew it wouldn't be easy--the first thing chris would tell me to do is what he told his group to do: totally abstain from all sex for a month or so in order to clear the mental and emotional decks.  no hookups, no porn, no jacking off, no manhunt, adam or craigslist, no nothin'.

and how was i gonna fill all those sudden, empty new hours?  i hadn't a clue, but--seriously, folks--after all these months of focused introspection, i was ready to find out.

*      *      *      *      *

so, filled with this resolve, i showed up at the address he gave me at the appointed hour, found the suite--no name on the directory downstairs, or the door--took a deep breath, grabbed the knob, twisted, and

nothing.  didn't budge.

ok, so he's late--it happens.  i gave him ten minutes, called, got his voicemail, left him a message--am i in the wrong place?

yeah, i was.

*      *      *      *      *

ten minutes ago, i sent him the following email:

first rule of the universe:  never piss off a blogger.

update:  but wait, there's more.

the sex therapist, part 1

.
what's with all the sex around here lately in a blog that used to be all about the booze, you ask?

it's where my mind is right now--for the past several months, i've been rooting around in my psyche tryin to dig up little nuggets of insight into what moves me in that particular arena and why, the fruits of which laborious cogitation can be recently seen on these here pages.

the booze, i'm handling.  smoking has really helped in that regard (yeah, i know), but even before i started that shit again, i had, through a systematic reduction in dosage, dropped my alcohol intake to a point where i'm really not worried about it right now.

when i came out at 34, i couldn't then have imagined the sheer depth and range of the sexual experiences i had waiting for me in this fine city of the angels.  at a time in life when most gay men start winding down from their hedonistic youth, i set out to fulfill every sexual fantasy i had ever entertained--check off every last box, goddammit--and in that quest, i can say i've pretty much succeeded.  for an hour, anyway.

but, like the old joke, i can't really say i've had 21 years of experience in gay life--it's more like one year of experience 21 times.  and now i'm 55 years old and i've had a helluva run, but if i don't move on up the gay evolutionary ladder on my own pretty soon, nature is sure as hell gonna do it for me.

problem is, your faithful blogger is a novelty junky--if i had a nickel for every time i've turned down a hot, willing guy i'd seen a few times for whatever was waiting behind door no. 3, i'd be typing this in a really expensive whorehouse in rio right now.

and the thought of an actual relationship?  at even the first hint of intimacy, and no matter how great the sex and how perfect for me the guy might be, my schizoid ass freezes up tighter than hillary's twat in a pair of brass panties in january (v could tell you a little about this--and yet he still sticks around, though god knows why).

which brings us to the point of this post:  with the booze thing pushed to the back burner, i decided late last year it was time to finally tackle the big problem--i.e., my existential aloneness--and what better way to do this than on the couch of a sex therapist?

but finding one i could respect and allow to challenge me was a problem, and a big one.  see, in my experience--and i've had more than a little--most therapists are dimwitted, conventional hacks, and when sitting across from one i tend to find myself thinking three moves ahead as they dully process whatever bullshit i choose to feed 'em on that particular day, because god knows their little pinheads would explode if i actually told 'em some of the truth i've laid out here.

and then something interesting and most unexpected happened--i thought i'd maybe found him.

and what a disappointment he turned out to be.

i'll finish this tomorrow--sun's coming up and i'm tired

matthieu and the art of the edge

.
one i left out last night, due less to oversight than the fact that he'd never texted me a message of sufficient salacity to merit a screenshot. 



one of the most important questions in the standard guttermorality post-coital interview is the following:

you find it easier to relax, edge yourself and have to hold back from cumming watching porn, or with an actual guy?

the answer i get back is almost always, "oh, porn--no question."  and after probably having spent the better part of the last hour tryin to get said interviewee off, i have no trouble believing that.

the other reason i have no trouble believing it is because it's true of me, too.

but, boy, it's not true of matthieu.

*      *      *      *      *

i was never much for porn in my early days--i mean, yeah, there was that one night back in my last year of architecture school when my horniness finally overrode my fear and i drove 30 miles to an adult bookstore in a remote suburb of austin where nobody could possibly know me, grabbed the first two gay videos i found, rented 'em without once making eye contact with the clerk, rushed back to my place and spent the next 24 hours explosively jerking off to what was probably the lamest, cheesiest porn on the planet, but it still excited me tremendously.  even so, i wrote it off at the time as a poor substitute for what the real thing must be like.

my next brush with gay porn wouldn't happen for seven years until i moved to LA, came out, and realized it was everywhere, including the bedrooms of lots of the boys i ended up going home with. which annoyed me to no end, because why would i want to watch two guys on a video screen when i had a warm, flesh-and-blood version of the real thing right there in my arms--and, more to the point, why would they?

all porn back then was the same to me--basically, naked kabuki.  two or more buffed, manicured boys would politely take turns fellating one another, then would come the rimming, followed by the standard rear entry, after five mechanical minutes of which they'd switch to some formalized sideways position before finishing up missionary style, during which the designated top would pound away until the bottom finally shot his load, with the finale being the top pulling out and flogging his semi-flaccid meat until he, too, finally managed to nut.  jesus, where was the fun in that?

then, a couple years ago, i discovered xtube, and everything changed.

*     *     *     *     *

i came out late after years of controlled self-denial, and i've always wondered if that's why i have such a hard time relaxing during sex--and i mean, even good sex.  to me, every hookup is a performance, a role to be played and mastered, and even when in the saddle and fully engaged, i'm at the same time a detached, outside observer, watching and evaluating my every move.

all that fell away when i discovered online amateur porn--my god, real, uninhibited guys, actually into each other, filming their sex for all the world to see.

that first weekend, i probably spent 30 hours patiently combing through xtube's archives, culling the wheat from the chaff (no small task, trust me), collecting those rare instances of guys--pretty, not-so-pretty, didn't matter--busting all over each other without even tryin'.  and then edging and uncontrollably busting all over myself while watching 'em over and over, in a way i'd never been able to achieve with an actual partner.

*     *     *     *     *

i remember my first sight of him--short, round, buddha-bellied--and thinking i'd made a huge mistake, but not having the heart to tell him we weren't a match.  and then finding out how wrong i was.

matthieu is one of those rare ones who is unselfconsciously comfortable in his own skin, and totally receptive to every attention paid him.  i've learned through experience exactly what to do and when, and i can tell from his breathing, body tension and heartbeat how far i can push and tease him before i have to back off--i can take him up and bring him back down over and over again until he can't stand it anymore, he says, "that's it, mike", and i bring on the big finish and he shudders in my arms for half an hour.

i've told him more than once he doesn't know how lucky he is.

"me?", he says, looking down at himself and grinning.

yeah, you.

full closet and nothing to wear

.

let's take a break from racism (both mine and everybody else's) for a minute and talk about something else.

couple weeks ago, in response to one of my trick posts, faithful reader noblesavage challenged me to write about my less remarkable hookups--you know, the everyday sex life of mkf.  i blew him off because i couldn't imagine a way to make such a thing interesting.

but then tonight as i was on my phone, horny and flipping through the hangers, debating whether to go out and get something new or just throw on some old thing, it suddenly hit me: here, contained within this sleek, shiny little box is not only a meticulous record of my sexual activity for the last three years, but a post, goddammit.

i remember back when i got my first iphone and naively opted not to include that newfangled text messaging in my plan--that lasted about a week.  seems laughable now, because today i live and die by it.

be warned--this post may set a record for the longest post in the history of blogger (which probably says a lot more about mkf than it does about blogger).

last names have been blurred out to protect the--oh, who am i kidding?  there are no innocents (save maybe one) in this one.

*     *     *     *      *

hot, ripped-up, tattooed lil' skater dude, but rick can't host and he won't make the time commitment necessary to come back to my place, so we're reduced to fucking in this open-air restaurant near his place that thoughtfully leaves its restrooms unlocked after it closes.  it's always fun, but i'm getting a little old for that shit.

next.

lemme tellya, there's nothing like a boy who knows that when he graduates from UCLA in june his dick-loving ass is headed straight back to saudi arabia and an arranged marriage, so he'd better get it while he can.  but i've been dipping into that well a little too often lately, so

next--and speaking of which:

the other thing about arab boys is their complete and utter lack of sentimentality when it comes to sex--they're hot, but don't ever fall for one.  i'm looking for a little more tonight, though, so

next.

it's really not that big, but getting into fort knox is easier than breaking into this boy, and i really don't have the energy to work that particular combination tonight.

next.

hot asian guy--body like bruce lee, flexible as a gymnast, lets me play him like a stradivarius--incredible sex.  problem is, johnny always let me know in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that he was tricking down whenever he was with me, and i knew it was only a matter of time before i'd get the above kiss-off.

i bided my time, knowing that, sooner or later

he'd come back (they always come back), but i'm not in the mood to be somebody's compromise fuck tonight, so

next.

it's true--in addition to my other sterling qualities, i am a brilliant conversationalist in the sack.  but not tonight.

next.

ah, carlos 2--a perennial favorite.  looks like he just spent the last five years lifting weights in prison, and a total top--until he sees me coming, that is.  only available on saturdays, though.

next.

the reason carlos 3 fell outta rotation was because the last time we got together he kept texting me obsessively while i was on my way to his place, as if me pulling over every two minutes to answer him was gonna get me there faster.  i'm still irritated, so no soup for him.

next.

you remember him, right?  by the time i finally got him calmed down and into bed, i realized what a waste of time, charm and effort it had been.  oh well, everybody hits a dry hole every now and then.

next.

it's really not that big.  seriously, it's not.

next.

the thing about poor henry is, he'll never understand that a great smile, a great personality and all the gym muscles in the world won't make me wanna re-fuck a guy who refuses to clear the decks first.  i even went so far as to give him a third chance.  there won't be a fourth.

next.

in his quest to replace that high, david has gone down a dark rabbit hole in the last few months; i can't save him from it and i'm not in the mood to follow him there tonight, so

next.

show me a beautiful man, and i'll show you a man who's bored with him.

next.

little shane (who only rates a slot in my contacts so i don't reply to one of his incessant texts accidentally)--you gotta give the boy points for persistence.  maybe one of these days i'll be feeling masochistic enough to invite him over for another roll in the hay (and a smoke, of course).  it sure as hell ain't gonna happen tonight, though.

next.

this kid--i swear to god i had no idea how young he was that first time until he turned the lights on afterwards and i saw the hannah montana posters on the walls.  he's a wild little fuck, but this roleplay business he insists on is getting totally outta hand, and i just don't have the energy tonight.  where do they learn this shit at that age, anyway?

next.

sweet and vulnerable, lean, muscular basketball-player build, in his junior year at cal state dominguez hills, has no idea how drop-dead gorgeous he is, wants to get attached, impervious to hints he should find a boy his own age. and since i know if i keep seeing tony i'm either gonna hurt him or corrupt him, i stopped replying to his texts.

and holy shit, he just texted me as i wrote this.

next.

slim, argentinian polo-playing playboy-type--as suave as ricardo montalban outta bed, and a model of utter depravity between the sheets.  if he could leave it at that, we could have a perfectly nice time, but no, he wants to bring a u-haul to every hookup.  once and for all, gregorio, i am not dating material.

next.

yeah?  then why aren't you answering your goddam phone?

next.

i could make this post even longer by putting up a couple dozen like this one--young, mostly beautiful, ruined bottomless pits all--but it's just too damn depressing.

next.

funny story about peter--first night i met him, he showed up fresh from the faultline in full twink-leather regalia.  i stripped him outta everything but his wrist cuffs and the one around his ankle, which had a little red, glowing light--"kids and their disco-wear", i thought, and forgot all about it until later, when, since said ankle was propped up against my left ear, i heard it beeping before he did.  when i mentioned this to him, he dropped his poppers, yelled, "shit! i left my charger at home!", threw me off and levitated outta that bed like he'd been called to jesus, grabbed his clothes as he ran down the stairs and was outta there in a screeching puff of smoke before i ever figured out what the beeping ankle bracelet must've been.

he's been back since and he's lots of fun, but i really don't feel like hiding all my valuables tonight, so

next.

who the fuck is rutul?

next.

and that's the thing--he literally means all night.  i'm tellin ya, i could hook a dildo up to a jackhammer, shove it up this boy's ass, turn it on, go to work, come home, turn it off and he'd be, like, "why are you stopping?"

next.

seriously, it's not that big.

*     *     *     *     *

i'm stopping this nonsense only because it's almost six in the morning--trust me, i could go on, and on, and on.

reading this, you might think i'm some kinda invincible sex god or something, but i'm not--i'm just some schlubby middle-aged guy you wouldn't look at twice if you passed me on the street.

and it's not that big.  really.