Cumpulsion: Go 4 the Goo!

Goo 2 Go!

2011-11-15T08:23:00.000-08:00

Thrill Rides | My Top 10 Moments in Sex

2011-02-15T13:51:00.000-08:00

I've wanted to bqng out my own personal Top Ten list of sexual thrills for years now, but every time I get close to starting one, some new, unforeseen, totally-wack cheap thrill comes along — say, a full-tilt pain-and-drain fuckathon thrown exclusively for me by a sweet and kindly (but still authoritarian) dom in a full-service, locked-stocked-and-loaded 24/7 timeshare dungeon in downtown Phoenix and you realize: Hey, that’s gotta make the list, too.

That session will make the final cut, but if I don’t skip around it for now, the only thing I’ll end up creating today are more excuses why I never got around to starting my list of my Top Ten Best Sexual Buzzes Ever.

It’s a daunting task for lots of reasons — the sheer volume of encounters, for one thing. And their variety, too. Since that 3 a.m. pool party on Camelback Mountain in July 2004, when I literally took the plunge into intentional gay sex by sucking three different men’s cocks, both in and out of the water — the task almost seems impossible, since straight sex seems way tamer than the gay brand.

But if all my accounts of all my encounters have proven nothing else, I hope to have at least revealed myself to be a bit of a risk taker — at least in the service of something as profound and divinely ordered as our sexual identities.

And so, without further ado (and in no particular ranking order), I give you the highest peaks in the entire deranged range of summits that encircle My Own Private (Sexual) Idaho.

Peak One: Colleen Fucks A Man Other Than Me! Okay, I set ’em up, but Colleen knocked ’em down. And it had been a long time coming.

For reasons I didn’t begin to understand until later, it had been my fondest hope and deepest sexual desire for years that Colleen start fucking other men.

I never could quite persuade her to see how clearly wonderful the notion was until this night, apparently. But this was the night that it happened — for both of us — and I, for one, loved it.

I’m pretty sure my friend, Dale — Colleen’s boner donor for the evening — loved it, too, especially since I’d told him repeatedly over the past few years that I thought it would be a great and fortuitous achievement for all of us if he could somehow get that dick of his into that pussy of hers.

And Dale clearly shared my point of view.

And I’m positive that Colleen loved it, too, because she seemed both contented and pleased with herself, when she announced, within a minute or two of my return home from an “errand” I’d told them I needed to perform at my office at 2 a.m., that they’d finally “done it.”

“We fucked,” she declared with a sweet smile, and a glance at Dale confirmed it was true.

I’d establish, beyond any doubt whatever, that Colleen not only got herself fucked but she also felt pretty spectacular about it, when we went to bed an hour or so later, after I was finally able to persuade Dale that the evening had ended — well for us all, I thought — as the early-morning sun started to seep across the sky.

I quickly discovered that daylight wasn’t the only thing that was seeping, as I buried my face in Colleen’s crotch and tasted the tang of semen that Dale had pumped into her vagina.

A thrill of excitement throbbed inside me — then seemed to double — when I realized that, simply by tonguing out Colleen’s golden pussy, I was also sucking Dale’s sperm into me. I trembled.

The best of both worlds.

I loved it.

I also loved the wet warmth and the new yielding ambience of her pussy as I plunged my cock as deeply into her as I could, then found a way to push deeper, still, inspired by an altogether new smell in our relationship: the fragrance of hour-old semen that bathed my cock as I fucked her.

And I felt her respond with something like pride, when I asked how, exactly, she'd pulled off fucking a man not me, after 6+ years of equivocating.

She half giggled.

“Dale did everything,” she whispered as my cock probed inside her recently-vacated pussy for the smell and taste and biological seed and DNA of this other man, my best friend, Dale.

“He asked me to sit next to him on the family-room couch, and he started kissing me and sucking my tits, as soon as I did. Then he just dove for my pussy, and I sucked his cock.

“Then he just jammed his dick into me and we were...um, fucking.”

“Once he started, he didn’t slow down or even hesitate for a second. It was like he wanted to finish fucking me before I had a chance to change my mind again.”

We both knew she hadn’t changed it, this time. And each of us saw a small shadow flicker when we wondered how our lives might have changed it this day of awakeneing had come in 1995, rather than 2001.

Peak Two: “Dude! I’m Fucking Your Wife!” I was fumbling in the dark outside the cocktail lounge of the Westcourt in the Buttes hotel, worried and wondering where the hellwas my second wife, Christy.

She might have been second in the married-to-me department, but she was second to none in jumping at the chance to fuck other men during regular, frequent nights out from our marriage.

I didn’t have to ask twice, when I first broached the subject of whether she might be interested in fucking other men. She was.

And she was so into it and seemingly so eager, I’d gone shopping for her after work and presented her with a slinky, pink shift I knew would show her to insanely sexy advantage, and a box of condoms.

I was right. That evening, when Christy slipped into the shift, she transformed into a sexual athlete and performance artist of the first order. That very day.

And that very night, her first as a hot young wife cruising for cock, also turned out to be the only time she ever came home empty-handed and unfucked. And that one little hiccup wasn’t even a distraction. It was a slight delay.

Because no sooner had she returned home when the bars closed at 2, sadly admitting that she’d failed in her quest, than she brightened, looking to have already successfully troubleshot her performance that evening and identified her misstep: She’d fallen into the trap of hanging out with a group, she sighed, mostly couples, and the guys were either already taken or just clueless.

Then she told me she was able to do a little fast flirting with a guy in the parking lot on her way to the car. He’d invited her to breakfast, but she wasn’t sure that I’d approve.

As soon as she said it, we both smiled, and she was out the door. She got back around 5, down a condom or two, she smiled, but plainly pleased with herself, still buzzed

During the course of the next few years, Christy would take dozens of similar nights off to cruise for cock — then afternoons, too, and mornings, for that matter. And she always got her man. Or men.

Christy was such a cute and committed, yet ravenous, sexual adventurer that she was able to pick up and pleasure guys in groups,just for the fun of it and walk away, happy for the memories. Once, she fucked an entire bachelor party (all but the groom, she told me later) that she’d met minutes before in the bar of their luxury hotel.

A gang bang? I wondered aloud. No, she smiled, sweetly. But I fucked them all.

It wasn’t just talk. I know. Because as my kinky second wife’s sexual career blossomed and her exploits expanded, her sexual power and desire for more opportunities to suck and fuck more guys seemed to increase, too.

Her audacity went right off the charts, too. Walking along Mill Avenue one weekday lunchtime, Christy told me later that she’d had to pee, and ducked into the Spaghetti Company to use their ladies’ room. After she finished, she loitered a bit, then smiled in whatever beguiling or sex-wizardly way that was necessary to inspire a young male patron of the restaurant to invite her to join him in a stall, where she administered emergency mouth-to-penis resuscitation.

Since Christy was so into cruising, and had gotten so adept at picking men up and fucking them or sucking their cocks so quickly even in outrageously public places — restaurant and strip-mall parking lots were a common locale, but she told me when she returned home after a late-night spree at the bar of the Hilton in Mesa that the manager told her that a patron she’d left with earlier in the evening told him that Christy was an absolute genius at sucking dick. She laughed, then let him lead her by the hand to the hotel putting green, where she proved it all over again.

Christy had become so prolific at sexually servicing strangers on demand that she’d found it fun to finagle a financial angle up front from prospective new suitors and she started getting it.

I didn’t care about the money. I was thrilled by how thrilling Christy had become as a sexual explorer and entrepreneur, and only wanted to witness her in action.

That’s why on this particular evening, the “Hey, Dude, I’m fucking your wife!” night out at the Westcourt Hotel in the Tempe Buttes where I began this second section of my post hours ago, we’d entered the bar and had drink together before she realized she had to fly solo and quick if she was going to get her air miles in for the evening. I made a deliberate display of leaving, but only ducked into the restroom to wash my hands.

I really wanted to see Christy in action, working the room, finessing her fan base, but when I got back into the bar and found a new seat far-removed from our previous perch, I realized that Christy was already gone.

But after finishing my second drink, I began to worry that something might have happened, and so went looking for where Christy might have turned up. The Westcourt is a beautiful hotel, perched on the side of a mountain with all sorts of walkways leading to its preferred set of amenities and distractions, but I couldn’t find her anywhere close to any of the hotel’s service destinations.

It had turned increasingly dark in the meantime, as evening settled, so rather than repeating my earlier circuit, I started to head back to the bar. I should say that I thought I was on the walkway back to the bar, but somehow had made a wrong turn ending up at a hotel service alcove, I suppose, because I couldn’t see a thing.

All I could do was stretch my hands out into the void, feeling for a doorknob in the dark. But what I felt instead were bodies in motion. I brushed against something soft, what I knew had to be nylon stockings, but they were too high to be attached to legs in a standing position.

I brushed further and felt the naked skin of a man’s ass that immediately stopped what I realized that it had been doing until the moment I touched it — pumping away at someone or something that I realized was Christy when she called out, “It’s me, Jim. Go back to the bar and wait for me there. I’ll only be a few more minutes.”

I was so surprised that I stammered out an apology, then did what I was told. As soon as I was a half-dozen footsteps away, working my way back into the light, I could sense the controlled frenzy of their fucking resume its previous tempo and volume, and hear new sounds — an urgent, sighing whimper in Christy’s voice: “Uhhhh, uhhhh,” before it faded away behind me into the silent darkness.

I was happy that they were happy, and thrilled I got to catch Christy in the act, however briefly. My heart fluttered all over again when I remembered how my fingers had pressed against her partner’s ass, as he pounded his cock as deep as he could force it into her against the unyielding embrace of the Hotel Westcourt’s outer wall.That was different.

I wandered back into the bar to wait my turn, like a good little boy being cuckolded by a real man. But hey, I thought, I’m cool with it. You know? But I was sorry that it had been so dark I didn’t get a glimpse of his cock. I’ll bet it was spectacular.

Why I Panic, Sometimes. Maybe.

2009-04-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

Maybe? Definitely!

Because every time I see a young man’s penis, I find myself immediately and totally smitten — as I always am, every time I get that first glimpse of each new cock, especially if I’ve just gently extracted it from a complete stranger’s fly.

That’s when I also realize with an awful certainty, that this is the path — homosexuality — that I would have happily chosen for myself if I hadn’t been so dominated by shame and guilt and dread throughout my post-traumatized childhood and adolescence for the awful sin I committed when I was four or five years old: sucking the geehopper of my brother Page.*

Okay, and my cousin, Tommy. And the Baber boys — Bobby and Gary — who lived across the alley from my first childood home at 257 East Grand Avenue in Decatur, Illinois.

Here's the case that just made my point. And it does have a nice, insistent (but still fleshy and bulbous and, potentially, soul-satisfying) point to it, doesn't it?

So who is this fine, upstanding, young, gay (hopefully) man, you may wonder. And what bearing does he have on today’s narrative?

In fact, if you’ve ever read any of my blogs before, you might even ask this question: WTF? Why do you always post so many pictures of dicks in your blogs, Dick? (If, indeed, Dick even is your real name!)

Back to question one and paragraph one, above. Because I love dicks. And every time I bother to ponder what it must be like for young men to grow up today, I’m haunted by the same question, and usually arrive at the same answer:

That’s me, 40 years ago. And it never happened.

(The penis above actually belongs to a young fellow from Colleen’s new neck o' the woods: Ireland. In fact, if I ever succeed at anything lucrative (or, at least, compensable) again, I'd love to visit Ireland — and perhaps even suck this young man’s dick.

Why? Just because. Why not?

[Are you starting to see a thread of continuity and causality in this entry, yet? I hope so. Because the truth about my core psychosexual identity is so fucking hard for me to sustain and to see any value in maintaining, for that matter.]

*Geehopper: I'll tell you about this next time. Now, I'm gonna do a video blog interview with myself. Typing takes too long, when you can only use two fingers.

Impeccability Challenge

2009-04-26T05:14:00.000-07:00

I just got what's next for me. It's the barest essence of what I intend to be and will become: The man I really am and the pure, sweet, innocent light (believe it or not) I've always been destined to become.

And if you're not sure whether to believe all this destiny business, I submit to you a photograph of me and my second wife, Christy.

The shot was taken on our wedding day, February 16, 1985. I think it may have to serve as a general reminder of what my body and face look like when I'm not up to my ears in unconsciousness.

So what's next for me? Physical training. Personal transformation.

I'm going to do it this way because it just happens to be the foolproof next step that I need to take to reclaim and redeem my life, and it will definitely waste two birds with one single, giant-crushing stone: personal fitness.

Fucking Off the Buzz: My Top Ten Best Sexual Thrills Ever

2009-04-25T20:08:00.000-07:00

I've wanted to create my own personal Top Ten list of sexual thrills for years now, but every time I get close to starting, some new, unforeseen, totally-wack cheap thrill comes along — say, a full-tilt pain-and-penetration-athon thrown exclusively for me by a sweet and kindly (but, you know, still authoritarian) dom in a full-service, locked-stocked-and-loaded 24/7 timeshare dungeon in downtown Phoenix and you realize: Hey, that’s gotta make the list, too.

That session will make the final cut, because if I don’t keep moving, the only thing I’ll created today are more excuses why I never get around to starting my list of my Top Ten Best Sexual Buzzes Ever.

It’s a daunting task for lots of reasons — the sheer volume of encounters, for one thing. And their variety, too. Since that 3 a.m. pool party on Camelback Mountain in July 2004, when I literally took the plunge into intentional gay sex by sucking three different men’s cocks, both in and out of the water — the task almost seems impossible, since straight sex seems way tamer than the gay brand.

But if all my accounts of all my encounters have proven nothing else, I hope to have at least revealed myself to be a bit of a risk taker — at least in the service of something as profound and divinely ordered as our sexual identities.

And so, without further ado (and in no particular ranking order), I give you the highest peaks in the entire deranged range of summits that encircle My Own Private (Sexual) Idaho.

Peak One: Colleen Fucks A Man Other Than Me! Okay, I set ’em up, but Colleen knocked ’em down. And it had been a long time coming.

For reasons I didn’t begin to understand until later, it had been my fondest hope and deepest sexual desire for years that Colleen start fucking other men.

I never could quite persuade her to see how clearly wonderful the notion was until this night, apparently. But this was the night that it happened — for both of us — and I, for one, loved it.

I’m pretty sure my friend, Dale — Colleen’s boner donor for the evening — loved it, too, especially since I’d told him repeatedly over the past few years that I thought it would be a great and fortuitous achievement for all of us if he could somehow get that dick of his into that pussy of hers.

And Dale clearly shared my point of view.

And I’m positive that Colleen loved it, too, because she seemed both contented and pleased with herself, when she announced, within a minute or two of my return home from an “errand” I’d told them I needed to perform at my office at 2 a.m., that they’d finally “done it.”

“We fucked,” she declared with a sweet smile, and a glance at Dale confirmed it was true.

I’d establish, beyond any doubt whatever, that Colleen not only got herself fucked but she also felt pretty spectacular about it, when we went to bed an hour or so later, after I was finally able to persuade Dale that the evening had ended — well for us all, I thought — as the early-morning sun started to seep across the sky.

I quickly discovered that daylight wasn’t the only thing that was seeping, as I buried my face in Colleen’s crotch and tasted the tang of semen that Dale had pumped into her vagina. A thrill of excitement throbbed inside me — then seemed to double — when I realized that, simply by tonguing out Colleen’s golden pussy, I was also sucking Dale’s sperm into me. I trembled.

The best of both worlds. I loved it.

I also loved the wet warmth and the new yielding ambience of her pussy as I plunged my cock as deeply into her as I could, then found a way to push deeper, still, inspired by an altogether new smell in our relationship: the fragrance of hour-old semen that bathed my cock as I fucked her.

And I felt her respond with something like pride, when I asked how, exactly, she'd pulled off fucking a man not me, after 6+ years of equivocating.

She half giggled.

“Dale did everything,” she whispered as my cock probed inside her recently-vacated pussy for the smell and taste and biological seed and DNA of this other man, my best friend, Dale.

“He asked me to sit next to him on the family-room couch, and he started kissing me and sucking my tits, as soon as I did. Then he just dove for my pussy, and I sucked his cock.

“Then he just jammed his dick into me and we were...um, fucking.”

“Once he started, he didn’t slow down or even hesitate for a second. It was like he wanted to finish fucking me before I had a chance to change my mind again.”

We both knew she hadn’t changed it, this time. And each of us saw a small shadow flicker when we wondered how our lives might have changed it this day of awakeneing had come in 1995, rather than 2001.

Peak Two: “Dude! I’m Fucking Your Wife!” I was fumbling in the dark outside the cocktail lounge of the Westcourt in the Buttes hotel, worried and wondering where the hellwas my second wife, Christy.

She might have been second in the married-to-me department, but she was second to none in jumping at the chance to fuck other men during regular, frequent nights out from our marriage.

I didn’t have to ask twice, when I first broached the subject of whether she might be interested in fucking other men. She was.

And she was so into it and seemingly so eager, I’d gone shopping for her after work and presented her with a slinky, pink shift I knew would show her to insanely sexy advantage, and a box of condoms. I was right. That evening, when Christy slipped into the shift, she transformed into a sexual athlete and performance artist of the first order. That very day.

And that very night, her first as a hot young wife cruising for cock, also turned out to be the only time she ever came home empty-handed and unfucked. And that one little hiccup wasn’t even a distraction. It was a slight delay.

Because no sooner had she returned home when the bars closed at 2, sadly admitting that she’d failed in her quest, than she brightened, looking to have already successfully troubleshot her performance that evening and identified her misstep: She’d fallen into the trap of hanging out with a group, she sighed, mostly couples, and the guys were either already taken or just clueless.

Then she told me she was able to do a little fast flirting with a guy in the parking lot on her way to the car. He’d invited her to breakfast, but she wasn’t sure that I’d approve.

As soon as she said it, we both smiled, and she was out the door. She got back around 5, down a condom or two, she smiled, but plainly pleased with herself, still buzzed

During the course of the next few years, Christy would take dozens of similar nights off to cruise for cock — then afternoons, too, and mornings, for that matter. And she always got her man. Or men — Christy was such a cute and committed, yet ravenous, sexual adventurer that she was able to pick up and pleasure guys in groups,just for the fun of it and walk away, happy for the memories. Once, she fucked an entire bachelor party (all but the groom, she told me later) that she’d met minutes before in the bar of their luxury hotel. A gang bang? I wondered aloud. No, she smiled, sweetly. But I fucked them all.

It wasn’t just talk. I know. Because as my kinky second wife’s sexual career blossomed and her exploits expanded, her sexual power and desire for more opportunities to suck and fuck more guys seemed to increase, too.

Her audacity went right off the charts, too. Walking along Mill Avenue one weekday lunchtime, Christy told me later that she’d had to pee, and ducked into the Spaghetti Company to use their ladies’ room. After she finished, she loitered a bit, then smiled in whatever beguiling or sex-wizardly way that was necessary to inspire a young male patron of the restaurant to invite her to join him in a stall, where she administered emergency mouth-to-penis resuscitation.

Since Christy was so into cruising, and had gotten so adept at picking men up and fucking them or sucking their cocks so quickly even in outrageously public places — restaurant and strip-mall parking lots were a common locale, but she told me when she returned home after a late-night spree at the bar of the Hilton in Mesa that the manager told her that a patron she’d left with earlier in the evening told him that Christy was an absolute genius at sucking dick. She laughed, then let him lead her by the hand to the hotel putting green, where she proved it all over again.

Christy had become so prolific at sexually servicing strangers on demand that she’d found it fun to finagle a financial angle up front from prospective new suitors and she started getting it.

I didn’t care about the money. I was thrilled by how thrilling Christy had become as a sexual explorer and entrepreneur, and only wanted to witness her in action.

That’s why on this particular evening, the “Hey, Dude, I’m fucking your wife!” night out at the Westcourt Hotel in the Tempe Buttes where I began this second section of my post hours ago, we’d entered the bar and had drink together before she realized she had to fly solo and quick if she was going to get her air miles in for the evening. I made a deliberate display of leaving, but only ducked into the restroom to wash my hands.

I really wanted to see Christy in action, working the room, finessing her fan base, but when I got back into the bar and found a new seat far-removed from our previous perch, I realized that Christy was already gone.

But after finishing my second drink, I began to worry that something might have happened, and so went looking for where Christy might have turned up. The Westcourt is a beautiful hotel, perched on the side of a mountain with all sorts of walkways leading to its preferred set of amenities and distractions, but I couldn’t find her anywhere close to any of the hotel’s service destinations.

It had turned increasingly dark in the meantime, as evening settled, so rather than repeating my earlier circuit, I started to head back to the bar. I should say that I thought I was on the walkway back to the bar, but somehow had made a wrong turn ending up at a hotel service alcove, I suppose, because I couldn’t see a thing.

All I could do was stretch my hands out into the void, feeling for a doorknob in the dark. But what I felt instead were bodies in motion. I brushed against something soft, what I knew had to be nylon stockings, but they were too high to be attached to legs in a standing position.

I brushed further and felt the naked skin of a man’s ass that immediately stopped what I realized that it had been doing until the moment I touched it — pumping away at someone or something that I realized was Christy when she called out, “It’s me, Jim. Go back to the bar and wait for me there. I’ll only be a few more minutes.”

I was so surprised that I stammered out an apology, then did what I was told. As soon as I was a half-dozen footsteps away, working my way back into the light, I could sense the controlled frenzy of their fucking resume its previous tempo and volume, and hear new sounds — an urgent, sighing whimper in Christy’s voice: “Uhhhh, uhhhh,” before it faded away behind me into the silent darkness.

I was happy that they were happy, and thrilled I got to catch Christy in the act, however briefly. My heart fluttered all over again when I remembered how my fingers had pressed against her partner’s ass, as he pounded his cock as deep as he could force it into her against the unyielding embrace of the Hotel Westcourt’s outer wall.That was different.

I wandered back into the bar to wait my turn, like a good little boy being cuckolded by a real man. But hey, I thought, I’m cool with it. You know? But I was sorry that it had been so dark I didn’t get a glimpse of his cock. I’ll bet it was spectacular.

Invisible Writing

2009-04-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

QoD: If I told you I have a beautiful cock would you hold it against me?

Next QoD: Am I crazy to even put up with this? Or have I been lucky even to ride a serpent this long for so long a time?