Peer Pressure

Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to fuck a guy, you really have to pee first. It's important in these situations that you put your bladder's interests before your testicles, even if it means an extra minute and a half of not yet fucking. I know this, but I am drunk, and Eric looks so cute in his boxer briefs. Surely I can wait a few minutes an hour or two.

This is the first guy in months I've been close to doing anything with. I haven't seen My Future Fry Cook in ages, I don't feel like meeting new people, and I feel like MAMIP is on another planet, even when we're sitting next to each other at the bar. So how can I waste precious naked time peeing?

"I'm sooooo hot." He says. He's not being arrogant or narcissistic. Yes, he is good looking, but I'm fairly sure he means, it's eighty fucken degrees. I turn on the air conditioner. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh."

I slide next to him on the bed. This is no small feat. My bed is the size of a pencil case. Eric and I are Sharpies. If we end up fucking, there's going to have to be floor involved.

I hate this house. I hate Landlord. I hate that my room is the size of a Pistachio shell. I hate that my room smells like smoke. I hate this place so much that, in the six months I've lived here, only Celeste, Goth Girl, and Dmitri have ever seen the inside of it. Until tonight, the closest I've come to having sex is hearing my cute straight roommate moaning a little too loudly in the other room. But tonight I say fuck this house, and fuck Eric, too, but for entirely different reasons.

I liked Eric immediately when we met. I don't remember where that was, or why I liked him, but when I found his phone number on a post-it note in my drawer of doom I immediately thought "Oh cool, it's my friend Eric, the poet, I should call him." Only, when Eric picked up the phone I realized Eric wasn't my friend Eric at all but an entirely different Eric.

"Hey, Safey. I didn't think you were going to call me again. How are you?"

"Well, I, uh, lost your number for a while. Sorry."

I now like Eric because he doesn't small talk, he doesn't care that I have no idea who he is, and he's lying almost naked on my bed. Right. Stop the extemporaneous narration, nearly naked guy next to me on bed.

I am not nearly naked, and that needs to be fixed. The problem is, I am a freeballer, so there's no nearly naked me unless I add boxers after I subtract pants. I should go downstairs, pee, change into my boxers and come back upstairs.

"I'm thirsty." Eric says.

I go downstairs to get juice, change into my boxers, and pee. Unfortunately, someone is in the shower when I get downstairs. I get the juice, drop trou in the kitchen, pick up different trou in the kitchen, and run back upstairs, leaving my jeans in the laundry room. We each down some juice, and start making out.

I've never understood the term making out. What is out, and what exactly are the ingredients that go into making it? Sure, saliva, tongues, lips, but those are the ingredients in kissing too. When does kissing become making out?

I think the shower stops, I should really go downstairs and pee, but my dick takes it upon itself to pop pout of my boxers and say hello to our new friend, Eric. Eric politely kisses him hello, and I am reminded of a great haiku by Joel Derfner:

Remember when I
said I disliked oral sex?
I meant just with you.

Eric is pretty good with his tongue. No Tommy, but adequate. I'm starting to really get into his rhythm when he stops, looks up at me and laughs. His laugh. Imagine a pig gets his hoof caught in a ceiling fan and spraining its (do pigs have ankles?) ankle. You put a cast on it, but whenever it steps on that ankle it makes that little squealing pig noise. This is Eric's laugh.

I want to ask him what's so funny, but I start laughing at his laughing, and he leans up to kiss me, and somehow the condom is on my dick and so is Eric's ass, and I no longer care what was so funny. I can only think "Yes" "Wow" "Dear Lord" and "I swear I've never met this guy before in my life, how did his phone number get into my drawer of doom? God I really have to clean that drawer out soon. I'm moving out in two weeks and I should really get a move on and, hey aren't I having sex right now? Yes, right there."

Andrew, I mean Eric, Whatever His Name Is is bouncing on me like I'm a Spider Man Hop Ball, and the pressure on my balls as he bounces is almost perfectly balanced with the pressure on my kidneys from the liter and a half of Cherry Coke I drank earlier combined with the juice we chugged pre-fuck. I envision my ejaculation blasting him across the room, followed immediately by a tidal wave of urine filling my Barbie Dream House sized room. This is the unsexiest thought ever, and while I hate to waste a condom "I'll be right back, I really have to pee."

Ha, Moment. I have not only killed you, I've chopped you into tiny pieces, and now I am on my way downstairs to piss on your grave.

When I get back upstairs Eric is asleep.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/121749.html

Suds, Studs, And The Kindest Buds

The invitation said "Sunday night suds and studs party. Call Jack for more information."

I was intrigued. I assumed (wrongly, of course), that a s&s party was some sort of beer thing; hot guys with Harpoons and Amber Bocks. Hot guys in skimpy clothing would be walking around with a variety of specialty beers, flirting with the ugly queens in order to get them to buy more beer.

I hate beer. I don't particularly like ugly queens, or false flirtations from hot guys in skimpy suits and bowties. Still, I called the number on the invitation and asked to speak with Jack.

Jack explained how wrong I was about a suds and studs party. He had rented a gym after hours. At 2 AM, any guy with an invitation and the special password can come into the gym. They are to head immediately to the locker room, where they take off all their clothes, and have their "bikini area" covered in foam.

The foamer, surprise surprise, was a hot Brazilian kid with a bikini that revealed that he either had an enormous cock, or he had stuffed his suit with a Beanie Baby. I had little doubt, looking around the locker room, that Gilmar would be the hottest guy I'd see all night, and he wouldn't be going home with me. But I'd already decided that I wouldn't be going home with anybody.

"How about I just play doorman?" I asked Jack.

A disparaging term for female genitalia was muttered in my general direction. It wasn't the first time, I'm sure it won't be the last.

I watched the various entrants get sudsed and make their way to the shower area. All the partitions had been taken down, creating the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance. Well, it would have been the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance had the room been full of anorexic men and children. However, the room was filled mostly with grizzlies and orcas. Clearly, I was not the only person in the room without a legitimate gym membership.

Remember, I like chubby guys as much as I like slimmish guys, and I'm not completely averse to obese guys, but I felt really uncomfortable being both the youngest, and one of the most in-shape guys. I should never be the hottest guy at a party. It's a position I've never held in my life, and have never wanted to hold. After all, being the hottest guy in any given situation would mean that there really aren't any hot people at the party. I'd much rather be the most Interesting guy at the party, or the least likely to be molested by a creepy stranger covered in foam.

I was so glad I didn't have to pay the forty dollar cover charge to get in. Jack had invited me for the experience and waived the entrance fee, under the conditions that I write about it, but not give either his name, or the name of the gym we used. He was also kind enough to give me Gilmar's e-mail address. Jack is now my favorite fag in the world. Well, except perhaps for Gilmar or Dmitri. What can I say, I'm fickle.

"You want to go out and smoke?" Gilmar asked.

"I don't smoke." Haven't smoked a cigarette in three years.

"Not a cigarette." He smiled. And with a smile like that, I would have gone out and smoked a cigarette with him. But he didn't want to smoke a cigarette. So what then, crack? Pot? I haven't lit anything on fire and stuck it in my mouth since I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. "Some cock."

I've never lit cock on fire period. Well, maybe with friction.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm kidding." He smiled again. Bastard. "I don't think I've seen you at one of Jack's parties before. Are you one of his boys?"

Boys? I'm not a boy anymore. I reverse Pinnochioed years ago. "No. He uhhh...he knows me through my writing."

"Oh. So are you..." Single? Famous? Sporting an erection? "gay?"

"Yea."

I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna--

"Cool. Every other guy I've met at these parties is some skeezy old guy who looks at me like a piece of meat." Hey, I didn't write his material. If he wants to speak in cliche, it's his right as a hot human being.

The bottom line is, Gilmar has only been in Boston for two months (he's from the exotic world of Barnstable, Massachusetts, proving that the world I live in is entirely too small..send in the Disney animatronics), and wants a gay friend with no romantic interest to show him around Boston. I'm gonna be the platonic friend of the hot guy. I'm gonna be the platonic...wow, that's not nearly as fun to say. Maybe the rhythm is off.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/102827.html

Emptyful

On my way home from the grocery store I saw a poster that said $200 costume contest tonight. $100 for gentleman in funniest costume, $100 for lady in sexiest costume. On another day, I might have pondered the inherent sexism of this obviously frat boy planned party. Today I was thinking, to make it fair, shouldn't it be $100 for the gentleman in the most desperate costume?

Today, I am the most desperate man at the party. I've got two hours before my first hookup since Ethan referred to me as Safey. It's not hard to fall into the familiar routine of shower, shave, tweeze, doubt. It's in the shower that doubt arrives early. I've spent most of my life as a writer, hanging around other writers. I enjoy long-winded, well written sarcastic LiveJournal posts. An e-mail with six paragraphs of witty misanthropy can cause me to fall in love. So why am I going to meet someone based on a "Send me back a pic if interested" "I'm interested, name the time and place" "Three o'clock, here's my address" "See you then" e-mail exchange?

Apparently, my love is a symphony of urbane observations. My lust is "Nice hair, let's fuck."

I spend a half hour in the too hot shower. The bathroom gets so steamy that I have to kneel in order to see my reflection in the mirror. There's an analogy or a metaphor here that I'm not interested in seeing.

I'm embarrassed by the way my hair is thinning in front, the spot of dry skin just northwest of my lip, what feels like it may be the start of a pimple on my butt. I should call this off. I really don't have any hope for love, and given my history with meeting strangers for sex, I don't have any hope for lust. Odds are the picture was fake, he lied about his age, he's married, he hasn't changed his underwear since the Carter administration, he thinks patchouli is an adequate substitute for personal hygiene, he kisses like the Tasmanian Devil. Odds are, I'll leave his house feeling empty, and not empty of sperm, but empty of dignity. I know all this will come to pass. Still, I lather my face with shaving gel, and pick up the razor. I do a seek and destroy mission on my ass, and discover there is nothing remotely pimpular.

I'm just about to finish shaving when I knick a place on my neck. I will always have at least one blemish.

I toss on jeans and a shirt, and call the number he gave me to let him know I'm on my way over. The phone rings four times. I pray for the machine. I don't want to do this. At some point in the shower I stopped seeing this as an opportunity to get off, and started thinking of it as the real ending to my novel. The Last Hookup. One more real story. Not the bullshit Fox and I might live happily ever after. The real ending is me having learned nothing, putting on my jeans and my fuzy Lucky shirt, and walking to some stranger's hope with the hopes of sticking my dick in his ass.

I get the machine. His name is Matthew. I leave a message on his machine. Crisis averted, I can go back to sending suggestive e-mails to the cute boy in Chicago with the self-deprecating wit and the digital camera.

The phone rings. Matthew.

I pack a bottle of watermelon lube and condoms in my bag, and head out the door.



Most of the guys on The Internet are either deceitful or else they've been victimized by a ruler maker with a cruel sense of humor. Seven inches is often four and a half. I don't ask people for their cock size not just because I know they'll lie but because I don't have a huge kielbasa myself. Also, I'm an ass man, what do I care how big their cocks are?

What Matthew either lied about, or has been conned to believe is that he's 6'1". He's close. He's pretty much my height. I'm 6'. I don't understand why he's added inches to his height anymore than I understand people sending out old or fake pics. Obviously, I'm going to find out before you even get your clothes off.

We head immediately to his bedroom, where we talk. Matthew seems like a nice guy. He's a poet (shoot me now) getting his MFA at a local college. He's occasionally gone to a reading I host, and a reading I frequent. However, we've never been at either place at the same time. Lovely. I've been rather proud of the fact that I've never let my poet life and my sex life intersect. So when he leans in to kiss me, I pretend not to notice the Selected Poems of Elizabeth Bishop collection sitting on his desk.

His kiss. Our kiss. Our kiss is bad. His breath tastes like stale nicotine. Have I mentioned how much I love the taste of nicotine? No? There must be a reason.

Most of the problems with our kissing are not Matthew's fault. We are completely out of synch. I am lips when he is tongue, I am tongue while he is lips, he is tongue while I am wishing I was somewhere else.

It isn't long before our clothes came off.

In a normal relationship, or at least a well-thought-out hookup or one night stand, you and your partner have some sense of what the other person likes/wants. Matthew's body is not proportionate to what I was looking for. I don't ask him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't all that thrilled with me either. Understand, he isn't ugly. Far from it. He is very cute in a nerdy sort of way. And I generally find nerds quite sexy. But his weight is in all the wrong places for me.

After a few minutes of awkward kissing and skin on skin, he rolls over and asks me to rim him. Despite my well publicized liking of the ass, I haven't had a lot of experience licking of the ass. I've only ever rimmed two guys: Victor, and some guy during Whore Month who didn't even warrant his own story.

Matthew bends over, showing that he does, indeed, have an ass, but much like the rest of his body it isn't the shape I prefer. I soldier on. Slather some watermelon flavored lube in the vicinity of his mangina and dive in. And much like diving too deeply into a pool with too much chlorine, my eyes start burning and I can't breathe. Why? His ass is not proper rimming shape. There is no position I can find where I can breathe. It could be worse. At least his ass is meticulously clean (as it should always be when meeting for sex).

I give up and begin fingering him. His breathing gets heavy, and, though I won't realize it until a few minutes later, he comes. He then sits up, covering the wet spot on the bed with his ass and attacks my mouth with second hand tar. He also begins licking my ear. Have I mentioned how much I love having my ear licked? No? Hmmm. Funny, that. I figure he must enjoy having his ear licked, so I decide to sacrifice my tongue to save my ear. I breathe heavily into his ear while doing some more licking. Then, just as he is getting into it, I can't do it anymore. It is too absurd.

As soon as I stop, he pushes me back on the bed, and begins snapping his finger around my nipples. Not sexy. I move his hand down toward my cock. While our arms were moving my hand brushes his chest, and I realize he's already come. I'm not even on the same continent with coming.

He proceeds to go down on me. I think. I stop paying attention at this point. I am trying to remember whether or not I'd locked the door on my way out of the house.

"Want to 69?" Not really, but since I'm here, sure, why not. I begin nearly gagging on his cock. I don't think it is big, I haven't really noticed it one way or the other. While I try various ways to get him off using my mouth and hand, he is...what the hell is he doing? Is he still blowing me? I can't feel a fucken thing. "I want you to come on my chest." Yea, and I want sarchal's Diesel Cords on my bedroom floor. There are some things you have to be patient for.

And he is patient. In the time it takes me to come, he comes again. This time I see it with my own eyes, and it does nothing for me. I kneel there, passionately jerking my cock, for what seems like months. If our roles were reversed, I probably would have gone out for pizza while he was jerking off. I would have gone out for pizza in Italy.

While he towels off, I put on my clothes and jacket, stuff my lube and unused condoms back in the bag, and head home. I am barely out of his house when I notice a woman in a burka walking toward me. Most days, a woman in a burka would set off my inner-activist, I'd think how wrong it was for a woman to be forced to cover herself. Today all I can think of was how comfortable she looks. How warm. How safe. If she'd just come from robbing a bank or fucking a stranger, nobody would be able to pick her out of a police lineup. I am walking the streets in tight pants. And my fly is open.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/78855.html

Mount Saint Christopher

Michael Christopher (a.k.a Saint)'s testicles had swelled to half the size of his body. If the average man ejaculates approximately 40 million little swimmers every time he shoots his wad, I was guessing Saint had approximately 6 billion. If you showed a photo of his testicles to an elephant, it would have said "Holy shit, those things are fucking huge. He should really see a doctor."

But Michael hadn't gone to a doctor. He had come to me.

"I'll let you do whatever you want to me if you give me a blow job."

I did my impression of a velociraptor trying to distract a human while the other raptor sneaks up and eats him. Michael was what I called quasi-gay. He preferred pussy to cock and was absolutely petrified of the very existence of anal sex. He had no problem with two guys getting off together but the very idea of any part of a person's body coming into any sort of contact with another person's ass repelled him. It didn't matter if the ass belonged to a male human, a female human, a transgendered platypus, ass was not an appropriate place for any kind of penetration.

"Let me get this str...correct. If I give you a blow job, you'll let me fuck you?"

He gagged. "Yes."

"Ummmmm." I really wanted to fuck him. Had in fact spent several hours of my life masturbating to the idea. Knowing his aversion to anything anal, I had long since given up the idea of it ever happening. We hadn't even fooled around before. He was mostly straight, and, as far as I had noticed, not the least bit interested in having me as anything more than a friend. Sure we'd made out a couple of times but he had been reeeeeeealy drunk. "Have you switched teams or are you testing your stamina for a Fear Factor audition?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He moved next to me on my bed, rested his head on my shoulder and began rubbing my back. "I just --- I really need --- it wouldn't change our friendship, would it?"

"Would giving my friend and occasional roommate a blowjob before I fucked him change our relationship? Hmmmm. I would imagine so, yes. I'll be happy to do it but it will change things."

"For better or for worse?"

"Are we getting married or are you talking about the comic strip?" No laugh. "I don't know. Maybe if you explained why the sudden change of heart or change of preference or change of cock or whatever this is I could give a better assessment."

He leaned toward my ear and whispered, "I really need to cum."

I matched his phone sex operator tone "So jerk off."

"I can't."

I gave him the raptor look again. "You can't jerk off?"

"I haven't jerked off in over two years."

"What? You used to be a fiend." After being barely more than giid acquaintances in elementary and high school, Michael and I had reconnected after we'd both dropped out of college. He was managing a Blockbuster, while I was managing Raspberry Records. After having a few beers, and catching up, we'd headed back to his place, where his delightful roomate, Scott, had filled me in on Sain't college years. Apparently, Saint was well known throughout the dorm as the hardest jerking man in the business. Scott, who'd been his roommate in college, too, would often complain about waking up to squeaking springs, coming home from class and interrupting saint's handball, waiting forty minutes to take a shower because Saint was gluing the tile together with his special brand of adhesive.

Some might try and say that Saint wasn't/isn't hot. He's no Collin Farrel or Matt Damon or whoever is currently young enough to be leading the box office with his capped tooth smile. True. Ok, and also, the only six pack he carried said "Heineken" on the side, but he was soooo cute. Short, spikey blonde hair, blue eyes, an almost wiry frame with a hint of belly, and his hands -- He had Marfan Syndrome, which gave him long spindly fingers, and stork legs. The disorder doesn't affect the cock, but that didn't bother me.

Back when he was in college, Saint had the kind of look that made co-eds trust him and want him to fuck them. At the time, he was saving himself for marriage. When he dropped out (the same semester I transferred), he gave up on the whole "saving himself" idea and became one of the most successful whores (not prostitutes mind you, whores don't necessarily charge money) I knew. He had clearly studied his Wilt Chamberlain, and made good use of it. He certainly didn't need to masturbate anymore, but he still did. When he crashed at my place, I often heard him in the other room. Something I was completely ok with.

When the two of us took a six month road trip through the forty-eight continental United States, visiting various friends and relatives, we kept a running tab of how many different homes we jerked off in. He kicked my ass.

"Well? Why can't you jerk off."

"If I tell you, do you promise to blow me?"

"It depends. Is an alien going to shoot out of your meatal and try and kill me? Is there some rash I can't see from this angle?" I lifted up his balls. This was the first time I'd ever touched him in his bikini zone. He shivered, not unpleasantly.

"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Okay."

"A couple of years ago, I bought a porn DVD for the first time. One of those fancy deals with multiple angles, chapter selection, and no unnecessary plotline, just really classy, really beautiful women getting fucked."

"And this was detrimental because --- "

He pushed me away with his head, and then pulled me back with his arms. "I watched it for at least six hours, I must have come like twelve times."

"If this story involves chafing I'm not only not giving you head, I'm making you put your clothes back on."

He stuck his tongue out at me. I put it to good use.

"Chafing? Please. I used to be a professional wanker. I never start without lotion."

"Go on, then, what happened?" The kiss had already sealed the fact that he was going to get his blowjob, even if he was going to come an alien life form.

"I turned off the DVD player, and the news was on..." He stared at me.

"Oh God, nothing kills an erection like Ted Koppel. Well, maybe Dan Rather or" I shuddered. "Connie Chung."

"Actually it was Katie Couric."

"Ewwwwww."

"The first thing I saw when I turned off the TV was the plane flying into the tower."

"Oh. My. God." I was starting to grasp the issue, as well as his cock. "You poor thing."

"I just feel like --- ahhhhhhhh, yea --- I feel like if I hadn't been jerking off, maybe the towers wouldn't have fallen."

I gagged a bit. Pulled my head out of his lap. "What?" Raptor look #3, a personal record for most times used during single conversation.

"I just -- I mean, what if next time I jerk off Mt. St. Helen erupts or a meteor strikes Washington D.C."

"A volcano eruption would be tragic, but I think the nation would owe you a huge debt if you single handedly..."

"I like to to use both hands."

"Okay, if you double fistedly wiped out Washington D.C."

He laughed. I returned to the business at mouth.

"Do you think that makes --- ohhhh God --- does that make meeeeee -- I'm going to" He did. Everywhere. Mt. Saint Christopher erupted all over my face, chest, headboard, wall, window, blanket, pillow. It looked like an explosion at the Liquid Paper factory. He smiled at me, and wiped the come off my face. "Does that make me fucked."

"It does now. Bend over."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/34164.html

The Polite Pakistani

You know I love you all. I even suffer for you. I am the Jesus of Whores. You shall be forgiven.

I canceled the date tonight. Not just because Steggy is coming over to hang out, but because I did a very bad thing. I'm not talking morally irresponsible, I mean just not very fun. I posted another Craigslist ad. I don't know why. Incredible stupidity? No long term memory?

I got about six responses from people who weren't folically challenged married men. In fact, most of them were written by seemingly friendly, cute, young guy guys. I whittled the candidates down to two. My first choice was --- uhh, I never got his name. Whatever his name was, his e-mails were really polite. Almost absurdly polite. I got the impression he was some sort of subservient bottom slave. The other candidate was Derek. Derek was a cute asian guy (maybe he read my faux post from last night before I deleted it) who decided last night that he was gay. He wasn't up for anything very exciting, he just wanted to come over and jerk off with another guy. Candidate #1 wanted to get fucked. Sorry, Derek, tell him what he's won Roddy. Today's runner up receives CVS brand plastic ware and a dozen naked photos of Ed Asner.

For our winner we have my phone number.

Candidate #1 called my house using a blocked number. Shady shady shady. He was at work and was whispering in a very cute Indian accent. He expressed his desire to just come over to the house and get fucked. No conversation, no promise of a second coming, he didn't even want to get off. Well, I did have a date tonight, so I thought if I took #1 up on his offer, I would be tension free during the date.

He got out of work in three hours, and asked if I had any rubbers. Rubbers. I can't even type that word without feeling British. Imagine the phrase "Would you be so kind as to purchase some rubbers" being said in a fairly effeminate Pakistani accent. Awwww. Ain't colonization a bitch?

#1's picture was hot. Young Indian guy on the beach, nice body, nice smile. Lust at first site. Too bad it wasn't him.

I suppose it's possible that it was him ten years ago, but he'd put on a bit of weight (not enough to be offputting...I like mildly chubby guys as much as non-bony thin guys), and he had clearly aged. Alot. If he was 24, then I'm 19.

Before I could second guess my decision we were in my room and getting naked. He was wider than I am, but about the same length, and much hairier than he was in the beach photo. C'est la vie.

He had a very nice butt. Nothing I would cut off and put on my headboard, but it was round, and it was there. After some lubrication and fingering, InSafeMode was raring to go, I put his swim cap on and he dove in. We tried several positions before I was comfortable. This was the first time having sex on my new bed, and it's not ideal for moderately heavyset Pakistani bottoms. I was in and out more than Anne Heche (it's an old reference, but what can you do?). After about twenty minutes, my phone rang. I wasn't going to pick it up, but it got frustrating as about four people decided that this afternoon was the ideal time to call me. About thirty minutes into the fucking, Old What's His Fuck informed me that his ass was burning from the inside. I'd used a ton of lube, and frankly I'm not big enough to cause tremendous ass pain. Especially to someone who is a practicing bottom.

I asked if he wanted to try oral. He doesn't do oral. Wonderful.

I'm past the point in my sex life where jerking off with a random stranger turns me on. Especially a random stranger whose picture was much cuter than his reality. He began clumsily jerking me off. I envisioned myself chafing, and put a stop to it.

We'd been going about forty-five minutes when my roommate came home. You'd think that would be a mood killer, but it was a relief. There was a closed door between us. I got the idea that The Guy wanted to leave. I would have been completely ok with that. I was barely hard.

"If it is not too much trouble, I would like to see you come." Did this guy learn manners from the kid on Johnny Quest? Yeesh. It was probably the cutest thing about him.

"If you bend over--"

"It burns from the inside."

I explained that I could do very nice things to his bottom without actually penetrating. And so I did. It still took me another fifteen minutes and about eleven different fantasy asses to reach climax. I came like a porn star.

I finished him off. He came like a sixteen year old boy on round #8 on a Sunday hand marathon.

He made me go out and talk to my rooommate while he got dressed and snuck out of the house. He said he couldn't wait to see me again. He can wait, and he will. I've already started talking with Scott about actually dating. I may be too old for this whoring thing.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/33189.html

All Moby, No Dick

There was a reason Justin never sent me a pic. I'm not choosy, but he wasn't my type. Not unattractive, but too fat to comfortably fuck. A friend once told me that he hated having sex with other fat people because it was tough to stay penetrated. I'd never experienced that before tonight.

We were off to a bad start when we realized that neither of us had done any online dating since the nineties. We were obviously uncomfortable around each other & had little chemistry apart from both liking the same TV shows.

Drank a beer to get prepared. I hate beer.

Started out in the shower. He was bigger without his clothes. Smooth but awkward. I knew I should have gone home. He was too big to shower with, so we headed to the bedroom.

The bedroom had a couple of dildos out and some lube. I had brought the condoms.

He likes to give head with the latex on. Had I known I would have bought flavored condoms.

Despite not being attracted to him in any way, I managed to get aroused. He gave decent head.

After a few minutes he was ready to get fucked. This is when I realized that I am an emotionless robot. If I'm not attracted to someone I have the most mechanical sex imagineable.

It was tough to find a position to get comfortable in. He was clearly too big to be comfortably on top of me. It would be like being pinned by The Canadian Earthquake. His bed wasn't high enough for him to be laid out on his back, so we ended up doggy-style.

Usually I'm all about long tantric sex, but I just wanted this to be overwith, so I ended up coming in about eight minutes. Yes, I looked at the clock. That's how bad it was.

The hard part would be getting him off. I'm not a fan of licking latex, and haven't bottomed for anybody in about six years, though I don't dislike it. I decided I'd rather get fucked for a while than lick latex.

He lubed up a condom, and put it over a butt plug which he then sat on. I laid on my stomach, forgetting that the bed was too low for this to be a comfortable option. Doggystyle again. It didn't work too well, though, as his stomach kept getting in the way. Also he was much more of a bottom than a top, so he was having trouble staying hard.

After about two minutes the condom fell off, and that was all she wrote. I wasn't into it enough to kiss or give proper attention to keeping him aroused. My passionless jerking of his cock did nothing for either of us.

He was clearly embarrassed. He offered to pay for a cab ride home, claiming it was too cold for me to walk to the subway. It wasn't that cold. Neither of us broached the subject of his not getting off, but he was clearly disappointed. So was I.

At least I don't have to wash santorum out of my boxers.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/458.html, http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/379486.html

The Loop (Part 5: Educating Ernie)

Whoever said "sex is like pizza, even when it's bad it's good" was either a virgin or exclusively dined on Papa John's. Bad sex is like bad pizza: cheap, flaccid, oily, and with entirely too many chunks of tomatoes.

Because I'm the most unselfish man in all of creation, I could not stand idly by and let Ernie continue to go around giving terrible blowjobs to unsuspecting gay guys. As a member of "The Gay Community" it was my duty to either educate him or else tattoo "shitty sucker" on his forehead. I was all out of needles and India Ink, and while I'm sure my drug dealer/artist roommates would have been able to loan me some, I decided to go the sex route. That way, I'd not only be able to tell everyone how I'd molded the subpar sucking "straight" boy into the perfect sex toy, I would also be able to engage in some much needed release of sexual tension get my fuck on.

But, Safey, say those of you with more scruples than I have, you said yourself, he practically raped you. Why would you allow him the satisfaction of having your dick in his mouth/ass/nostril? Had Ernie woke me up with his dick in my ass, or with a knife/gun/copy of Dianetics at my throat/head/asshole, then I would have thrown him to the ground and beat him to death with my shitty futon frame. But, however misguided his attempt, he had been trying to pleasure me, not rape me. So once I allowed my hormones to overrule my better judgement, I let him return to sucking my dick, giving him appropriate criticism: "teeth bad, tongue good"; even threatening him with a demonstration of why grazing cock with teeth was unacceptable. Not only did he learn better tongue technique, I even convinced him to borrow my razor and shave off his stubble.

After about ten minutes of stubble-free, tonguelicious head, Ernie complained that his jaw was hurting. I started to give the old jerk the guy off into your mouth lesson when he interrupted "I don't want to jerk you off, I want you to fuck me."

What is it with "straight" boys that they're so eager to jump from sucking to getting fucked on their first rape date? I understand the wanting to fuck regardless of orientation, but "straight" boys wanting to get fucked have always fascinated me.

As a person who strives to be both tolerant and unselfish, I felt it would be wrong of me not to fuck him. So I unwrapped a Lifestyles and began the "Getting Fucked 101" tutorial. He got about a B- on the final exam. I fell asleep thinking that I'd diffused a potentially horrific situation. but when I woke up, Ernie was gone but his clothes weren't.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/769822.html

The Loop (Part 4: Velocirapist)

I distinctly remember Gary Coleman's "Say no. Then go. And tell." campaign. I remember that incredibly disturbing episode of "Different Strokes" where the bicycle store guy asked Gary's friend to take his shirt off. I remember "No means no." But at no point in either my exposure to pop culture or my sex ed classes did anyone ever explain to me what one should say when they wake up with their dick in the mouth of someone unexpected.

Had the cock been in the other mouth, so to speak, I could have done the whole biting thing. But, as it was, I was unprepared. I can't knee him in the jaw because then he is gonna bite down, and I certainly don't want that They really should hand out pamphlets about situations like this in Boy Scout camp. Hmmm. Maybe a video or DVD directed at the escort and prospective altar boy markets. Not having any of the resources at my disposal, I was forced to take the completely lame "What are you doing?" approach.

Ernie took my dick out of his mouth, and gave me the velociraptor look. The fucker was infringing on all my copyrights. "You've never had a blowjob before?"

Touché rapist. Hmmm...Velocirapist? "I mean, why are you in my room giving me a blowjob?"

"I thought you wanted it." I checked to see if I was wearing a short skirt and acting in a Lifetime Television for Victims movie. I was not.

I sat up so that the closest thing to suck on was my toes, and prayed he wasn't a foot fetishist. "No. What gave you that idea?"

"Well, you're gay right?"

"Yea." I'm also a Democrat but I don't want anybody voting for me while I'm asleep. "But, I'm -- I thought you were straight."

He flashed me the stupid Guy Who Just Bought Me A Drink And Thinks I Now Owe Him Keys To My Apartment smile. "I'm up for a little experimentation. I've never sucked a cock before." This was glaringly obvious. "But I like you. And you know, you said that thing about getting me high and taking advantage of me."

"That was a joke."

He stood up at the end of my quasi-bed (I was sleeping on a glorified futon on a not so glorified frame), his rock hard cock pointing at me accusingly. What it was accusing me of, I wasn't sure. I wasn't the one who should have been apologizing.

"Look," I said, "If you wanted to fool around you should have talked to me about it. You can't just go around wrapping your mouth around random gay guys' cocks. This isn't a rest stop bathroom." Crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds rolled across my floor. In the distance, a truck passed. As the doppler effect faded into the hum of the heating system, I waited for him to apologize. If not for violating my trust and personal space, then for the horrible way his teeth grazed against my cock, the way his stubble chafed my inner thigh.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/766517.html

The Loop (Part 3: Uh, Hey)

When Ernie started showing up at the store where I packed fudge in the literal sense, I knew I was in trouble. Potheads in a candy store are only good for business if they leave every once in a while. Ernie had been standing in the same place for so long that we'd actually varnished his shoes.

Around closing time, while I was sanitizing the knives, and weighing the remaining fudge, Ernie mentioned that he'd missed the last bus to Surrounding Town. At the time, I was living in a commune type house, three floors, seven bedrooms, living room, dining room, three bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room; a poor man's mansion. I was the poor man. "Well, we have a pretty comfortable futon in the living room if you don't mind my roommates coming in and out of the house at all hours."

"You know," Ernie said, "There was this sketchy guy in my college who used to tell freshman girls about his comfortable futon in order to entice them over to his dorm room where he'd get the drunk and fuck their brains out."

"I promise I'm not trying to get you drunk and fuck you. I'm trying to get you high and fuck you." It's important to note that I was trying to be funny. I was no more attracted to Ernie than I was to VH1. If I happen to be in the room while "Behind the Music" or "I Love the 90s" is on, I'll watch it, but I don't set aside time in my day to sit on the couch and watch "The Surreal Life" marathon. I was trying to be friendly and offer him a place to sleep, nothing more. I thought he was looking for an excuse to stay at my house because I lived with five very generous drug dealers, not because he wanted me to fuck his brains out.

As soon as we got back to my place, Ernie wandered into the dining room where two people who lived in the house, and seven people who probably should have been paying rent where sitting at the table, smoking. I headed into my room to change out of my work clothes.

I had just taken my pants off when Ernie opened the door. I regretted going commando. "Uh, hey." I said.

"I thought you were supposed to get me high before we came in here. Are you so horny you can't even wait?" I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt because he added "Just kidding. I didn't know you were changing. Sorry." But he didn't leave the room or stop staring at me.

Four hours later he had been baked out of his bean, and his eyes had been properly glazed red. The rest of the crew had headed to the basement and plugged in the various instruments. Tonight's song to be butchered was "Running With The Devil." Somewhere in Obscurity, Eddie Van Halen started crying.

I had set up the futon for Ernie, said goodnight and headed into my room. I wasn't as baked as the rest of the household (I'd only inhaled second hand smoke), so I decided to forego my usual pre-sleep ritual. I didn't want Ernie to think I was decorating my cake for him.

When I woke up at 3 o'clock I knew something was unusual. It wasn't that the band had stopped playing. the house was eerily silent, but that wasn't incredibly unusual. There was the inappropriate ratio of smoke to air, and the house didn't appear to be flooded or on fire, and yet something was decidedly non-status quo. Ahh, yes, someone was sucking my dick.

"Uh, hey." Ernie said. I chose to ignore the fact that he was infringing on my copyrighted greeting, and chose to focus on the more important issue.

"Uh." I added more of a pause than usual, "Hey Ernie." I took a four second hour to figure out what to say. In the grand scheme of things, waking up to a houseguest sucking your dick is better than waking up to find a houseguest sharpening a knife or aiming a gun at your forehead or taking a shit on your toothbrush. But it's still a tad unsettling. I made a mental note to start locking my bedroom door. Oh, and to never invite Ernie over to the house again. I'd had much better blowjobs.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/765359.html

A Few Minutes In The Life Of A Fudge Packing Fool (Part 4: Verb Present Tense)

I've got my left hand on the edge of the bed, my right on the small of his back. My lower body is in the altar boy giving "bless me Father for I have sinned" head position. And after six positions in about twenty minutes after a full day of work serving dead cattle to zombie tourists, I'm not just fucken (adj. form) tired, I am fucking (verb present tense) tired. Even though neither of us have come yet, I'm thinking of grabbing my briefs off the floor and waving them like a flag. Then Aaron starts bucking against me and ---- we're done.

"Shit." he says, stretching toward Mecca. "Are you as wiped as I am."

"Yea" is all I can really manage to say.

It's been four days since I hired Erin, three since I realized he was, in fact, Aaron. In those three days, he's spent a great deal of time in my bedroom.

"Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asks.

"Yea, but I'm the first one in, so I should get cut early."

"What time should I come over?"

"Are you leaving?" I ask. He has this habit of taking off directly after sex, which is okay by me. I don't mind being a booty call. I haven't had anything even remotely close to a boyfriend since Elvis, and even though it's been over a year, I'm not sure I'm ready. Add to this the fact that I still had an enormous crush on my best friend (and things like that ALWAYS work out for the best), and the employee with benefits package fits my needs perfectly.

"Do you want me to stay?" Here's where we might end up in tricky territory, if I ask him to stay I might be perceived as clingy, and if I ask him to leave...

I'm saved from making this decision by the sound of my front door opening. This is one of those out of the frying pan into the spinning knife blades dipped in acid moments. There are three people with the keys to my house: my mother, my best friend (Liam), and my sidekick/former coworker/kind of formerish crush Cute Straight Boy. So, who's behind door number one?

Admission (Part 2: Not So Passive, Aggressive Sex)

I've got my hands securely fastened around my favorite guypart, my mouth around my third favorite part, while looking up at my second favorite part. (ass, cock, face) In an ideal world, I'm comfortable. In the real world his massive Lennie hands are cutting of circulation to my brain and are slamming my not incredibly large nose into his mutant outie belly button. I move my left hand from ass cheek to balls and begin to pull in a way that I hope is rather painful. I move my right index finger into No Man's Land and press hard and without warning. He grips harder, slams my head faster and says "Fuck, yeah." I'm not getting my point across at all.

It isn't until I do a little teeth grazing that he moves his hands off my head and moves over to my bed. He stretches out on his stomach, ass in the air. I enjoy the view from where I'm kneeling, but decide I'll be able to appreciate it more from up close. I am correct.

Because I have decided he likes it rough (something I have just about no experience with), I decide to go for the gusto and once my cock is inside, I begin thrusting like a drunken swordfighter in a hall of mirrors. He moans "Oh yes." This is followed by a tremendous crash.

Brett is now wearing my curtains like a wedding veil.

"I was biting down on them." He says after I've pulled out to laugh at him. "They felt really awesome between my teeth. Until the rod fell on my head. Is it a good look for me?"

I answer with a kiss. It's a passionate kiss, but nothing spectacular until he bites my fucken tongue

"What the fuck are you doing, freak?" I ask, checking my tongue for blood, there is none. "Did you learn how to kiss from Freddy Kreuger?"

"You're the one who was pulling my sack like you were ripping the tag off a t-shirt, and grazing my cock with your teeth."

"Well you were slamming my nose into your belly dimmer switch."

"I thought you...dimmer switch?"

"Well it's way too big to be a button, unless it's like The Button that Evil Politicians always have their fingers on." And I press his belly button. "Look how much bigger your belly button is than my finger."

"You have freakishly small hands." He says.

"Yea, and look how much freakishly smaller they look next to your mutant umbilical cord."

He grabs my hands, pushes me back on the bed, and sits so that his ass is rubbing against my cock, and lets out a loud, raunchy fart. Eye wateringly bad. Did I mention his half of the pizza had garlic and anchovies on it?

When I coughed his cock slapped against my stomach which made me want to laugh which made me cough more. I sounded like a cat getting ready to cough up a furball. "Get off me, freak."

"Stop calling me freak." He says, moving his gigantic frog eyes until they are about half a centimeter away from my human-sized ones.

"Stop being freaky, freak."

He moves back and centers his ass over my cock, slides down, and

"Ewwwww." I yell, pulling my cock out of his ass.

"What?" He laughs.

"Dude, didn't that fart feel a little wet to you?"

He continues laughing. "It's not like you aren't wearing a condom. What do you care if it was wet?" Still, he lifts his body up a little bit, and I see that my cock looks the way it usually looks when it's wrapped in blue latex. No shit.

He moves back to his cowboy position, and reaches his hands behind him. He pulls one of the curtains in front of his face. "Oh, Mr. Mode, I do declare, I have sat my derriere on something pointy. It feels quite wonderful."

I snatch the curtain away from him, whip it at him a couple of times and throw it across the room. I then sit up, pushing him onto his back and kiss him so I won't have to listen to his horrible falsetto.

We go for about five minutes before I pull out, and we both make rather a mess of his chest and chin. We lay spread across each other for a few minutes. I can feel sleep falling over my head like those fucken curtains when Brett starts giggling. "What?" I ask.

"I think I left something in the oven."

"The oven?" I ask.

He pulls the covers over our heads, and lets out the wettest sounding, garliciest fart in the history of gastronomical problems.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/1499747.html

Elvis Rex (Part 6.5: Civic Lesson)

During ta typically boring day during The Elvis Invasion, Elvisseith decided he wanted to see Salem. I had the day off from work, and due to an incredibly well-attended show the night before, I was in good spirits. So we hopped in my Civic for the two hour drive to the city of witches and overpriced beer.

Five minutes after our arrival, Elvisseith decided he wanted to go home. He was tired. His feet hurt. It was too cold. I told him where he could stick his feet.

On the drive home, I started to nod off. I was working on three hours of sleep, and even caffeine wasn't strong enough to keep me functional. I pulled over to the side of the rode and asked Elvisseith to take over.

"Like I'd be caught dead driving a Civic." He said.



"You will be caught dead if you don't switch places with me, I'm about to fall asleep at the wheel."

"No."

There was fifteen miles to the next exit. I bit my tongue, sang to the music, dug my fingernails into my knee to keep myself awake. When the exit came, I got off and tried to think of the nearest place I could park and sleep. Sweet sleep. Dreams of a boyfriend with an ass and no..BANG

"The fuck was that?" Elvis asked.

I'd knocked a driver's side mirror off a parked car. I quickly put on my flashers, wrote my name and phone number on a piece of paper, and slipped it through the slightly open driver's side window. A mile down the road I found a parking lot where I pulled over and fell asleep.

I woke up to the familiar sensation of Elvis giving me head. "Cut the shit. I'm tired."

"You've been asleep for three hours. I'm bored." Three hours? I blinked and looked around. Dusk was beginning to settle. The parking lot, nearly full when I'd pulled in was now empty. "Want to fuck?"

Why yes I did. But have you ever tried to have sex in a Civic? Sure, if you want to be intimate, The Black Bee is ok, but I didn't want intimate, I wanted to cause pain. Short of standing outside the car and pushing his ass down over the gear shift, I didn't see how I was going to get my violent fuck on without getting violent cramps.

We ended up leaning the passenger side seat back. He moved back so far his head was touching the back windshield. I kneeled down on the seat behind him. I pushed into him. Thrusted once. His head hit the windshield. "Ow." Thrusted twice. His head hit the windsheild. "Ow." Thrusted three times. His cum splattered on the seat.

This was unusual in many ways. First off, one of Elvis's few positive attributes was his endurance. Secondly, since when is a bottom a three-pump-chump? I debated continuing fucking him/smashing his head against the windshield (the two ideas were not mutually exclusive) but that wasn't the kind of pain I was willing to dole out.

"What are you stopping for? You can't be done already."

"No, but I'm awake now and I want to go home." I pulled my pants up, waited for him to get situated, and turned the key in the ignition.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/854855.html

Elvis Rex (Part 3: Prisms)

When I was seven or so my grandmother gave me a prism to hang in my window so I could watch the colors bounce around my room. A little green off the television set, some rainbow action on the handles of my dresser drawer, some red off the naked boy's back.

Naked boy?

Right, Seith.

The sun seemed almost abusively bright. Like it was trying to remind me of something.

Right, work!

I threw on some clothes, wrote a quick note for Seith, and went to work. Of course, it was actually my day off, so I pretended I had just come in to hang out. I talked with some of my coworkers for a few minutes, hit the grocery store and went home.

Seith and I had been up until about eight in the morning playing Breath of Fire 3. I was actually getting quite good at it.

I figured he would still be asleep when I got home so I opened the door very quietly. I placed the groceries in the kitchen and started to head up the stairs when I heard him talking.

Let's not even pretend that I'm not an eavesdropper on an average day. If you're in my presence and you need to have a private conversation, tell me and I'll go away for a while. Otherwise, I'm listening, and I'm taking notes.

"--absolutely beautiful. We showered together the other night and it was so hot. Seriously, it was some of the best sex I've ever had."

I rock. This beautiful boy is on the phone with (please don't let it be his brother) someone, and he's talking about how beautiful I am and what amazing sex we've has and--

"Seriously I have the smallest cock here." Ummmm. "We all sleep in the same room. Four bunkbeds. No, no, it's really comfortable. Unfortunately, the cutest one is straight. I know, I know. Aren't they all? Anyway, I should probably go, we've got a shoot in the park in a few hours and I have to get ready. Love you, too. Bye"

I am relatively sure I wasn't supposed to hear that conversation. I live alone. No bunkbeds, no other roommates and as previously mentioned my cock is not bigger than his. I begin to rationalize: he broke up with his boyfriend, and I'm the rebound guy and he's trying to make the ex jealous. No, it was his brother on the phone and he's trying to make him jealous. Or--

I get up and walk quietly back down the stairs where I loudly open, then close the door. "I'm home." "That was fast." "Yea, just did a little grocery shopping. Turned out I wasn't supposed to work today." "Cool."

"So it's your first day here, did you want to do some sightseeing or anything?" "Sure. Want to fuck first?"

I can't think of an occasion where I've turned down sex in favor of sightseeing. I hope that day never comes.

So up the stairs we go. Clothes fly off like monkeys in Oz. I throw him playfully on the bed, get my face real close to his and almost say "so which one of us is hottest?" but being a true male, I don't want to give up a chance for sex, so I decide to fuck first, accuse later.

The sex was amazing. There were a few times that I thought there really might be six of us in the room, and I just hadn't noticed. An extra arm would be kneading my back, I'd swear there'd be a tongue in my mouth, and on one of my nipples. I mean, we were bending each other into positions that the Kama Sutra knew about but didn't have the balls to write down. By the time we were finished it was too dark to sightsee. I was ok with that.

The prism was flashing streetlight patterns over the wall. The moon was hovering above the skylight, and I swear it was saying "Damn!"

All suspicions were forgotten. I don't think I would have been able to tell anyone what my name was by the time we were through. All I could remember was nibble, nibble, suck, lick, twist, thrust, thrust, wow. The questions would have to wait for another day.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2787.html

Elvis Rex (Part 1: Airport?)

Three days after The Brian Incident, I woke up sick. I believed it was karma. All I wanted to do was puke. So I puked. Repeatedly.

After about an hour of my bulimia impersonation, I drove to the doctor's office where my mom used to work. The receptionist was as frigid as my Dad’s joke about her lack-of-sex-life had led me to believe. Her armchair diagnosis was appendicitis and she recommended driving to the hospital instead of “wasting the doctor’s time.” I made sure to puke on the bathroom floor before I left.

I drove the five miles or so between the doctor’s office and the hospital with my head out the window, howling like Ludo from Labyrinth. It felt like there was a small raccoon trying to dig its way out of my stomach.

"Kidney stones" said the hospital receptionist as she wheeled me into the ER. I harassed Passing Doctor #1 until he gave me an IV full of weak-ass pain reliever. I then became “the lost patient.” Despite the fact that my breathing was slightly louder and more annoying than Darth Vader’s, the doctors managed to misplace me in several small rooms until Passing Doctor #4 pumped my IV full of Demerol. I liked Doctor #4.

The next thing I remember my mother is shaking me awake. She asks me where I've been for the last 24 hours. Beside my bed are a bottle of pills, a reminder that I have a urologist appointment, and a pee strainer. I have a hazy recollection of a hospital. Apparently the doctors of Malpractice Med allowed me to drive home when I was out of my mind on Demerol.

A few minutes after my mother left, I went downstairs to check my messages. Seith called to remind me to pick him up at the airport. Seith…I didn’t recall…

My brain clicked. Seith was Prittib0i, the guy I'd been talking to on AOL recently. I wondered how he got my phone number. Airport?

I rushed upstairs and checked my computer. I always saved the really important IM/chatroom conversations as word files. Sure enough, I had invited Seith to come up and stay in Boston for a few days. Not only that, I had purchased a plane ticket for him with my credit card. Fuck.

I arrived at The Airport about ten minutes after his flight did. As I wandered toward baggage claim, I saw him on a pay phone. We made small talk on the way out to the car. It’s hard for me to recall the details of our first few hours together, as all I could think was “whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.” He was exhausted when I got home, so I let him set up shop in my room while I went to work.

When I came home, he was sitting in my beanbag. Naked. Aroused. He was watching a Backstreet Boys video on MTV. Had the sound been off, I might have been able to understand what he was doing. As it was all I could think of was “thank God my mother didn’t drop in to see how I was doing.”

Then something sank in. There was a hot, naked, aroused boy sitting in my beanbag, smiling at me. He stood up and asked if I needed a shower after my long day at work. I stammered a yes, and we headed upstairs. On the way up the stairs I noticed his one physical flaw. The boy had no ass. None. He was very slim, and had a back that was completely flat between shoulder blades and whatever you call the reverse side of kneecaps. It looked like he had been ironed.

I undressed as he tried to figure out the shower. When he bent over, I could almost make out his butt cheeks. If I squinted real hard. When he turned around he took one look at my naked body and laughed. “Awww it’s so leeetle and kyoot.”

I had never had my cock belittled before. I’ve got the lovely average thing going on. Nothing spectacular, but hardly a microphallus. He may have been nine inches long, but a boy without an ass should never criticize anyone else’s body.

Only twice in my life have I ever showered with another guy. The second time was awful but mercifully short. The first time was with Seith, and it was long and wonderful. As long as I kept my hands away from the place where his ass should have been, I was in heaven. Our mouths fit together perfectly. We had each seen enough porn to know where all the erogenous zones were, and we made full use of them.

After about a half an hour we turned the shower off and headed into what had once been my bedroom. I could now see it was our bedroom. All the furniture had been moved around, there was a Playstation hooked up to my TV, and my computer background was a naked picture of Seith. This made me point and laugh.

“What?” “That picture!” He tilted his head to the side like a Velociraptor, “What about it?” “You look like a total skank.”

In the picture, Seith was wearing a club boy shirt and Adidas sweat pants, which were pulled down to show off his huge cock. It was his facial expression that was hysterical. The sort of face you only see in cheap pornography and Abercrombie & Fitch ads. Maybe in Zoolander if you know when to look.

He pushed me on the bed. “I thought you liked skank.” “Uhhhh-” and then his tongue was tickling the roof of my mouth.

After another ten minutes of foreplay, he lay on his back and spread his legs. Looking back, I’m grateful he didn’t assume the doggystyle position. I can’t imagine maintaining my erection while looking for his ass.

Condom on? Check. Proper application of lubrication? Check. And off we go. The first fifteen minutes were amazing. Perfect rhythm. Position changes. Everything was perfect until he said “Oh, God, you’re better than my brother.”

Five years later a friend and I used to play a game where we tried to think of the most awful things to say to someone in bed. Not surprisingly “you’re better than my brother” was near the top of the list. I believe it was between “I thought you said this wasn’t your first time” and “excuse me.”

Needless to say, I stopped, completely stunned. “Don’t stop.” “But--” “Don’t stop.”

So I started up again, trying to push what he said out of my mind. After about twenty minutes, we were both spent. I propped myself on my elbow, meaning to ask him about the brother comment when he shushed me. That’s when I heard my mother coming up the stairs.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2063.html,
http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/393128.html

Drowning Pedophilia

So what do you do when you find out the stranger you picked up in a grocery store is underage? You fuck him.

Maybe it was the pot mumbling, or maybe I was just an unethical hornball. Whatever the lame excuse, once I processed the fact that I couldn't actually be arrested for being a twenty-one year old fooling around with a seventeen year old, all my reservations about how his family could kill me anyway flew right out the window. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the pot smoke.

Tommy wanted to blow me again, and how could I say no to more head from the best barely legal fallater to ever walk the earth?

We're on the bed doing some 69 and, as I'm wont to do when there's ass to be played with, I let my fingers do the walking. A little squishy squish, some slappy slap, and some pokey poke (I'm gonna stoppy stop now). I'll confess it right here, publicly, for all the cringing world to see that yes, I have an ass fetish. Tommy's ass, while not ideally round, was at least present. So I slide my index finger in and out a few times before upgrading to the middle finger. Next up is the thumb of doom which, while it obviously can't get in as deep as it's better hung companions, has better girth, and is much easier to make eccentric ellipses with.

Tommy is bucking and thrashing and SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Moan. SPLAT. Drizzle. Yelp. SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Screech. SPLAAAAAAAAAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drip. Drip. SPLAT. Drip.

Damn.

"Fuck me. Please."

I was taken a bit aback. Not that Tommy wanted to be fucked, but that he was so enthusiastic about it. He had been a typical mellow stoner up to this point. Monotonous voice, Garfield shaded eyelids, and slouch.

It would be nice to think I had some sort of internal dialog about whether or not this was a good idea, but the only thing my dick could think of to say to my brain was "Thank God you keep your condoms within reach of the bed, now move my damned arm."

And in we go, doggy style. This boy was tighter than spandex on David Lee Roth. The only word that accurately describes sex with Tommy is "Damn."

When we were finished, we passed out draped across each other. When I woke up it was dark outside. I kept staring at Tommy, thinking he was bathed in moonlight, but it was actually a streetlight. Eventually we got up, and I drove him over to a friend's house, where he'd decided to stay the night.

This was the start of something a tad more meaningful than just whoring around. You know that cliché about how there are other fish in the sea? I kept thinking Tommy would be the keeper. Turns out I had throw him back. He was too small.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17452.html

A Minor Situation

The warning signs:
He lived with his parents.
He rode his bike because he didn't have a car.
He liked cartoons.
He got my sense of humor.
He was smoking pot with the bagboys at a grocery store.

On their own, none of these things mean everything, but put altogether, how did I not realize that I had picked up an underage boy in a grocery store parking lot. I mean, he looked over 18.

His profile hadn't listed an age, but I assumed --

Fuck.

I was now the posterboy for "contributing to the delinquency of a minor." We'd drank, smoked pot, and he'd sucked my dick.

I was going to prison.

But first I was going to take a long hit off the joint he rolled. I briefly pondered buying some off him and offering him a beer just to cover the points spread.

"Want to go back inside?" he asked. Yes. I wanted to go back inside with him, alter the timeline and meet him when he was eighteen. If I couldn't do that, I wanted to go inside and freak out about the fact that he never told me he was jailbait, and I wasn't intelligent enough to ask him how old he was. But I thought that might ruin the mood, so I asked "How long have you known John?"

"Since we were kids." Right. When they were kids. As opposed to now that they were in high school together. I ---

I remembered something from an online argument in one of the chatrooms. A sixteen year old was talking about his twenty year old fuckbuddy, and when people harangued him about legal issues, he'd linked them to a website about state laws. In our state it was perfectly legal for someone under twenty-two to fuck around with someone over sixteen. I was under twenty-two.

"How old are you?" "Seventeen."

I did the legal happy dance in my head. Morally, I was still less than thrilled. I just couldn't picture myself driving a white van and hanging around tech school parking lots. I was too good for that. Only grocery store parking lots for me.

"My friends tell me I give great head." Nice segue.

"You're amazing. You should be teaching classes." Instead of attending them in a middle high school.

"I've always wanted to get fucked, but never had the courage to ask anybody about it. It's why I decided to meet someone online today."

Rut-roh Rhaggy.

There were so many ways this could go horribly wrong.

1.) His parents could find out. Being absolutely terrified about his parents discovering his sexuality, he could lie and say he'd been seduced. Neither of us would ever be able to go out in public in Nowheresville again without facing some sort of ridicule.

2.) His parents could find out, and he could be completely honest with them, and they could fuck up his life anyway.

3.) Miss M. could hear us through the thin walls, if she hadn't already, and start telling everyone in the neighborhood, and her family, and his family, and my family, that I was fucking teenage boys. Goodbye any sort of political career (which is a moot point at this stage in my life, but at the time it was still a nearly improbable possibility).

4.) He could suggest a threesome with Johnny, who I'd known since Johnny was eleven. That would never happen. Johnny was cute and all but he was Johnny, just a kid. I couldn't be attracted to him any more than I could be attracted to his fri-- Bugger.

5.) No one would find out, and we'd end up having a secret relationship which would do wonders for us sexually but distract him from his college applications.

6.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, introduce me, and then they would beat me to death with their collection of Gideon's Bibles.

7.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would pretend to love me while secretly pooring arsenic into my Cherry Coke until I died.

8.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would really love me, and want to spend some time camping or something with my family who would kill me when they found out I'd been fucking a seventeen year old boy.

There were hundreds of variations on these thoughts involving angry mob justice, Jerry Springer, NAMBLA meetings, and various other things I never wanted to be a part of my autobiography if I ever became famous. But we connected on so many levels before I found out how old he was, and it wasn't as though he were thirteen, or mentally retarded or anything. He was nearly a consenting adult.

I was nearly kidding myself.

I decided to make it a non-issue. We spent some time talking about how long he'd wanted to get fucked, why he wanted to get fucked. If he was sure it was a great idea to get fucked by some guy he'd just met on The Internet. The fact that I really wanted to fuck him, but really didn't want to fuck him up. I suggested we wait.

He kissed me. That boy could do anything with his mouth.

At this point, age was a moot point. I still wasn't going to fuck him until he'd really thought about it, but it was because I didn't want to see him make a mistake, not because he was seventeen.

His hands went down to my zipper again. I took his hand and led him back upstairs.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9235.html

Sex Acts Named For Car Models

While most of the other people in CranberryLakeM4M room scrolled things like: "38/m/brown/brown/5'4/8," I would check profiles and send deliberately horrible one-liners to guys who I thought might be my type.

I was an AOL lurker.

This is how I met Brian, and Big Gay Tom's friend (though once I found out who he was, we actually called and met before I went all ho). This was also the way I met Tommy.

I don't know what ridiculous thing I said to Tommy, but it made him LOL. We talked for all of about twenty minutes before he relayed to me that he was horny. This was someone I could bond with, but not in that ropes and whips sort of way. He said he was saving up for a car, but was currently biking places. He said this as a way of telling me he was fit (little did he know how low my standards were). He was still living with his parents in order to not pay rent and save up for some HolyGrailMobile, and was not out to his parents, so he didn't want to meet at his house. While I didn't live too far from him, it was far enough that he didn't want to bike it.

We agreed to meet in a grocery store parking lot. I was meeting someone in a parking lot for sex. I didn't think I could get much lower. Little did I know.

Neither Tommy nor I had pictures online, so we gave each other descriptions. I didn't see anyone on a bike when I drove in, so I went into a bookstore, and sat at a table by the window, waiting. After about ten minutes, I went back into the parking lot. The only person I saw with a bike was near the grocery store carriages, smoking cigarettes with the juvenile delinquent bag boys. I waited another fifteen minutes, then headed home.

I had been stood up in a grocery store parking lot.

So I went back home and resumed my online lurking. About five minutes into it, Tommy IMed me.

Tommyisawhore: What happened.
Insafemode: I went to the grocery store,
Insafemode: waited about a half hour, and didn't see you,
Insafemode: so I came home.
Tommyisawhore: Oh. Were you the guy in the bookstore?
Insafemode: Yea.
Tommyisawhore: Yum.
Tommyisawhore: Sorry. I ran into some friends
Tommyisawhore: had to smoke them out.
Tommyisawhore: I wasn't sure if you were you, so I didn't say anything.
Tommyisawhore: Want to try again?
Insafemode: Sure.

I was smitten by the fact that anyone said "Yum" in reference to me. I don't think it's happened since.

Back to the parking lot I went. Sure enough, one of the boys who'd been smoking by the carriages earlier sauntered over to my car. It was my turn to say Yum. I did wonder what he was doing hanging with the Stop and Shop bag boys, but I was meeting a stranger for sex in a grocery store parking lot, so I didn't think I could take much of a moral high ground.

We had a few good laughs on the brief car ride over to my house. We had a lot in common. So much so that we decided to hang out and play MST3K while watching TV for a while. At around 4 in the afternoon, Animaniacs came on, and we realized we both had a place of reverence for Wakko Warner and Pinky & The Brain. At some point in the episode, Pinky started playing with some sticks or something. "This is getting me incredibly hard." Tommy said, as he stood up and demonstrated.

Due to the lack of visual barricades, and multitude of nosy neighbors, we headed upstairs to my bedroom where Tommy turned the TV onto Animaniacs, and began taking my pants off. I've mentally filed "Pinky & The Brain" under surprisingly gay pornography ever since. Though neither of us spent much time watching the TV.

If saraH gave the world's worst blowjob, Tommy gave the world's best. The prelude to the blowjob was a sexy striptease that lasted about thirty seconds before he was naked and and kneeling over my cock.

He was all over the place. His tongue went from head to shaft to sac to belly button to shaft to sac to shaft to head. It was as if he was born with four tongues. I quickly reached the internalized orgasm phase where you use every iota of your sexual power not to be a victim of premature ejaculation (and when premature ejaculation is involved, everyone's a victim). He had pressed every button except the one in my ass, where I carefully guided his finger. Bingo.

After about ten minutes, he took each nut into his mouth individually and began to hum. This was the only time I've ever had a hummer. Mind/wadblowing doesn't even begin to describe it. I fought the wave, and I won. Barely. He kept looking up and smiling at me. Then he'd go back to making me the happiest man to ever pick up a strange man in a parking lot.

We'd been going about twenty minutes when I just couldn't take it anymore. So Tommy did. I must have lost ten pounds in that orgasm. I didn't think it would ever stop. Tommy swallowed easily a half dozen times before I was through.

"Huuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." was really the only appropriate thing I could say.

After a few full body spasms while he continued to suck the sperm inhaler, I reached down to begin some well deserved reciprocation, but he intercepted my hand. "Mind if we go out for a smoke first?"

He could have asked me if I minded if we went out and bought some submachine guns and took out a preschool and I would have said "No problem."

We threw on some clothes, and headed to my back porch. Tommy rolled himself a joint, and we passed it back and forth a few times.

My next door neighbor to the right was a really sweet grandmother. I used to visit with her every couple of days. Sometimes I'd make dinner for her, other times she'd come over to my house and listen to me play piano. When I used to work at a summer camp, she had her grandchildren attend it. They were great kids. Taylor was nine, Clayton was twelve, and John was sixteen.

I'm reasonably sure she knew what we were smoking when she leaned over the fence and said "Something smells good. Oh, I miss being able to smoke my -- Well, hello, Tommy."

"Hey, Miss M. How're you?"

"I'm doing great. I didn't know you knew Insafemode."

"Yea, we go way back."

"Well you have excellent taste in friends."

"Awww. And you're not at all biased because I hang out with John all the time."

"Not at all. Ta ta boys." and she headed off her porch and over to the community pool.

"Where do you know Miss M from?" I asked.

"Oh, Johnny and I were on the JV football squad together last year."

Uh. What?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9192.html

Alternative Methods

I hope whoever coined the phrase "There's only one way to find out" died long-suffering from a debilitating disease. Is there really only one way to find out whether a friend has syphilis? No. You don't have to fuck them to find out, you can ask them, or if you're too shy, ask someone who's slept with them, you could even spy on them in the shower and see if they exhibit any symptoms.

Wondering if your mother's having an affair? You don't have to sit in the closet and wait for her and the postman to make a delivery to the dead letter office. You don't even have to set up a camera in their room. You could just ask her, or put a sleazy ad on Craigslist.org, or tell your father you heard her and his best friend jumping on the bed together while he was at work. There are always several methods to discover things. Yet, I found myself in Joey's bedroom, talking about the taste of cocks saying "There's only one way to find out."

I don't remember what his cock tasted like except that it probably tasted more or less like cock. This was after I discovered the taste of Altoids, but before I discovered when they could really be useful. So all cock tasted pretty much like cock.

There was nothing particularly interesting about sex with Joey. This is not a condemnation of him, merely a sad commentary on how much sex I had been having with assorted people that month. Were we to have met at any other month in my life, I probably would have been able to regale you with more details about what we did in he and his boyfriend's bedroom. As it was, I don't even remember what happened after we blew each other. I know at some point I must have left. Otherwise, I'd still be there now.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14601.html

Fighting Nitrous Oxide

During Whore Month, I averaged about 1.33 random hookups a day. Most of the time, I couldn't even be bothered to learn a person's name. Really, who wants to risk the codependent personal attachment implied in calling the person you're fucking by name?

One name I remember vividly is Ryan Duda. I hadn't planned on learning it, but it was written very neatly on his mailbox. From the moment I read it, I couldn't get "Camptown Races" our of my head.

I rang the doorbell, and was relieved to discover he wasn't one of those weird assholes who sends out fake pics. He was just as nerdy hot as I'd hoped. Blond, alfafed hair, glasses, and Milk and Cheese t-shirt. I wanted to take him right there on the doorstep. Instead, we headed up to his apartment and smoked apple flavored tobacco out of his gigantic Shiva shaped hookah.

After about a half hour of smoking and John Madden football, our clothes were off, and I was admiring his shaved seven inch cock. We were in the midst of one of the better kisses I've been involved in when

Who's got a Shiva shaped bong? Duda, Duda.
Who's got a seven inch schlong? Duda, Duda,

Suddenly I was in The Giggle Loop. He probably grew up having people make fun of his name, I didn't want to be the umpteen millionth guy who thought he was cute by making a Duda joke. Laughing at his name while we kissed would be extremely inappropriate. *snork*

"What?" he asked.

I knew if I spoke, I was going to start giggling. So I returned to kissing him. Soon he was licking his way down my stomach, and

Who's as long as he is thick? Duda. Duda.
Who's about to suck my dick? Duda. Duda.

*giggle*

He looked up at me quizzically. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm *giggle* ticklish."

"Ok."

I couldn't concentrate. Not that one has to concentrate in order to get a blowjob. Still, it's nice to be able to enjoy the sensation of hot nerd tongue without having to think

Who's got plaid sheets on his bed? Duda. Duda.
Who's real good at giving head? Duda. Duda.

*snicker* *snicker*

"Wow." he said. "You must be really ticklish."

"Well, that is a uhhh sensitive area."

He smiled at me. "I didn't know you were so" lewd smirk "sensitive." Neither did I.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Smirking, giggling, and moaning flip flopped as often as sexual positions until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Who smokes apple flavored hash? Duda. Duda.
Who's wearing a come mustache? Oh, Duda's gay.

original posts: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/778973.html
http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/1700626.html

The Kind of Beach Movies They Didn't Make In The 50s

I know how sand is formed. It is the rubbing of bodies against rock. The incoming waves are only there to clean your skin cells away. You may not want to touch the shiny part of sand. It could be a potential ancestor who got recreationed out of procreation.

BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: You use awfully big words. Weird concepts.
NotYetInsafemode: My libido is unscrupulous
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: Should I bring Trojans?
NotYetInsafemode: Only if you want to let the Greeks invade
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: So I'll see you in an hour?

I drove myself out of my mind and on to the road. I was still fairly new to the whole hook-up thing. The days of me saying "Sure, let's fuck" weren't far off, but there was just enough hill on my horizon that I couldn't make them out yet. I was still believing that I was looking for love. That somehow this stranger would be the answer to my every agnostic prayer.

I drove by him twice. It was two AM. It was dark outside. He was wearing a black hoodie. I was about to turn around and go home when I saw his hand wave.

He kissed me when he got in the car, as though we were lovers who hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"Where's your car?" I asked, because I am the king of social grace.

"I didn't want to risk my Aunt hearing me pull out, so I biked here."

"You live with your Aunt?"

"No. I'm just here on vacation for a couple weeks. A little downtime between exams and summer work."

"Oh, where are you from?"

Where he was from was such an important detail that I stored it next to his name. I must have blocked the synapse necessary for its retrieval with something slightly more important to me, like what I had for breakfast on my fifth birthday: Pancakes.

We talked for hours. All I remember is that we spent a great deal of time talking about The Black Cauldron, and how Disney never gave it its due. We talked about everything but what we were there to do. Eventually, I couldn't help but kiss him. I straddled his body because the sand was making my ass itch. He kissed like a closeted college student who met up with another closeted college student over The Internet. No one would make a romance movie about our lovemaking. The tide didn't come in over our bodies. The breeze didn't blow either of our hair in a sultry manner. I sucked his cock because it seemed like the right thing to do. I swallowed because I hadn't yet. He'd been eating a lot of fruit.

His lips were chapped.

I was almost there when the sound of someone approaching approached. He looked up startled. I hit him on the chin. This startled him more.

No one was approaching except daylight. I gave him my number. He said he'd call me the next day. Of course, I never heard from him again. As I pulled away from the beach, my headlights caught his back as he leaned over into the sea to wash his face. I'd like to think my sperm grew into jellyfish.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17108.html