Weekend of Sexual Indulgence, III

When I woke up Saturday morning, it was in a sweat. I'd slept wonderfully, if sweatily, and was ready for the new day. I put on some shorts, a tank top and my running shoes, grabbed my credit card, called for early maid service, and left the hotel. I jogged down Pine Street, ran along Pike Place Market, cut through and went down to Western Avenue to jog along the water front. It was a bit breezy, overcast, but perfect weather for a short run.

I stopped by Starbucks on the way back to grab an Americano, no calories you know, and a shortbread cookie and headed back to my room.

Smelling myself in the elevator, I got inside and took a quick shower, sparing a brief moment of pity for the maid who'd had the job of cleaning up last nights mess, and emerged clean, refreshed and ready to get dirty. Very, very dirty.

Out came my MacBook Pro to quickly reference who was on deck for today. In my spare time during the week, I'd made an Word document with the screen names, any details and stats I'd learned and the pictures that I'd seen or received for each potential fuck. Jorge, Brandon, Paul, Chris, Mike, Craig and Shawn. Quite a collection. While I had them stacked, in some cases nearly back to back, knowing the tendency of homos to flake I figured I'd have some wiggle room. Hopefully.

All of them gave me cell numbers as a way to reach them. Deciding to stick with the order, I looked at the pictures of Jorge, a 5'10" hispanic guy with short black hair, brown eyes, and an average build and cock, and pulled out my phone. While he wasn't overly hot, he was eager and had begged me to pound him til he screamed for mercy. Which is certainly doable. More than doable.

I smiled, thumbed the in his phone number, and grinned again when I heard his sleepy voice croak, "hello?"

"Jorge, this is Mike from Manhunt. How's it going?"

"OH! Mike! Hey man, not bad," he said, voice perking up, "just, you know, laying in bed..."

"Well," I said, "get the fuck out of your bed, and get the hell into mine. I'm naked (I wasn't), hard (true), and waiting impatiently for some hole (more true). Now move." I clicked off the phone, entered the hotel room number into a text message and sent it to him, ignoring his return call. I stripped down, more careful this time of where I tossed the clothes, and sprawled out on the bed. Thinking ahead, I got up and went to the door, propping it open with the lock so he could let himself in and find me hard and waiting.

I heard the knock when he finally arrived, about 25 minutes later, and shouted "come in". He didn't hesitate; immediately the door opened and I got my first glimpse of Jorge.

Hooking up from the net is fraught with perils. Guys don't always look as advertised, be it height, weight, age, or even race (yes, I once had a black guy try to use the pic of a white dude to get me into bed. I don't have anything against black guys, but am not typically sexually attracted to them and I'm against ANYONE who lies in order to get me to fuck). Jorge, unfortunately, was one of those. While he looked similar to his pictures in most respects, he'd very obviously put on at least 35 pounds since they were taken. The face was chubbier and the previously average body now sported a decent belly.

Not good.

The conversation on Manhunt had focused mainly on my desire to wreck his hole. He wanted to get pounded, and I wanted to pound. Before, even with the average body, he'd sported a flat stomach, and ok build. What stood before me stirred absolutely no desire to put my cock anywhere near his hole. In fact, my previously hard shaft was now rapidly deflating.

The silence lengthened and I am pretty sure he knew why. I couldn't imagine that I was the first guy who'd had this reaction with the lying son of a bitch. He stood there, in front of the bed, now twiddling his fingers almost spasmodically, looking as if he wanted to say something but didn't dare.

Ugh. I hate homos sometimes.

"Dude. You don't look like your pictures at all. I specifically asked," I said, anger slightly coloring my tone, "if you were height and weight proportionate, and if you still sported the body in those pics. You assured me you did and you were as the pictures showed. Honestly, are you stupid enough to think you truly look like that now?"

Having been sexually active for over a decade, I knew how homos in general, and the passive-aggressive Seattle fags specifically, operate. This was quite possibly the first time he'd ever been spoken to that bluntly or called out on his lie. Most guys will make an excuse which both people know is a lie, but avoids uncomfortable confrontations, to get out of a soured hookup. Others go through with it as a mercy fuck, unwilling to tell the other person no. And a few others will apologetically say, "Sorry man, I just don't think we're a match... It's not you, it's me."

Well, I wasn't the lying bastard in this situation, so I felt disinclined to be the bad guy. I lay there, arms crossed over my chest, cock now completely limp, and waited for an answer. Judging by the stunned look on his face and the increasing glistening around the eyes, I'd say the point had hit home. Aw, fuck. I didn't need or want to deal with tears. Goddam,it.

I sighed, patted the bed next to me, and after he finally sat down, read him the riot act.

I wasn't willing to fuck a guy who'd lied to me and whom I wasn't sexually attracted to. I didn't, however, mind getting blown. Fuck, it was just head and I could close my eyes and expend no effort in it, so what the hell. I told him if he had no problem with that, then we were good. If he did, then he could walk the fuck out the door. Period.

Apparently, blowing me was good enough. Almost before I'd finished speaking his mouth was glued to my cock, giving me what turned out to be one of the better blowjobs in my life. Not bad for a fat mexican.

I let him do his thing, licking, sucking, slurping and swallowing my cock at his own speed and in his own way. As I lay there with my eyes closed, imagining Jon from the night before sucking my cock, I decided I needed a bit more say in the play. Both hands found his head, and like a machine, I set the pace for a steady rhythm to skull fuck him with.

He never even flinched.

Repositioning his head and body, he lengthened his neck and opened up the back of his throat and took every jab of my cock with an expertise I thoroughly enjoyed. He got me close, would sense it and back off, as much as I'd let him, keeping me on edge three times. Towards the end I refused to let him off, gripping his head and slamming his nose against my pubes, unloading the 9 hours or so of pent up cum to flow into his gullet.

Much better. I walked to the bathroom, not even deigning to glance at him, dismissal clear from my demeanor, and was glad to hear the door close as I peed.

At least he took the hint.

Happy to have cum, but dissatisfied with both the guy and the lack of being able to fuck hole, I looked at the list and called Brandon.

A saucy little bottom, he had a mouth on him and a sense of humor that had me laughing and rising to genuinely good spirits. Flaming, but unashamed of it, he was a great lay and just fun to be around. When he finally begged off to a late lunch date he had with friends I was actually disappointed to see his backside heading towards the door, all six feet of him sashaying with attitude. A flamer, true, but a good lay for all of that.

Paul, Chris and Mike blurred together next. None were spectacularly hot or ugly and not one of them were more than average lays. While I certainly enjoyed fucking each of them, by the time Mike had left, the fact that I'd fucked five guys by that time and only one of them had been really good bummed me out.

Hoping to finally get a good, last lay of the day, I rolled the dice and called Shawn instead of Craig. Shawn, from his pictures, was hot as hell. About 5'9" with 7" of nice cock, he swam competitively and had the body to prove it. Ripped, lean and with great definition, he sported the bleached, punkish surfer look to perfection. He also, so he claimed, wanted to get used hard. Very hard.

I dialed his number and gave my quick introduction when he answered. He said he was horny as fuck and was ready now. I gave him my details and smiled when he said he would see me in 20.

I lay on my bed and watched TV. With 3 minutes to go, I was starting to get antsy. When my clock showed he was now 5 minutes late, I started to get pissed. When that lengthened to 15 minutes late, I entered the "I just got flaked on" stage. This stage was characterized by a massive outburst of quick anger, followed by blowing my load into my hand. Or towel. I didn't bother to call him; his type never answers, the fuckers just get their jollies off from their online fantasies and being chased and pleaded with.

I wasn't playing.

I blew my load into the hand towel I'd put on the night stand and headed back to the shower. I was fed up with sex, scary thought, and decided to call Zane. Maybe we could go see a movie or hit Nordstrums. Something.

Todays score: Guys, 5. Good lays, 1. Lying bastards 1. Average fucks, 3. Flakes, 1.

Just another day in a gay mans sex life. Fuck.

Tomorrow, I hoped, would be better.

~Mike

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Weekend of Sexual Indulgence, II

Jon was early. 2 minutes and 12 seconds early, to be exact. But I wasn't counting. Really. Much.

Fine, I was horny as fuck and wanted to sink my cock into hole.

The knock on the door at 20:42:48 was a bit timid, almost uncertain. I walked to the door, cock semi-hard and flopping against my legs, and opened it. His hand was raised as if he was about to knock again, and he looked a bit taken aback that I was standing, door fully open, naked with my cock rapidly hardening. Fuck, I didn't care. I was focused on only one thing.

I smiled at him after a moment and asked, "So, did you actually want to come in?" He stammered out a yes, still clearly taken aback, offered a smile and crossed the threshold.

His ass was mine. Now I just had to claim it.

We wasted no further words on talk. As soon as I turned back around, I picked him up from behind and carried him to the bed. I tossed him onto the king-sized bed, a queen is too small for my frame, and proceeded to strip off his clothes. I was impressed at the closeness between his pictures on Manhunt and what I was seeing in reality. He was maybe an inch shorter than he claimed, I'd peg him around 5'7", but had a beautiful body. A cross between a gymnast and a swimmer's build. He had the classic Aryan coloring, blond hair, blue eyes, and a slight tan that served to offset his coloring a bit, which gave him a surfer boy appeal. Great tone, perfect size for his frame, he had just a smattering of hair leading from mid belly down to his groin in a thin trail. Perfect.

It was a trail I wanted to explore. In depth.

I groped my way down his body, tossing his pants carelessly to the side, wincing when the light went as the the lamp I'd knocked over burnt out, and swallowed his 6.5" cock in a single gulp. It had good girth, was cut, and perfectly straight. All in all, it was a pretty nice dick. With my body covering his, my drooling cock smashed up against his face, I felt his mouth open and begin to tongue probe for my dick. I lifted up my groin a bit, allowing him to get a mouthful, and started to slowly pump his mouth.

I let go of his cock with my mouth and moaned as his throat finally, truly, opened up and slid my cock in. He giggled, as much as one can with 9" of cock snaked down a throat, as my trimmed pubes brushed up against the underside of his nose. Starting to gag, he tried to scoot down the bed to let some cock out of his mouth. I held him by the shoulders, kept my cock in place and slowly began to fuck his mouth. Slow, gentle, easy strokes.

I felt the tension go out of his shoulders as we fell into a rhythm, enjoying the feeling of his hands kneading my ass as he began to really get into it. I love head, but I don't actually cum from it. Or, rather, I do very, very rarely. So, while I enjoyed his superb cock-sucking skills, it was for something else that I was truly looking forward to.

I withdrew my cock from his lips and in one motion, picked up his 150 pound frame, and turned him over so that his ass was up in the air. I started alternatively licking and slapping his ass, allowing his beautiful, white bubble ass to turn a rosy red. Every sharp smack of my hand, I watched his body quiver, my free hand wrapped around his cock and feeling it spasm in time to my slaps. He moaned in pain; he writhed in pleasure.

This kid was hot, no question about it. Beautiful body, great face, talented all around, I didn't want to waste my enjoying his hole by loosening him up. Nay, I wanted him tight, taut and squirming. In pleasure, of course. Yes...pleasure. Hmm.

I rolled on the waiting condom with one hand, while my other hand pulled his meaty cheeks apart. Exposed, quivering to the air was a perfect, hairless pucker. Clean and tight, I could tell from his cocksucking that he knew what he was doing, but from the look of his hole wasn't a total cum dumpster bottom whore. Excellent. After all, some dudes' holes you see and you just know they're wrecked; a loose, ugly mass of flesh that couldn't get donkey off. None of that shit here!

I pumped two squirts of Gunoil into my palm, slathered it onto my condom clad cock, and put the head against his rosebud. I felt him take a breath, but before he could finish inhaling, I rammed it in. Hard.

Apparently, that gave the cue for the rodeo, because he reared up so fast that he nearly threw me off the bed. As it was, I had a hard enough time holding him down, half of my cock lodged in him. He struggled a bit, trying to squirm away, but I held him underneath me. Cock slowly, but surely, slipping bit by bit deeper into his hole as he lay there pinned.

I could tell when the pain really stopped, his breathing steadied, and the squirming changed to a slowly increasing thrust of his ass backwards to meet the cock worming its way in and out of his hole. Taking that as a good sign, I gripped his shoulders tight and plunged the last 3 inches or so up his hole. He shuddered a bit, but like a good bottom, took it like a man. Quietly.

Good boy.

I got up onto my knees and pulled him into a half doggie position. With both hands, I had his ass cheeks spread, and stared entranced at the sight of my shaft disappearing into this beautiful mound of an ass. The slapping sounds of my groin and balls against his ass filled the room, along with his increasingly vocal pleas for me to rail the fuck out of him. A plea I heartily obliged.

I picked him up and carried him to the wall, leaning him against it. The pressure he could apply backwards, pushing off the wall, allowed the hardest, roughest rhythm that his body and hole could handle.

I fucked him for over an hour that first time. His tight hole, goddammit, continuously forced me to slowdown, if not completely stop, to keep from cumming. It was worth it. When I had him missionary, feet behind his ears as I rammed my cock up his chute, I felt the irrevocable feeling of my load rising from my nuts. Mashing my mouth against his, tongue demanding, mouth taking, I blew my wad into the rubber as I stuck my cock in deep enough to clean his tonsils.

Ahhhh. Fuuuck yes.

As I lay there, panting a bit, kissing him, I realized he hadn't cummed. Hadn't even jacked off.

Eh. He could do that in round two.

Originally, Jon had said he only had an hour and a half to fuck. I ended up fucking him three times, his tortured, now puffy ass lips finally staggered out of my room at 23:46. Three hours later.

God, I'm good.

Three loads, 2 pints of sweat, and a beer whiz later, I was considerably more dehydrated than when I'd started. Easy fix. I cracked open another two beers.

While I worked on re-hydrating myself, I felt my cock twitching. Jon was a hot fuck, to be sure, but I had still wanted to fuck and he hadn't been able to take it. I needed more hole.

Time to call Jason.

Picking up my phone, I brought up the recent calls section, selected his number and hit dial. It didn't even finish ringing before I heard a breathless, "Hello??". I didn't bother with small talk. "Dude. I'm drunk. And horny. You gonna put out or what?"

37 seconds later I was once again leaning back on the bed, naked, waiting for a guy to come over and bring me his hole. I thought, briefly, about tidying up the evidence of my previous fuck, but decided against it. Between the lingering and unmistakable smell of sex still in the air, to the lube stains all over the bed, there was no covering up what had just happened. Might as well embrace it.

When I heard the knock, I rose from the bed and headed for the door. Once again, I threw it open, not caring about who was on the other side and could see my naked ass. The reaction, however, was quite different. Where Jon had been nervous and stammered, Jason gave me a cool, almost professional up and down stare and then walked forward into the room with out a word.

Well. Someone thought high of himself. As I closed the door, he turned around, studying me again, and simply said, "So, you were busy earlier because you had to fuck some other dude. That's classy."

Yeah. My opinion of Jason was rapidly decreasing. Fortunately, judging from the rather noticeable tent forming in his pants, whether or not he approved of what I had done before hand, his body still liked what stood before him. It knew one thing: hot, naked, hung top 2 feet away. Spread. Legs. Now.

It was my job to help that desire along.

Before he could blink, I was on him. Hands pinning his arms to his side, I lifted him up, and laid him out on the bed. A bit taller than Jon, about 5'10" but with a slimmer, leaner build, a shock of brown hair and a set of pale gray eyes, his body fit well against mine, his weight easy to toss around. And I did.

Within a minute I had his lean body naked, ass up, spread out before me. Just as I had done with Jon, I didn't waste time on loosening up his allegedly all-top virgin hole, but rather looked forward to possibly plucking his cherry hole untouched by tongue or fingers.

He tensed considerably when he realized what was going on, his cheeks clamping together as I tried to probe with my cock. Frustrated, I smacked his ass. Hard. Judging by his grunt, it was harder than I'd intended. Guess that was one beer too many. Oh well.

His cheeks loosened a bit, and getting a bit grip, I spread them apart as far as possible. My cockhead now against his hole, the room itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Fuck if I cared. I stabbed down as hard as I could, wanting to break through the ring first try. Hmm...judging from the vise-like grip of his hole and the ensuing fight he put up, maybe he hadn't been lying about the top-only thing. Shit.

Too late now.

With about a third of my dick up his hole, I tried to hold on. Jason wasn't screaming, but he definitely made his discomfort known with a litany of "holy fuck, stop" and "take it out, goddamit". I tried to hold on, but the strength of his writhing was enough to nearly knock me loose. Frustrated, and beginning to get irritated, I finally put a stop to his bullshit. Putting all my weight on my cock and groin, holding myself up on my elbows, I punched the mattress about two inches to the right of his head and then again with the other hand on the other side. Fists holding me up, each one mere inches from his head, his protests suddenly decreased. A lot.

Oops. I was just repositioning, that's all. I swear.

What began as a weird fuck, finished the same way. I never really got into it, and while I loved the fact that I robbed him of his cherry that night, it was nowhere near as hot as plowing the little swimmer/gymnast.

Oh well.

At least I wouldn't have difficulty walking in the morning. Hah!

So, that was Friday night...

~Mike

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Weekend of Sexual Indulgence, I

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Sunday Morning Interlude

I just woke up. I'm laying in bed at the hotel, and did a quick, groggy, glance around the room. The hotel's cheap, black, waste basket is next to the bed, filled with 15 or so condoms and two empty bottles of lube. There are stained towels scattered everywhere, discarded remnants of the last two days of sex. It's almost 0900. I have to check out by 1300, I got an extension, and I have 3 more guys to bang before that.

Fuck, I'm hungry.

Time for breakfast! Can anyone say Broadway Grill?

~Mike

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Goodnight, and Good Luck

Since I began this blog, I have faithfully written something everyday. I mean, what's the point of a daily journal if you aren't going to keep it up?

With my weekend of fleshly delights starting tomorrow, however, there will likely be a lull in major posts. I'll try to add short snippets in between rounds, but I currently have 11 guys scheduled and will be on the hunt for more. To maximize time, doncha know?

The first of the posts focusing on the weekend will probably be up Sunday night, but definitely by Monday afternoon. Stay tuned!

~Mike

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The Quickie and the Hospital

If you've ever heard the term "quickie", then you know the wide range of implications the word holds. Fast, typically sleazy, just-to-get-your-nut-off type of sex. This morning I had a quickie.

Last night, I got home, went through my routine at the gym where nothing even remotely exciting happened, went home, made a protein shake and two chicken breasts for dinner and proceeded to walk Shade. Fun. After my trott/walk with Shade, I took a shower and settled down for the night. Exciting, eh? I was more tired than I suspected; the next thing I knew, I was nearly leaping out of my skin as my alarm screeched it's wake up call. Remote still in hand, with a crick in my neck from how I'd propped myself up to watch TV in bed, I dragged myself out of bed and to the shower.

It was one of those mornings.

Today, fortunately, I was not expected at work. For those of you who don't know the greater Seattle or Puget Sound area and its military environs, allow me to briefly describe it. The Puget Sound area stretches from Olympia (the state Capitol) in the south to Everett just north of Seattle, for a total distance of roughly 75 miles. About 3 million or so people live in that stretch. This includes the 30,000 soldiers at Fort Lewis, 8,000 or so airmen at McChord Air Force Base, and another 25,000 or so squids (navy folk) and Marines at various locations around Puget Sound.

With base realignment and eyes on saving costs, new encouragement is placed on "joint" military infrastructure services. Typically, this means sharing facilities and resources where it is feasible, while typically inconvenient, to do so. The Army, unfortunately, has the largest medical facility in the region, known as MAMC for the Madigan Army Medical Center. For major repair work, surgeries, or specialties that aren't supported at your home installation, a servicemember travels to Fort Lewis and for treatment at Madigan. Such a fun trip. Today, I got to experience it first hand.

As I sat bored in a waiting room at Madigan, a thought came to mind. While I really didn't want to drive to Lewis in the first place, there were a number of cute guys stationed here that I've hooked up with in the past.

I pulled out my RAZR (I really need to upgrade to something better. I want an iPhone but they're so goddamned expensive, fuck), scrolled down to the FT L section of my phone book and scanned for the screen name I remembered as the best fuck. Hey, its hard to keep track solely by names. The Josh's or Joe's or Nick's... they all blur together given time, but I've found I tend to remember the screen names. Of the hot ones at least. Anyway, I hit dial after I highlighted "FT L hotbttm-redo", and by the second ring heard his voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey bro, its Mike, *********** from Manhunt? I'm stuck at Madigan after driving a friend down (lie), and have some free time to kill...whatsup?"

"Hey Mike, been awhile! I'm actually at work. Weird, but I work at the Medical Mall attached to Madigan. Maybe 4 minutes' walk from you. Where you at?"

From there it was simply a matter of logistics. We agreed to meet at the Medical Mall's main atrium near the Pharmacy in 10 minutes. I ended the call, got up, and quickly told the receptionist I needed to use the latrine and would be back shortly. As they were backlogged due to some reason or another, my leaving wasn't an issue.

I headed down to the atrium and saw him standing near the wall, staring idly at a map of the hospital. I came up, clapped him on the back, and led him down the hall towards the Pharmacy. Taking care to ensure no one was paying us overt attention, we entered one of the many single-person lockable latrines. He opened his mouth to say something, but I was on a time crunch. I put my hands on his shoulders, pushed down hard and let him lick the front of my now bulging pants.

I leaned against the wall, hands on his head with my eyes closed, and just let him go to town. He unzipped my fly, reached in and pulled out my cock, licking the head and trying to tease me. I was having none of it: I grabbed his head, and he quickly opened up his mouth and throat to avoid my cock drilling a hole through his skull. Head tilted as far back as possible, eyes turned up at me in a glare, he looked up at me with a "you asshole" expression on his face. I just grinned back. He snorted, somehow, and it tickled the head of my shaft.

Fuck, yes. Nothing like good head in the morning.

And good he was. I stood there, up against the wall, enjoying and savoring every minute of his blowjob, hands ramming my cock in and out of his throat so fast I was shocked he could still breath. During one particularly violent thrust, I pulled back too far and my cock slipped out of his mouth. Panting, he grabbed the base and murmured, "Ohmigod. I fucking love your dick. It's sooo much bigger than my boyfriends'."

Well, fuck. That's kinda hot. Hell yeah! I didn't allow him to utter another word, and shoved my dick back down his gullet to shut him up. As he sat there taking my cock, I just relaxed and enjoyed his ministrations with a smile. As he sucked, I felt the stirrings start deep in my nuts. It was time. With a grunt that echoed of the walls I started to blow and rammed my cock into his blow-hole as far as I could. I kept it there, allowing it to shoot its volley. I fed him the entire load.

He drank every drop. Willingly. The greedy cum whore.

I'm not really sure if he'd wanted to cum, or expected more action, but I pulled him up, gave him a quick peck on the lips and pointed out that he should leave first since two people leaving a one person latrine was slightly weird. In a hospital. On an army base. Where he worked.

He left.

I quickly closed the door behind him and sat down on the toilette for a moment to catch my breath, enjoying the afterglow of my orgasm and the glorious absence of small talk. Remembering my shenanigans at the Harry Potter movie, I pulled out a pen and left my mark on the wall. Looking at my handiwork, I smiled, put my still dripping cock into my briefs, 2xist Soy today thank you, and left.

Considering I had a sexual lull last month, this month seems to be picking up. Not bad, I'm almost into the teens.

If I could get service like that every time I had to come here, I'd reconsider my feelings on cumming to Madigan!

~Mike

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Questions and Answers, Take 1

So, I've gotten two comments on postings and several e-mails since I started this blog. The comments were encouraging; the e-mails, not so much.

I thought for today, as the weather is nice and I am stuck inside an office at the moment with jack shit to do, I'd address what seem to be recurring questions and issues.

1) Question: "Are you for real?"
Yes. Just checked, pulse is still there.

2) Question: "Are you really an active duty Marine? Your blog looks too smart for it to be true."
This question has, by far, been asked most often. It pisses me the fuck off. A lot. For those of you out there who have a sterotype of Marines specifically and military personnel in general as being stupid and incompetent, I say F-U-C-K Y-O-U. While there are, I admit, people who aren't the brightest bulbs in the box, there are plenty Marines who have degrees and are extremely intelligent. Doubting my authenticity simply because I sound too smart, or too polished, is fucking ridiculous. I can write and I take pride in doing it well. It's that simple.

3) Question: "I know a bunch of military guys in Seattle, and I don't know you, and I know most of them - what gives?"
When I said I changed some details in order to keep my identity secret, I meant just that. I am not looking to give an over abundance of details to point fingers at any specific person (in most cases) or at myself. My free time is also evenly split between gay and straight groups of friends. The two do not intermix. Perhaps you haven't met me, or perhaps you have and simply do not know I'm military; I rarely advertise the fact. Regardless, if you do not like it, or think that I am fake because of it, that is your problem.

4) Question: "Can we fuck?"
Two people have asked this... and I don't really know how to reply. I didn't create this blog to get hookups, I get plenty of sex as it is. I suppose that could be a fringe benefit. Hmm. The biggest problem with meeting from my blog is that you would then be able to put who I am together with this site, something no one, as of now, can do. When I hook up a guy his only thought is that I'm hot. Typically I don't mention I'm a Marine and he knows and learns nothing else. I'm not certain I want people to be able to say "I JUST GOT STUFFED BY TOP MARINE" and put a face and name to the man. That said... I'll correspond with anyone and from there, who knows :-)

5) Question: "The pic on the site is that you?"
Yes. I had a friend Photoshop it so you can't make out my face. And no, you can not get a version with a face or with more detail.

~Mike

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Holy Decline Press, Batman!

I really hate the modern image of what constitutes attractiveness: if you're a woman, it means you don't eat and if you're a guy it means you eat small meals 6-8 times a day and workout for two hours 4-6 times a week. Unless you're one of those assholes gifted with good genes and have to do neither. Fuckers.

Unfortunately, I fall into the former category, in that I am NOT gifted with good genes, and I'm a guy. I'm stuck packing little meals, protein shakes, waging a constant battle to make sure that I am on schedule with both diet and fitness to stay in shape. While the payoff is nice, who doesn't enjoy being gawked at, the amount of time and effort it requires to have such a body is enormous.

There are, however, perks.

After getting over the daily "am I going to go, fuck I don't want to go... I just want to nap!" internal conversation about the days gym attendance, I went to the gym on base for my workout. I alternate between the base gym, a local gym off base, and a gym I belong to in Seattle, depending upon where I am and what I am doing that day. No, I will not describe or mention the particular gym; I enjoy my workouts inquisition free, thanks.

Anyway, gyms are a great place to cruise. As everyone there is narcissistic to some degree and either staring at themselves or people who are bigger in envy and determination to one day look like that, you can always make eye contact with a hot guy. Tonight, I thought, was a great night to lift some weights, eye some hot cock, then head home and rub one out.

I got to the gym, changed out of my uniform, and started out with some stretching and 10 minutes of light cardio to get the heart beating. As I ran on the treadmill I noticed this cute young guy staring at me. I glanced over at him and he quickly looked away, an almost-blush hinting on his cheeks. At about 19 or 20, he was a toned 5'9" and 160 pounds. With black hair and green eyes, he had a compelling look that had me telling myself to remember I was freeballing it. Getting a woody would be a bad idea. Staring at guys. On base. Yeah.

So I turned up the volume on my iPod shuffled clipped to my wrist and focused on whatever Sum 41 song was currently blasting my hearing away. I finished my cardio and headed over to do my chest sets.

I always start with the bench press on chest days, going on to free weights and ending with the press machine and cable cross. I alternate regular, incline and decline bench presses every chest day, allowing greater variety in my routine. Today, unfortunately, was the decline day. I really, really, hate the decline press. It always feels like I'm going to get a hernia or pop hemorrhoids from the exertion.

Regardless, it was decline day. I started with a light warmup set, about 155, got up from the bench, drank some water and without realizing it locked eyes with the boy. Again.

Fuck.

With the first twinge of my shorts snake, I whirled around, sat back down on the bench and closed my eyes thinking of Rosie O'Donnel naked and asking me to fuck her while she ate a tub of Ben and Jerry's. Eww.

With my cock going back to sleep, I got up, put on my working weight, and went to it. The sexual frustration I felt at that moment had me a bit wired to try more weight than typical, and I loaded on 315 for the first working set.

I started strong, knocked out 5, but as I started to put up the 6th rep I felt the difficulty and quickly wondered if I was going to need to call for a spot.

Apparently, my difficulty was more obvious than I knew, or else the boy was paying more attention than I had realized. Either way he was there spotting me before I could call out. He smiled down at me as he put his hands palm up under the bar, and the weight went up. Easily. I returned his smile, glanced towards the ceiling and got a quick glance up his shorts. Apparently, I wasn't the only one freeballing today.

Nice. Very nice.

In between the first and second set we introduced ourselves and I thanked him for his help. We quickly decided to workout together for the rest of the day and discussed what to hit next. We went through our chest exercises, doing exercises from each of our routines, and as we made our way back to the locker room discussed grabbing dinner.

We never made it to dinner.

As we both needed to "shower", an action I typically did at home to cut down on the amount of clothing changes I needed to carry around, we decided to head back to my place first before hitting a local restaurant. When we got there, I offered him the shower first as was fitting for a guest. Declining, he insisted that I go first.

I was in the shower for all of two minutes, washing my hair in the most porn-setting of circumstances as it were, when I heard the door open and felt his hands on my back.

The rest of the shower was spent primarily with my holding him up against the wall, legs wrapped around my waist as I made out with him.

I spent the next 2 hours exploring every inch of his body and milking two loads out of each of our cocks before he finally dropped the bombshell.

"Mike, this is fucking hot, but I need to get going... my wife is going to be expecting me soon, I'm already late."

Well, fuck.

I let him finally get dressed, his hole considerably looser now than when he woke up this morning, and walked him to the door. We didn't bother to exchange numbers; we knew we'd see each other around. With a wave from his rolled-down window, he headed home to a wife who couldn't give him what he really wanted.

Which is good, because I'd gotten what I'd wanted. I'm going to sleep very well tonight.

As I finished writing this quick note, I checked my various e-mail accounts for this weekend's hotel fun. I've gotten 5 replies from some of the notes I sent out thus far... 4 of the guys, in further pictures, looked very fuck worthy, while one looked not considerably less good. Amazing what changes when you get pictures larger than a postage stamp.

3 more days to go!

~Mike

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Fast Food Fantasy

You know, everyone in America, if not the world, knows that fast food is bad for you. As much as some fat slobs want to say "I didn't know that eating 6 happy meals a day would make me fat and disgusting", no one is really that stupid.

But. There is a reason they do it. Sometimes it's nice to just sit down, not count the calories, the laps swam or the miles run and just eat. Deal with the guilt later.

So, after having a relatively boring day, stuck inside with the rain, hanging out and just generally relaxing (primarily due to the fact that I am busily reading the new Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, currently at page 172), I decided I was hungry. Fooood.

Since I didn't really see anything overly appetizing in the fridge (left over indian was about it, and the seafood biryati rice didn't look good at all), I thought that a trip Sheri's sounded about right. So, I picked up my book, headed to Shari's and ordered a chocolate shake, mozzarella sticks, and a burger. If I am gonna fat it up, then by god I am going to do it right.

~Mike

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Chester the Molester: First Meeting

I never intended to tell this story, for reasons that it is both preachy and the fact that I still find it mildly embarrassing. I'm mildly drunk, a heavy buzz at least, and figured what the fuck. So, here it goes.

In my narrow, fairly conservative worldview, there are still many things I find objectionable to my sense of moral dignity. The homos typically seem to find ways to raise my ire in just about every way. When Zane told me about this great house party at some old rich tech guys house off the end of Broadway on north Capitol Hill, I was skeptical, but, figured what the hell.

We ate dinner at a place not far from the site of the party, a tasty restaurant called Deluxe. After paying our check, we got into the car, and headed for Broadway and then onto 10th Ave. We reached the house, and my first thought was “holy fuck!”.

When Zane said that it was a rich tech guy, I figured he would have a nice place, but not, you know, rich rich. This guy, Chester, apparently was actually rich. Good god, what a house.

Between the three stories, picturesque views of both down town Seattle and Lake Union, you knew this wasn’t the type of home that went for less than several million. We parked the car on a side street, walked to the door and rang the bell.

Chester answered the door promptly. My first impression of him was that he was a decent, middle aged computer guru enjoying his money. About 5’8”, thinning, lank blond hair, a round melon like face, and the pudge of a man in his 40s who enjoyed life and didn’t work out.

He held out his hand, and introduced himself. We all shook hands, followed him into his gorgeous house, and followed as he played the consummate host. He led us on a quick tour of the premises, and from the upper floors, the sound of music and conversation drifted down.

When the tour ended at the third floor at the party, a fairly small affair in terms of number of attendees, the first thing that struck me was the age and type of guys at the party. At 26, I looked to be the oldest person at the party, minus Chester. Zane, 2 years older than I, looked about 20 and his perennial twinkish looks made him a perfect candidate for the crowd here.

As I looked around the room, noting some of the conversations, the looks, the booze, the image forming in my mind rapidly resolved into clarity. Picture this: a wealthy, older, fairly unattractive man, generous with his money, throws a party for young, cute, twink guys most of whom were undoubtedly underage. While I wasn’t certain any of them were young enough for the label to be accurate, the word “pedophile” was certainly prominent in my mind at that moment.

Fuck. Not the sort of place a closeted marine homo needs to be if the cops descend.

Eh, fuck it.

We mingled around, my attention falling on a sexy, mixed heritage guy and rapidly struck up a conversation. Most of the guys here, cute as hell to be sure, were undoubtedly bottoms. The fact that I was older, good looking, and very obviously a top, was attracting a bit of attention in and of itself.

At that moment, Chester, came up and started the conversation, with the boy I’d been talking to taking the hint and drifting away. He handed me a drink, a rather well made Long Island, watched his as yet untouched drink in his hand while I sipped at mine and conversed. He made a lot of the usual small talk, asked my thoughts on Iraq, how was life in the service, yada yada yawn, until he politely excused himself and drifted away.

Blinking, I noticed that I’d drained my glass during the interminable chit-chat and already felt trashed. As a fairly large guy, who drinks regularly and greatly, I knew my limits. There is no way in fuck that one Long Island, especially in the size cup he’d used, could get me this fucked up, this fast.

Holy shit. Did that fucker drug me? I managed to stagger my way to the balcony, avoiding any possible confrontation and resulting beat down with Chester, and sat down heavily. Almost immediately I heard a noise behind me, and, before I could react, was greeted to my sexy boy rubbing my shoulders.

Within seconds I’d managed to grope him into position on my lap, and for the next hour we made out, groped and managed to do everything short of put my dick inside him on that balcony. Instead of feeling better, however, as time went on, I felt even loopier.

The next morning I woke up, naked, in a spare bedroom, the boy on the other side of the bed snoring, and rubbers all around the room. I groaned, trying vainly to remember what had happened, and rubbed my pounding head.

Holy shit, I had to get the fuck out of this fucked up house.

I grabbed my clothes, uncaring if the boy woke up or not. I left the room, ignoring the site of Chester at the bar casually drinking coffee in a terrycloth robe, and left the house. I thumbed on my cell phone, noticed the 14 or so missed texts and calls from Zane and promptly flagged down a taxi to head for his house.

I’m not sure what was in my drink, what Chester had had in mind, or what the hell happened between me and that boy, but I’ll tell you one thing: rich old guys being “nice and generous” to hot young guys are all trying for one thing. To get laid.

Thank god my hole didn’t hurt.

~Mike

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Harry Potter and the Order of Tuna

Marines are men. Manly, manly men. Grr.

In order to keep up this reputation, there is a guide of Marine etiquette that we are required to follow. It goes something like this:

1. If in bar, start fight.
2. If lose fight, make other person bleed.
3. Always find chick to fuck.
4. DO NOT READ HARRY POTTER.

So, not only do I violate two of the four rules, and on a fairly regular basis, but I was about to make it worse by actually daring to see a Harry Potter movie. In public. With friends. Tonight.

I've never been so ashamed.

Taking comfort the movie has been out for a week and the crowds would be low, I stood with my hat pulled down waiting in line at a ticket kiosk while Zane chattered into his cell phone. As I looked around, bored, I took note of the people standing around the lobby of the Meridian 16 waiting for friends, tickets, or both. A cute blond girl, about 20 from the looks of her with a rather sizeable rack straining against her green cami, was having a shrill conversation on her cell phone about 5 yards to my right. Apparently, her friends were running late and, judging from her complaints, wanted her to save several seats.

Lucky her.

She tossed her head as she spoke and we locked eyes momentarily, her conversation instantly forgotten. She smiled and looked ready to say something, so I gave her a little grin and promptly turned back towards the front. Fuck, that was close.

As the fat woman with her two dough-boy like children in front of me waddled away from the kiosk, I wiped her greasy finger prints off the screen and purchased tickets for myself, Zane and our friends Steve and Lane. We made our way up the multiple escalators, gave our tickets to the bored looking high school drop-out behind the table and made our way to theater 13.

Yippie.

Don't get me wrong. Believe it or not, I was actually excited to see the movie. As a closeted Harry Potter afficiando, typically I see the movies in the comfort of my own home. Where there are no people to gossip about my being there. Yeah, weird, I know. Fuck off.

We entered the theater, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, and looked for seats. Typically, I enjoy sitting in the middle of the middle row. Middle middle. Great place. That, damnit all, was taken by the fat woman and her ugly kids, so we went two rows behind them and tried our best to ignore the smell. As we sat there, bullshitting about where to go that night and what to do, the cute blond girl came in and sat down towards the left side of the middle column of seats and promptly got onto her cell phone.

Stupid bitches and their phones. Zane, catching onto the disgust the three of us directed at the chittering blond cunt several rows in front, closed his phone and quieted down to join in the conversation. As she sat there on her phone, a group of 3 guys came up to her and said "excuse me" to get her to move in order to get by.

"Hold on," she said into the phone. Turning to the guys, she said, "Actually, I'm sooo sorry, but these seats are saved. Like, my friends were caught in traffic, which totally sucks, you know?, and they will be here in like 4 minutes. So, can you, like, sit somewhere else? Thanks!" She managed to say all this without breathing in about 2 seconds. The group of guys looked at her, one looking ready to argue, before they finally muttered and moved down to the next row.

She promptly got back on her phone.

After what seemed like hours of hearing her gossip on her phone, trying not to smell the fat woman, and putting up with Zane, Steve and Lane's teasing suggestions about fucking the chick currently glued to her phone, the lights dimmed and we faced the assault by the previews. My poor eyes.

The blond’s friends picked this moment to enter the theater, and rather noisily made their way to their seats. Apparently Ms. Gossip Queen said something in the whispered conference conducted as they settled in, since they turned, almost as one, and stared at the 4 of us. At me.

Their attention made my skin crawl, and as they started to giggle, their heads merged, hands over their mouths, and whispered together while staring straight at us.

Too fucking weird.

The annoyingly loud, garish music of the, "And now, your featured presentation!" finally came on over the speakers, and with a last nearly physical assault of their eyes, the vultures turned around.

The movie started ok, but similar to the other Harry Potter movies it seemed disjointed. Like little clips haphazardly strung together. I always figured this came from trying to make 800 pages of text into a 2-hour film, in addition to spending the large blocks of time on the smallest, most insignificant parts (like Quidditch matches). After a good hour of the movie, my bladder was protesting against the 48 ounces of Diet Coke I'd drank, excused myself through the narrow seats, and made my way to the latrine. Stupid theater, one latrine in the whole building and it wasn't even on my floor. Fuck.

I made my way down the hallway, stopping briefly at the condiment stand to get a napkin and blow my nose. As I turned around to head towards the latrines, I nearly collided with Ms Perky-Blond-Cellphone-Tits girl who immediately smiled up at me. Great. I smiled, somewhat politely, and attempted to move around her. She intercepted me, opened her mouth, and spewed forth something suspiciously like a greeting from the chipmunks, it came out so fast. I blinked, nodded, smiled and tried to move around her again.

Apparently, as her attempt at "conversation" didn't get her the reaction she wanted, the little whore decided a more direct approach was needed. She took a step forward, boobs almost knocking me backwards, snaked a hand down my pants and stood on her tip toes to whisper in my ear.

"Lets. Fuck."

Now, pussy, as I’ve said before, is not my favorite way to go. I've been there, done that, and while I don't find it disgusting and rant about "the vaj" the way some fags do, I prefer a nice, tight, meaty ass any day of the week.

When a hand is wrapped around your cock, and a willing partner is standing there telling you that she wants your cock... what the hell do you do? If nothing else, the novelty of having a chick that forward was enough to make me give it a go.

The lobby and concessions area of the theater was deserted, the patrons all glued to their respective movie screens, and I dragged Ms Perky to the latrines on the second floor. Or she dragged me, it was hard to tell. I went in first, scouted to make sure it wasn't full, then poked my head out the door and whistled. Obedient as a collie, she came to me, slid inside the cracked door, and was on me in an instant.

In the jumble of lips and flailing arms that followed, I managed to maneuver her into a stall, sat her on the toilette, and promptly smacked her in the face with my cock. She giggled, stupid bitch, so I did it again, harder this time, and grabbed her head and aimed my shaft at her mouth.

Holy fuck!

While she wasn't the absolute best cocksucker I've ever had, she was definitely in the top five. Some part of my mind idly wondered how many cocks a slut like her had to swallow in order to get this good, but the sensations from her blowjob promptly washed my mind clean of such mundane concerns. Ohhh, fuck. Fuck yeah.

With both hands on her head, I really started to skull fuck her, ramming it down her throat as hard as I could. Never once gagging, she took it all, tongue a'swirling and mouth a'sucking. I heard a zipper and noticed that with the hand not gripping my shaft and balls, she’d opened her skirt and was furiously rubbing her clit.

Now, on women, I am not a fan of body hair, at all. Her pussy, though, shaved clean as it was, appeared so young I almost felt like a pedophile. At that moment, however, Ms Blond Bimbo did something amazing that almost made my legs buckle, and once again I focused completely on what she was doing. Getting closer to orgasm, I took my cock out of her mouth, lifted her 115 pound or so frame, and in one thrust buried my shaft up her twat.

I had a foot planted on either side of the toilette, her back against the wall, my arms effectively forming stirrups for her legs, and railed her then and there. At first, she was quiet, but as I got a good momentum going she started getting noisier. As I rubbed her clit with my thumb, she really started to get loud and I finally had to tell her to shut the fuck up and take my cock.

She did.

I got close to cumming, and, not wanting to pay the whore child support for the next 20 years, plopped her back on the toilette, taking my cock out of her and fisted my rod. She looked disappointed, but before she could really protest, I was giving her a facial she wouldn't soon forget.

Fuuuuck yeah. After the 7th good spurt, I squeezed the last few drops out and wiped it on her cheek. Her eyebrows, forehead, some of her hair, and chin were coated and dripping my seed. Plus, it’d got on my hand.

Goddamit.

I left the stall, whistling cheerfully and went to the sink. From the brief glance I had in the mirror before the stall door closed, she seemed stunned that it'd ended so quickly and finally. What the hell did she think? It was a fuck, not marriage.

I washed my hands, not bothering to dry them, and made my way back to the theater. I sat down in my seat and tried to focus on the movie. Hopefully, the detritus of my little encounter was all over her face and not me, but you never know. Sometimes the evidence gets overlooked. Oy.

Zane, damn him, wasn't fooled. "Holy fuck dude, did you just get laid?? You're sweating and I can smell the sex on you!"

I made a shushing gesture and mouthed "LATER" and he looked vaguely mollified and shifted his attention back to the movie. It was then, of course, that Ms Blond came back into the theater, walking a bit dazed, and rejoined her friends. From the look I'd given her, Zane put two and two together and started to snorkle. My pet word for something between a snort, chortle and chuckle. Good word, eh?

Even through the music of the Voldemort-Dumbledore fight, I heard her friend ask, "What happened to your hair? Its all messed up!" Having been the reason, between my hands gripping her head while she sucked my prong and my jizz globs landing in her hair, I pretty much knew why it looked so bad.

Hah! Serves her right.

As the movie finally ended, with a rather anticlimactic ending, we filed out of the theater and I braced for the pending inquisition from Zane. Before we left, I had to pee, again, and went back to the latrine and into the same stall I'd left earlier. Other than some toilette paper fragments all over the floor, there was little evidence of what we had done. Not wanting the day I was propositioned by a good-looking brazen ho to go un-acknowledged, I took out a pen from my pocket and added "TOP MARINE FUCKED HERE" to the wall of the stall. Hah!

Marked my territory.

What a way to end today. Ah, the vaj. Tastes like tuna.


~Mike

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Complaint No. 1, in C Minor

I enjoy living in the Pacific Northwest. Really. I swear!

After almost two weeks of unbroken sunshine, with temperatures occasionally hitting the 90's, I was quickly reminded that Seattle is known as the "Emerald City" for a reason. It takes a lot of rain to keep things green, fuck.

As I sit around, bored, I’m grateful that I’m not sweating my nuts off in my utilities any longer. That said, I’m undecided as to whether or not sweat would be preferable to the rain falling outside. From the 90's and sunshine to the 60's and rain?

Sigh.

~Mike

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The Morning After Pill

Do you ever have the kind of morning where you don’t wake up all at once? Instead, awareness comes back slowly, bit by bit, each part of your body gradually regaining sensation, furiously protesting against the rising tide of consciousness.

I hate those mornings.

I do, however, enjoy the reasons for them. For instance, getting only an hour and a half of exhausted sleep because you spent 8 or 9 hours naked in bed with a hot construction worker.

I fucking LOVE those mornings!

As I mentioned in my add-on post last night, the best fuck I had last year, and maybe in the last 5, called me out of the blue while I was driving to Seattle. After a quick conversation, it was quickly, and inevitably, decided that a hookup was necessary. I mean, you can't pass up an opportunity to fuck a hot stud you know is great in bed.

Chris is the type of guy you want to take home and introduce to your parents. He gets along with everyone, exudes a quiet yet unmistakable masculinity, and possesses a warm sense of humor. Combined with a fucking gorgeous body and stunning good looks, Chris is, simply put, damn near perfect.

Except, of course, for the catch. With guys like Chris there is always a catch. The first thing that struck me about Chris was his normality. He wore his personality and sense of self so comfortably it all but screamed “Mans man” from every pore of his body. Unfortunately, this man’s man loved the outdoors to such a degree he chose to live and work in the back country sticks of Wyoming. He absolutely refused, the rat bastard, to move anywhere else. So, while I drool and dream over Chris, I know these sporadic and short visits are all we will ever have.

Works for me!

As I pushed open the slightly ajar door to his room at the Sheraton in downtown Seattle, the first thing I noticed was the dim lighting. Usually, hotel rooms are very bright or very dark. This, in contrast, almost seemed to be mood lighting.

As I turned around from closing the door and entered the room more fully, I saw why. As my eyes adjusted to the flickering light of 10-20 assorted candles, my attention was inexorably drawn to the figure laying on his back on the king-sized bed. Nearly naked from head to toe, he'd left a small part of his body hidden by a tattered pair of Carhartt cutoffs that just barely escaped classification as Daisy Dukes.

Gulp.

Head propped up on 3 pillows with his arms behind his head, he lay there, staring at me, a small grin on his face, plainly enjoying the reaction the situation was having on my body. Mostly my anatomy. With a smiling snarl, I crossed the room and was on him before he could utter a word. Tonight, words weren’t needed.

I covered his mouth with mine, kissing him, tasting him, feeling as much of him as I could, while my hands roamed innocently up his arms and behind his head. As the zip-ties closed snuggly around his wrists, keeping his arms held back behind his head, realization of what I was up to finally dawned on him. I gave him the smug, arrogant smile that seemed to drive him wild and with a nibble to his nipple that caused a sharp intake of breath, I slowly made my way down his body.

Naturally a fairly smooth guy, Chris had an even sprinkling of chest hair that was kept trimmed close to the body. A dark blond happy-trail led from his belly button and disappeared into the top of his cutoffs. I followed the trail with my tongue, ripping the shorts open and dodged, barely, the rocketing button. Teasingly, I planted butterfly kisses around his groin, taking care to always avoid his shaft. I could hear his breathing getting shallower with each breath, his cock noticeably pulsing in time to his heart beat. I smirked at the goofy look on his face, a cross between pure pleasure and pending denial, and lapped at the spreading puddle of clear fluid forming beneath his cock head.

As he moaned beneath me, I "accidentally" brushed my stubble against the head, enjoying another quick intake of breath. I took the head of his cock into my mouth and slowly, almost languidly, began to polish just the knob of his cock.

Almost as soon as I started, I stopped. Again, I eased my way south, kissing my way lower, and buried my head between his thighs. Now, I enjoy rimming a good ass, but I'm pretty strict on the requirements: steam cleaning with a bidet and 100% cleanliness are musts. Also, there can be absolutely no signs of warts, hemorrhoids or any other random bits of dangling skin. It's just creepy.

Chris, bless him, knew this and had been prepared. His hole still had that faint, pleasant, herb-like smell of the mixture he used to scrub clean. I knew as I buried my face between his ass cheeks, repositioning his body with his legs on my shoulders for easier access, that it would be good. So, so good. Between the size of my own cock, and the knowledge that he'd taken more than a few dicks, I was always surprised at the tightness of his hole. I'd taken the cherries of guys I knew were virgins beyond a shadow of a doubt who hadn't been as tight as Chris.

I loved it.

Forcing my way past his ring, I kept my tongue up his hole while I used my lips and mouth to munch, stubble rub, and chew his ass. Judging by the fact that I now had to hold his hips down hard enough to bruise, he was enjoying it. Just a bit.

Getting him wet and ready like this was always dangerous. Chris and I are both condom nazis and never risk a rubberless fuck. The only time we'd ever fucked bare, after a night of so much drinking we were shocked to even wake up in our bed, neither of us could recall. Definitely a no-no.

The temptation of that tight, tight, sloppy-wet hole in front of me was difficult to overcome. I stopped munching his ass, and again started to kiss and rub my way back up his belly. Chris, damn him, lost in the moment, shifted his hips as I made my way north, expertly intercepting my rock hard shaft.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Even moving as slow as I had been, the bastard had still managed to get the head and first inch or so impaled inside his hole. He smiled up at me, cocky grin and a "you wanna?" look on his face, an eyebrow raised in question. In what was literally the hardest thing I ever did in my life, I popped out, and shoved him away. I reached for the rubber he'd left on the side of the bed before my arrival, ripped it apart so savagely I also ruined the rubber and had to grab a second, and within 2 seconds rammed every bit of my nine inches up his hole. Mercilessly.

I don't know how long we fucked that first time, and I don't care. He had me so wound up, so completely focused on abusing his hole, that all I could do was keep him on his stomach, arms bound and behind, with one hand on the back of his head forcing his face into the pillow.

Fuck. Yes.

I had him on the bed, I rode him on couch, I fucked him against the wall, on the floor, everywhere. There was not a square inch of that room, minus the shower, that we did not fuck on or against that first time.

While I can't really place how long we went at it, but definitely over 2 hours, I will always remember the orgasm that followed. The use of latex combined with spit as lube eventually led to a ton of friction. I had to stop and edge about 9 times, not wanting to cum, but eventually it was unavoidable. As I felt the pressure build, I pulled out of his hole and ripped off the rubber.

I gave my meat 3 or 4 quick strokes. Fuck, yeah. Sitting up on my knees, still between his thighs and staring down at him, Chris knew what was about to happen. Tossing my head back, eyes closed, hands finding my nipples, I felt the first spurt of cum exit my cock and fly. As I lost myself in the orgasm, I vaguely felt a warm, moist, pressure engulf my cock.

Ahh, fuck yes.

I thrust into that warmth, enjoying every minute of spewing my load down Chris's throat. Let the fucker taste my load. The damn cock whore needed it. Vaguely I could hear him approaching orgasm, but didn't really care. I felt too damn good to really pay attention. 7, 8, 9... finally, after almost 14 good sized squirts, my orgasm subsided, my head lolling to the side. I sighed in satisfaction, amazed at the size and strength of my orgasm, and opened my eyes.

Looking down at Chris, I was shocked to realize what had actually happened.

What I thought had been his mouth (he is by far the best cocksucker I have ever had), had, in fact, been his ass. After I'd closed my eyes and focused on cumming, he had somehow managed to move quickly enough to reposition and get his hole doggie style and onto my cock. He remembered, apparently, that I don't touch my cock when I cum. Instead, I typically prefer to get right to the verge of orgasm and then release my cock, freeing my hands to rub my nipples.

With eyes closed, hands on my nipples, and the mind-blowing orgasm preoccupying me, the little shit had sunk half of my tool into his hole and taken every drop of my 14 squirts.

Fuck.

He turned his head around to look at me, saw the look on my face, and knew I was less than pleased. A slight understatement, as I now wanted to beat the holy fuck out of him. He smiled, didn't say a word, pulled off of my cock and leaned forward to the night stand. It was then that I noticed a white envelope. Still smiling, he handed it to me, using both of his still zip-tied together hands.

I opened it, and inside were his last test result, taken the week before. It included both the rapid and mRNA HIV tests, as well as results for the full gamut of the STD spectrum. As I read through the paper he explained he'd known about this trip for several months and had gotten tested for everything. Moreover, he swore that he had not been with another person in over 4 months due to work and the general lack of guys in Wyoming. He was, he avowed, completely clean.

While the paper didn't completely mask my anger over what he'd done, it did help to drown out the immediate, quivering paranoia you get after doing something stupid. Like, I don't know, bareback sex.

He said he'd understand if I wanted to go, but that he really wanted nothing more than to spend time with me and enjoy every bit of it to the fullest. He'd taken the time to make this more than just a quick fuck. Looking around at the room, noticing the candles, the snacks and drinks, and the other thoughtful touches he'd done to prepare, I finally felt something uncoil and relaxed.

A bit.

Seeing me relax, he came to me smiling and kissed me.

I never did actually make it to dinner with Zane. Meh. What you going to do?

When I finally woke up, with that agonizingly slow recall to reality, I realized a number of things.

First, I realized that I had spent the night in Seattle, which I hadn't planned to do. Crap.

Secondly, I remembered fucking Chris, bareback due to his trickery, the night before. Double crap.

Next, the thought of the things we'd spent the rest of the night doing trickled in. Words simply can't describe people. Oy.

Finally, I remembered that I hadn't brought a uniform with me, and there was this little thing called formation I had to get to. At some point. If it wasn't too much trouble. Holy. Fuck.

Lastly, and worst of all, I noticed the man curled up in my arms, looking utterly peaceful and completely content. God. Dammit.

Falling for, or even getting overly interested in, someone who refused to move out of the backwoods and lived 8 hours away was not on my list of priorities. In fact, it could be described as being on my "TO BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS!" list.

So, I did what any sane man would do in that situation.

I slowly got out of the bed, taking care not to wake him up, and searched for my pair of 2xist Varsity briefs. Yes, I'm a homo, I like trendy underwear. Deal with it. I grabbed the rest of my clothes and snuck into the bathroom, where I quickly dressed as quietly as I could manage.

I left the bathroom, headed for the front door and put my hand on the knob. I tried to open it, but almost of its own volition, my body turned, looking at the still form on the bed, breath going in and out with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.

Fuck it.

I opened the door, closing it gently behind me, and didn't look back.

After a stop by a 24 hour drive through for coffee, I slammed down 2 No-Doze for extra caffeine, and chuckled at the irony. Ah, No-Doze, the gay man's morning after pill. God bless caffeine.

Fuck, I can NOT be late again.

~Mike

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Addendum, Sweet Addendum

In today’s blog I reported that it was a shaping up to be a “boring and tedious” day.

I was correct.

Mostly, I spent the day stuck alternating behind a desk and trying not to bash the heads of some of my idiot peers.

Sweet lord.

So, when I wrote that this morning, I was entirely correct. At least, so far as the workday went.

After I left work and headed towards Seattle for dinner with some friends, I got a phone call. Now, part of the problem with being a slut, is that sometimes you don’t keep as tight a track on the names and numbers of people you talk to or have sex with. I’m sure I can’t be the only guy who’s experienced this particular brand of shitty luck.

When the random, unknown Bellevue phone number popped up on my caller ID, I was a bit twitterpated about who could be on the other line. Sometimes…those calls don’t go as well as they could. Fucking needy, whiney bottoms.

I took a breath, thumbed on my phone with my right hand and calmly said, “hello?”

Instantly, I heard a chuckle and a soft, deep basso voice whisper, “you had no idea who was calling you, did you Mike?”

Hah, I did now!

Chris, my unexpected caller, was THE fuck of last year. The 29 year old construction worker, a ripped 6’, 180 odd pounds, shaved head, awesome tan and soft hazel eyes, was blessed with a completely unforgettable voice. I swear the man could make me cum just from whispering.

I chuckled into the phone and dryly replied, “You know how it is Chris. My phone can only hold a few hundred names. Can’t keep every lucky guy forever, right?”

With a laugh that put me at ease, I listened as Chris told me that he was in town, visiting family, and, most unfortunately, had no plans for the night. This night. Tonight. As in, he wants me to come over and spend the rest of the night plowing, eating, and generally happily abusing his hole.

I’m all ready to go. Now, to call Zane and tell him I may be a bit late…

~Mike

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It's not me...It's you.

Well, there are good ways and bad ways to use your time on the government’s pay clock. I suppose writing my blog isn’t one of the “good” ways. Eh. If I wasn’t sitting bored on my ass, though, I wouldn’t be doing it. Got to love military life: it’s either a monsoon or drought, not much in between. Fuck.

Since today is shaping up to be both boring and tedious, I decided to do a flashback posting covering my leave over the 4th of July.

As I said in my first entry, I am originally from rural Indiana. I have, however, lived near several metropolitan areas, courtesy of the Marines. While my previous station was in North Carolina, I initially reported straight to Camp Pendleton for my first tour of duty (yes, right after "bootcamp"). Located about 40 miles north of San Diego, Pendleton is, by Marine standards, a fairly sizeable installation. More than that, it has great weather, tons of shit to do, and no shortage of drop dead fucking gorgeous men and women. AKA: Heaven.

While I enjoy living in the Pacific Northwest, memories of my glory days spent having fun in the sun continue to encourage my pilgrimages back to So Cal. So, when I had the opportunity to take 8 days of leave over late June and early July, the destination of choice was, obviously, California.

After landing at LAX, my good friend “Tom” picked me up, and got me spun up on the evenings plans. We got on the 405, headed towards West Hollywood and a trendy restaurant called Campanile. Meeting us for dinner was Tom's fiancé, "Tina", and a small gathering of our mutual friends. A great place to feast on Mediterranean fare with Californian flair, and close friends to boot. Good shit!

It had been awhile since I had last seen Tina, and seeing the pair of them together again was great. Tina…wow. While I don’t mind fucking the occasional pussy, women typically aren’t my method of choice for good sex. There is just too much drama (funny that, homos seem the same way sometime, goddamn), mood swings, and, quite frankly, they are too fucking expensive. Tina, however, could have been a guy in a chicks body. She was crude, blunt, loved the outdoors, and her body was tight, supple, and, from what Tom tells me, extraordinarily flexible. Like, circus freak flexible. Lucky bastard.

Tom and I have known each other for years. He was my first roommate. After a heavy night of drinking, and the loss of my higher brain functions, I brought a boy home to the barracks and pounded him into oblivion. In my stupor I forgot to take into account Tom, who walked in to find me balls deep in this boy’s ass. Oops.

We’ve been best friends ever since.

So, to humor me, Tom, Tina and the group, took me out to The Abbey. Reasonably close to the Companile, the Abbey is a huge bar on North Robertson Boulevard. For my Seattle and other non-Los Angelian readers, the Abbey is a great place with outside seating, multiple rooms and bar sections and plenty of couches with cozy places to chat it up. It is, without a doubt, one of the LA's premiere homo establishments.

We paused at the wrought iron gate, showed our IDs, then crossed the patio and headed inside. We made our way across the hardwood floors, commandeering two couches from a handful of people (easy to do when 3 guys in the group appear to be made out of tree trunks). Tom’s buddy Ray went to get the first round of drinks from the bar, while the rest of us settled down and chatted. The conversation shifted constantly; sometimes it touched upon the way things were going in Iraq, other times it changed to more mundane topics, typical for our age group (i.e., who is fucking who).

After my fifth drink, I had to piss, excused myself, got up and headed for the latrine.

The Abbey's latrine was a bright affair, and I headed for the urinal on the far left, ignoring the towel boy standing quietly by the sink. I unbuttoned my fly, let my cock snake out of my 7-for-Mankind jeans and released the flow.

Ahhhh, much better.

As I stood there, pissing out $40 worth of drinks, I took a glance at the young guy who just took the urinal to my right. With one up and down glance I had him sized perfectly: 5’11”, dark brown hair, deep tan, an oddly compelling set of gray eyes, and a toned, tight little body of about 170 pounds. Judging by the meat he was displaying, about 7.5 cut, with a youthful 20-ish face.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I murmured something casual, not really caring what, and, as my heart jumped with his reply, struck up a short conversation as we drained our bladders.

Fucking crap. Not enough piss.

I shook the last few drops free, stroked it a time or two as we locked eyes, then put it away and walked to the sink, conversing with him all the while. He joined me almost immediately, and the interest he had for me was plain (judging by the tent forming in his khakis). We left the bathroom, and I expressed regret that I was only here visiting and needed to get back to my friends. He gave me a disappointed look, but quickly flashed a very white, toothy, perfect smile and handed me a business card with his name, Dave, and number on it. It said, surprise, surprise, that he was in modeling and acting, and we parted with him murmuring to call him. Soon. Very, very soon.

Not a problem at all.

As luck would have it, I ended up getting a horrible stomach ache, likely from the crappy food found at the SeaTac airport, and I regretfully told Tom & Company that I had to call it a night. They gave me shit for a few minutes, but, knowing that I was in town for another 7 nights, they laid off (finally) and I made good my escape.

As I walked out into the warm night, I took out the white card and dialed the number. “Hey Dave, this is Mike, we just met at The Abbey? I’m not really feeling all that great, and left my friends early…” I said. “Want to get a drink?”

“This is my address,” he replied, and rattled off a street address about 10 minutes away. “I will meet you there in 20 minutes,” he said and promptly clicked off his phone.

Well, hot damn.

I took a cab to the address, went to the door and rang the buzzer. A different person, not the Dave from the Abbey, answered the door. This guy was slightly Latino, about 5’8”, 170 pounds, sporting highly defined pecs and shoulders. He answered the door with a towel looped around the waist and stood there, momentarily silent, staring me up and down, every bit as intently as I was staring at him.

“Hi”, he finally said, holding out his hand, “you must be Mike. I’m Carlos.”

He pulled me inside and within seconds I had my hands rubbing his back while he got the skull fucking of his life. Judging by the strength of my thrusts, I hoped the rug burns on his knees wouldn’t be too bad. Oh well, fuck it. As I rammed my cock past his uvula and into his gullet, I heard the front door open, and seconds later a laugh and the rustle of falling clothing from behind me.

“Jesus, Carlos,” I heard Dave say, “you couldn’t wait till I got home?”

Needless to say, as I had my cock rammed down his throat up to my bush, Carlos wasn’t capable of a reply. I growled at the kid, pulled him closer, grabbed a handful of hair and mashed my mouth against his. That shut him up. I stroked Dave’s right nipple with one hand, and ripped his PAPI briefs clean off his body with the other. I really didn’t feel like talking.

Carlos was busy trying not to choke on my meat, while I kissed Dave within inches of his life. Fucking hot. Even better, the kid could kiss, I give him that.

As I sat there thrusting my cock into Latin boy and orally raping the other, I heard a sound, like a jar being opened. Carlos had, out of my line of sight, dipped his hand in something slick, and was trying to probe my hole. Digitally. Now, I don’t mind the occasional finger up my chute when I get off, but I wasn’t an especially rabid fan of it. With two hot boys doing whatever the fuck I wanted…what the hell. Go with the flow.

He was persistent, and finally wiggled one up there, stroking my prostate as his throat milked my cock. As I kept thrusting into his mouth, I could feel a second finger trying to make its way up and into me. This time, it was one too many. I stopped kissing Dave, looked down, mouth open to tell him to back the fuck off with the fingers, when my eyes fell on the jar. Elbow grease. Holy shit.

Fisters.

Oy. Why are the hot ones always fucked up?

I jerked away, yanking my cock out of his mouth, along with a shit-ton of drool. They both looked at me with a questioning look and I simply pointed at the jar. They looked at each other, a bit sheepishly, and then back at me. I sat there, waiting for something.

“We didn’t want to fist you, Mike. We just like to finger and get fingered a bit… that’s all,” Carlos said. “Sometimes, if one or two more get in accidentally…”

I didn’t wait for more.

I put on my clothes, ignoring whatever they were trying to say. As I walked out of their place, I turned, smiled, and simply said, “Oh, and by the way. It’s not me. It’s you.”

Forty five minutes later, I was logged onto my Manhunt account waiting for a vanilla bottom, who just wanted to get fucked, to arrive at my hotel room at the Chamberlain.

Shit. So hard to get laid.


~Mike

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My Name is Jonas...

Fuck.

As I looked down at my cock, sliding in and out of Jeff’s hole, I started to get that prickly feeling between my shoulders. As if I was being watched. Of course, plowing one of your regulars behind a Home Depot on your way home from work against a pile of pallets probably isn’t a great idea if you are worried about being seen. Eh, what the fuck.

I slapped his ass, grunted, and drilled a bit deeper, not giving a shit about the mewling and groaning from the lean boy under me. I leaned forward a bit more, threw my weight into it and really started to get to work. I had a 1630 appointment in Seattle, after all, and as I was still down near Federal Way (30 minutes south), I had to move out. I blew my load into the rubber, uncaring whether or not he was close to cumming as he fisted his cock. I mumbled, I think, a quick thank you as I pulled out, turned around and popped my cock back into my pants as I got into my car. As I slid my frame into the lowered body of my A4, I glanced back and saw Jeff still laying, apparently exhausted, on the pallets. With a light heart and a self-satisfied smirk, I started the engine and left.

Fuck, what a day.

I’m Mike. At least, that’s what I will use on here. Obviously, I can’t simply use my real name, as I never got along well with witch-hunts or overly inquisitive assholes. I’m in the service, more grudgingly now after 4 deployments to the sandbox than before, but, what the hell. Ever since show and tell in kindergarten, when a kids older brother came to class in uniform, I wanted nothing more than to be a Marine. I’m not going to regret or change that decision now. I grew up in what most people on the east coast or west coast call the hick country (rural Indiana). I wrestled in high school, I play the guitar, drums, and a moderately good chess game (yes, boys, I have a brain). I hit six foot the summer before high school, and in the 12 years since added on another inch, settling at 6’1”. I tip the scales at about 205, sport tightly cropped light brown/blond hair, blue eyes, and (for you size queens), come well equipped. Hoorah for me. I have a small place in the Puget Sound area, close to base, and live alone but for my black lab, Shade.

I never thought before that I would be one of “THOSE” people. Yes, with capital letters. The type who write about their daily lives online. I never intended to, never planned on it. My friend Zane, always amused at the shit I somehow manage to get myself into, remarked that I have too many crazy stories to keep to myself. He dragged me to his computer and showed me this site. What the hell, I thought, I might as well go down in infamy for being a ho. Better than nothing, I guess.

All in all, getting your nut off in a good looking guy on the way home from work is definitely a great way to start the weekend. Maybe not the best way to head into a first date, an early dinner and movie at 1630, but… I needed to cum.

I merged onto I-5 N, turned on the iPod attached to my dash, hit my play list and cranked up Linkin Park to somewhere around “Dear God, my ear drums” and cruised north.

Now, Jeff, the man/boy I had just wrecked on the pallets, is a member of a stable of regular guys I keep in the area to plow when I don’t have something better lined up. As much as I enjoy plowing ass, however, finding a cool guy and settling down is something I have long hoped to do. Especially now that I am near a larger area than found outside my last base, Lejune. I had high hopes for tonight, previous actions notwithstanding.

How little I knew.

I had been talking to the guy I was on my way to meet for date numero uno for about 2 months. A mutual friend set us up, and, while we had not spent much face time together, the phone calls and Internet action led me to believe that there was real potential there.

I went to his place on the rear side of Capitol Hill and parked my car near the abandoned “Chocolate City” (recently closed, thank the gods), crossed the street and went to his building. I nervously took the elevator up, went to his door, and knocked gently three times. He opened it with a smile, invited me in while he, “finished getting ready”, and told me to relax and make myself comfortable in the meantime.

Being the gentleman that I am, I did just that.

I sat on the uncomfortable Ikea-clone couch and whistled tunelessly while I waited.

Now, as I said, I’ve spoken with this guy, call him… George, for almost two months. Some of those conversations were…quite graphic (yes, I mean phone sex or cyber sex, but only with web cams though!). What I saw when he came out “ready” to go shocked the holy shit out of me. I have seen, heard, and done many things and explored many boundaries since I took my first cherry at the tender age of 13. Some of the more fucked up acts and fetishes, however, I’ve left to the confinement of reading about on the Internet, typically in the most vague manner possible.

Yes, boys, George came out in an outfit that scared/freaked the shit out of me. If you’ve ever heard the term “a furry”, then you know both what I saw and why it made me want to bolt for the door. Apparently, George’s invitation to, “make myself comfortable” really meant, “get your ass naked and ready to fuck me” before the date. While, normally, I have no issue with this line of thought, our many conversations included a mutual agreement banning sex for the first several dates. Why… fuck, I don’t know. To see what could be there? Meh.

Anyway, considering that Jeff’s hole smell was still coating my cock and crotch, as the goddamn I-5 traffic had not allowed me a chance to swing by Zane’s for a shower, fucking right off the bat was out of the question. When he came out, complete with a mascot badger outfit with a cut out for his rather erect cock, and a hole that exposed his fairly flat ass, I could only giggle and try my best to reign in the pending hysteria.

From the look of disgust that I am pretty sure was on my face, I think he could tell that his “surprise” was not being well received.

“Surprise!” he croaked anyway, a halting smile on his face. As I sat on that hard couch staring up at this man-badger creature, I realized that I had no fucking clue on how to reply.

So, I didn’t.

I got up, grabbed my coat, opened the door, ignored his cries of “wait, hold on!”, and exited his apartment with a wall shaking slam of the door.

Fuck that shit, I don’t screw animals. Or guys wanting to have sweaty-costume-furry-animal-make-believe sex, either.

So.

That was my Friday. Envious, aren’t you?

I have to say, I love living near Seattle ‘cuz the guys here all seem to be bottoms, and rather submissive ones at that. Holy shit, though, do I seem to attract the nuttier ones like crazy (double entendre there, get it?)

I’ll try this for a week or two, see what people think. I mean, you only write shit like this and give access to it because you want to get feedback, I guess. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone cool out of this, or, at the least, meet some new people in general.

Time to call Darren for some wreckage!

~Mike

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