And there endeth the year!

Yes, guys. There it was. A year's worth of sex. That guy was my last cock of the year. I had a heck of a good time having all that sex, for sure. And writing about it has been fun as well.

But quite a bit of work, too. It became a duty, and that made it onerous. (Just witness the fact it's taken me to April to complete last year.)

So I've decided that from here on out, I will continue reporting, yes. But it won't be comprehensive. Not every time I get my hands on some cock will you guys be getting comprehensive details.

Will I be getting as much cock? Probably, or close thereto - but since I was at least in part doing it for you guys, I might have worked a little harder, or taken on some guys who were less than 100% exciting.

But from here on out, where a guy is 100% exciting you all will hear about it. Promise.

12/23/09 - Round 2

Ah, one blonde is not enough. Not two days before Christmas. I deserve a present, and TWO BLONDES oughta do. Yes.

And hark, there's one now! Right there on Craigslist!

29yo bi guy looking to host at [street] and [street]

6'3 225 blond blue 7c big balls average guy here

looking to have my cock sucked, my big balls licked good all over (my fave), my ass eaten and my load swallowed ... no recip

you be under 50, clean and neg (a must), masculine, in athletic to average shape, willing to travel and send pics/stats in 1st email for mine

A quick email promising not to waste a drop clearly got his attention, because I had a response within two minutes. An enthusiastic email it was, including a photo of his face and one of his cock and big seriously low-hanging balls, along with a request to IM. In the IM, I learned that he was meeting friends for drinks later. Did I mind? He was unfailingly courteous - even offered up without prompting that rimming was optional. Thank you. And he really likes having his big nuts played with. You got it, buddy. Eight minutes later, I'm out the door. (Thank you, Yahoo, for putting little time stamps on everything - makes a scrupulous blogger's life easier.) A fifteen minute drive got me to his front door, complete with convenient parking directly across the street.

He had a nice place in a new condo building. Furniture he'd purchased in a package, I think, because it looked coordinated and he just didn't look the type to be coordinating furniture much. He'd accessorized with empty beer cans. And a huge flat screen TV. College basketball in full swing. His laptop lay on the sofa, playing MMF porn - I guess he's serious about that 'bi' thing from the ad. He himself was also precisely as advertised: 6'3", 225, and looked his 29 years. Built like a brick shit-house. (I immediately wanted to fondle his ass - but it wasn't quite in the program.) Thinning red-blond hair. And very much a regular guy, per his own description. Homely would be a good way to describe his face - and I don't mean that in a bad way. It's a face you could really get used to, actually. But there isn't really a handsome line in it. He's just not built to be vain, and it seems to show in his warm, easy-going personality - not that I can say I know him well, at least not that way. It's a very attractive quality in itself. Along with the brick-shithouse body, he ads up to HOT in my book.

But we're not here to praise him. We're here to blow him. He drops down to the couch, shoves the ottoman aside and pushes down his sweatpants. His cock's small and soft. Grower, clearly. And his balls are serious low hangers. Because he's said he likes having his balls worked on, I start there. He totally eats it up, moaning and groaning and telling me how good that felt. A solid B+ in the vocal department. His cock quickly stiffens up to a solid (real inches here) 5" maybe plus some. On the skinny side of medium. And hard as a concrete fence post. Springy hard. Really nice. And a size I can throat with ease. He requests frequent attention for his heavy nuts, talking about how they're heavy with a big load that I was gonna get. This is great. And he's got tons of fine red-blonde pubic hair. Give me a nose full of that any day.

He's clearly not a quick cummer, so I up the ante from no hands to wrapping my fingers around the rigid base of his cock and working him deep. His balls hung so loose I was able to gather and pull them up to where they were rubbing against my chin when I buried his cock in my throat. He lasts impressively, and he's unflaggingly enthusiastic throughout. Suddenly, through clenched teeth, he mutters something about "getting load" and he pops. Forcefully - I can feel the squirts. Big warm mouth of nice, clean tasting load. I stay on him and keep him warm for a few. When I come up, I look him in his dazed eyes and gulp audibly. It brought a smile to his face. When he stood a couple minutes (of ball warming) later, his cock was still pointing upward sharply. And as I left, and I grabbed it again for a last squeeze, it was still springy as steel.

I told him I'd do him anytime, and he said, "well, we've got each others' emails." I think he'd like more. Hope he does. 'Cause he mentioned he's a multi-cummer, if he's not pressed for time.

12/23/09

A highly efficient CL connection. Someone in my neighborhood wants a blo. The title is simplicity itself: ISO NSA BJ. I like that.

thirty three, five nine, one sixty five, seven cut thick, healthy, ddf
very discrete, you host
email stats, age, pic, location and lets make this happen

And I'm here to take care of those kinds of needs. The email back and forth consists of "where?" "When?" and not much more. A short IM conversation got him my address. And he's here within 20 minutes of our first communication. The most demanding question he asked was whether I smoked. Apparently he doesn't like smokers, but then, who does anymore?

His email address contained a hint that he was blonde - which made me worry that he might be a bleached and colored fool. But my worries were misplaced. He was blonde. The real thing. His short crewcut hair was just barely distinguishable from his skin. Very, very blonde. And nice looking. Slightly heavy, but no problem. Wearing a big black down coat and Puma shoes.

I showed him in, asked if he wanted a seat. He paused at that offer, so I dropped directly to my knees. He had his jeans undone practically before I could bury my face in the denim. His cock, small and soft. His pubes, as blond as the rest of him, were neatly trimmed. (A crime, I might add - these hairs in full flower would be something to behold, something to lose one's nose and tongue in. Darned modern grooming. Such a waste.)

He was an aggressive face-fucker, with a small enough cock that I had no difficulty at all handling the assault. He lasted not two minutes, and thrust so deep to spew his liquidy sharp tasting load that a swallow was probably inevitable. In the moments I was processing this thought, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a wedding ring. 'Huh?. . . left hand, second finger . . . yup, checks out'. That thought gelled in my mind, it was down the hatch. I kept it warm for him another 15 seconds, and he pulled out. When I went back for another taste, he was already buttoning up.

And that was it. Exceptional efficiency. And a first: I've never seen a married guy not mention that fact.

12/19/09

OK, this one was totally worth a try - if only for novelty value.

Snow Plow Driver - 29

Hey 29year old bimale out on the streets working tonight. Looking for someone to meet me near where in working, hop in the truck and lets have some fun! Six foot three brown hair blue eyes two hundered pounds 8" cut. Send pic with reply. Looking for now!!!

How could I not hook this one up? My response got an almost immediate reply asking for a phone number. It's not my usual M.O. to go handing out my phone number, but the idea of blowing a random snow plow driver . . . that was way too much to pass up. Besides, I owe it to my readers to follow up on opportunities like this one. So I sent him my number, and got an immediate return call. No fuss, friendly, he just gave me his location and asked how long it would take me to get there. Ten to fifteen, I estimated.

I dashed for the car and headed off. And just as advertised, there was a plow truck racing around clearing snow off a big parking lot. I was slightly disappointed that he wasn't in one of the big city-supplied trucks I'd imagined. This was just a big diesel Ford F250 with a plow on the front, and a landscaper's sign on the side. He drove out of the lot and picked me up on the street. I swung up into the cab and told him "I like the way you think, buddy." I liked the way he looked, too. As advertised, a big guy. Dark hair, a full beard. Otherwise, a very average looking white guy. Ideal.

He didn't respond much - not an outgoing type, I guess - and he was concentrated on wrestling the big truck and its unwieldy plow back into the parking lot. The moment he hit the lot, he lowered the plow, dove on the brakes and started tugging at his zipper and fly. Out popped a short, fat soft cock and I dove on it immediately. He gunned the truck and started scraping through the lot. I'm bouncing up and down on his stiffening cock, and the truck's bouncing up and down over the pavement, and he's backing and filling and covering the lot while talking dirty to me: "you love that big cock, don't you?" and jamming my head down on his rapidly expanding meat for maximum penetration. He was reaching the size where I was starting to gag.

"Mmmmfmmf!" (That's me trying to sound enthusiastic with my mouth full.)

Then all of a sudden he stops the truck: "I think my boss just drove by." I quickly take the cue and immediately hop out of the truck and ask if I ought to stick around so we can finish this. It had been a promising start, after all. He grunted something and roared off with the plow scraping. I walk out of the parking lot, making my way back to my car. When I get to my car I text him: "You want to finish this?"

He quickly responds: "Get lost." Rude fucker.

I respond back: "Did I do something to piss you off?" I was baffled. He was clearly enjoying himself, talking dirty, hard as a rock, enthusiastically hammering my throat. Now he's changed his mind about this? No comprende.

He didn't respond to my text for several hours when, at about 1:oo am my phone bleeped. "Bye." That was it.

I remain baffled.

11/30/09

A couple months back, I'd corresponded with J. He'd posted looking for someone downtown who wanted to suck off two bi guys. OK, I know. It's got gamer/pic collector written all over it. Can't be serious. But I cut and pasted a quick response, and was astonished to get a reply. A sincere sounding one. He was going to check with his buddy and see if he could work it out for this very evening. This still had the feel of a guy off in fantasyland, but I'll play along as long as he's amusing.

And he remains amusing. Oddly, there's something sincere and steady about him that keeps me answering his emails. Tonight's not going to work - his buddy isn't available after all. J urged me, though, to stay in touch, because he wanted this to work out someday and was confident it would. Sure, bud.

We exchanged emails again, back and forth every few days. We'd been going that way, slow volleys of email back and forth, for two months. One evening I answered one of his emails and he shot directly back and sounded enthusiastic - for tonight. At this point, though, I'm losing faith in him. He seems definitely sincere and genuine and he's got staying power. But the scenario - two bi guys want a cocksucker - is implausible. He's definitely not just a pic collector. And he doesn't have the nasty edge of a game player. So I'll keep playing along - he remains amusing and sincere after all.

Ah, no, once again it's not going to work. He's neglected an obligation this evening - we'll have to try another time. Again. I'm feeling pretty much done with this. But several hours later, as I'm heading out of the office on my way home, he emails. He'd had a cancellation, and wondered if I was still available. Aww, geez. Yeah, I'm still available. He says he's going to scramble to get his buddy lined up. OK, OK. I'll play along again.

About the time I get home, I get the inevitable third-guy-can't-make-it message. Yeah, I know. Thinking, what the hell, I decide to test his sincerity: does he want to come over, just himself, no porno fantasy two-bi-guys-and-a-cocksucker scenario. To my great surprise he bites on the opportunity without hesitation. This is a switch. Does he think himself, alone, is inadequate, and he's pleased to get the invite? And by god, this time it does work. He arrives on time, and as advertised. Amazing.

As advertised, in this instance meant: 41, 6'1", 205, normal professional guy. Very square and dependable looking. Neatly groomed. Chunky build, but in solid shape. He's got really nice skin. I don't know how else to put it. But it makes him far more appealing than one would expect. He carries the IT guy backpack I somehow expected. The small talk is polite, as one might expect in a business setting, faintly stand-off-ish.

"How about we get out of our clothes?" I suggest, hoping to start up a spark. We move closer, face to face. I start in on his shirt buttons, one by one. He slowly keeps moving has face closer and closer to me as he fumbles my shirt buttons. I'm getting the feeling he's going to kiss me. Yup, he's turning his head so our noses won't bump. But wait! This totally doesn't fit! He's all bi and closety! He's even alluded to a fiancee! He's just here for a blo! Plain and simple?

But he's getting closer and closer and -- goddamn, yes - he really is gonna kiss me. And damn, he's good. I mean a really good kisser. A totally rare, one in a million good kisser - the kind of good kisser I hope I am. A few soft, glancing, exploring kisses evolve quickly into a bona fide lip lock/tongue swap. We both wind up looking all nerdy-guy-glasses-askew and scramble out of our clothes (and our glasses) and onto the bed.

Either he warned me, or I quickly intuited that this guy was a speedy cummer. So I took the edging approach. A few nice slow wet strokes, and then some ball polishing. And inner thigh kissing and . . . anywhere. He responded well to attention to his neck, his nipples, his . . . you name it. This guy was totally wired to his touch nerves. Totally alive with a lover. And he reciprocated well - something about the way he touched me lit up a lot of my nerves at one time as well. He had a firm hand on me. He wanked my cock, but my efforts to get him to take a taste came to nothing. Yeah, he was that good: he didn't even blo me, and I was having a totally great time. I realized later that pretty much the whole time we were going at it I was emitting a pretty constant slow stream of moans, signs and whimpers.

Good in bed? You don't often get it this good. I could get used to this kind of good. Damn. And all in such an unassuming package. I can't put it into words exactly why he's such a great fuck. No words can adequately capture or explain what it was about the way his hands manipulated my flesh that made it so good. We were just on the same wavelength, our central nervous systems working at the same frequency in some crucial respect.

I edged him for a solid 45 minutes - 45 minutes with a speed shooter, see what I mean about being on the same wavelength? He'd quickly pull me off as needed. When he finally wanted to cum he wanked his cock briefly, told me "I gotta cum", and pushed my head onto his cock for a few last strokes before he shot a big, watery and strong-tasting load.

After he came, he dressed quickly, pleading that he needed to get going, he was expected at his gym. And on the way out, he did the oddest thing: he kissed me on the cheek. Just a quick peck. Sorta like he was supposed to, sorta like he might do for his grandmother. It was like Superman had popped back into the phone booth and re-emerged as Clark Kent.

Next morning he emailed: "Cheers. Enjoyed last night."

UPDATE: After the first of the year, after thinking about what a great tumble I'd had with J, I wanted to get in touch with him again. Who wouldn't. And his *&@$%!ing email address no longer existed. 505 error. I was completely bummed. Inconsolable, almost.

11/12/09

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11/16/09

Ah, my old pal. From high school. The one who never got into my pants. Or was it the other way around? We once, under interesting circumstances managed to play a game of footsie - or maybe crotchsie/footsie is a better explanation. (Yes, there was alcohol involved.) So we'd sort of had sex. A little bit. Partially. We'd reconnected through someone who knew someone on Facebook, and I was delighted to get a message from him that he was coming to town for business purposes and wanted to see me. Immediately, my mind raced to games of footsie/crotchsie.

We met up late after work, and after he'd managed to find a church for a quick round of worship. (Me, I worshiped at my gym to kill time while he did the real thing.) I didn't take that as a good sign. We hadn't even seen each other in nearly 25 years - save on Facebook in recent months - so I knew little if anything about what he was thinking these days. We met up, he was looking good. The years had been kind to him, for sure. His slightly alternatively good looks had matured and become more mainstream. His hair had thinned, but in a way that said: 'testosterone is doing a number on my hair follicles' not 'I'm falling apart'. He was even more attractive than in the 1980s.

It turned out I had no reason to worry about religion having taken over his life. He immediately proposed we retire to a bar. A couple drinks later, food seemed in order, so we repaired to a restaurant known for its drinks. And had another drink and some appetizers. Alcohol was having a nice mellowing effect, turning up the warmth of our long dormant friendship. It was also making him kind of touchy/feelie - he'd touch my arm for emphasis as we spoke, or rest his hand on my shoulder or wherever it might seem appropriate. No, nothing untoward, not yet. But boy did he have my mind running in that direction, and running hard.

We wandered off to yet another restaurant for another drink and another round of hors d'ouvres. I had detected a pattern here: each place we went was getting us closer to his hotel. And at the third place, he began to wax ecstatic about the view from his hotel room. Bingo! I would surely have to come up and see. No question about it. After polishing off a few more snacks, I commandeered the waitress and demanded the bill while my old buddy was in the men's room. Yes, I considered following him. But no, I didn't want to be that obvious, and he didn't seem to be actively inviting it. So I stayed at the table and took care of the bill in order to smooth our way out of there.

Swirling the last ice cubes in my drink I casually inquired whether we needed to hit a fourth watering hole. I meant this to be an opening for him to say: 'how about you come check out the view in my hotel room?' But he fumbled the opportunity. Maybe alcohol was to blame - I, for one, was fairly well lit at that point. Sufficiently lit that when he fumbled it, I didn't even need to screw up my courage to say: "Or we could head back to your hotel." I was briefly mortified to realize I hadn't even thrown in the view excuse. But no matter, he quickly took me up on the offer and we were out of there in a flash.

His conversation become somewhat stilted as we entered the hotel. He seemed nervous as a cat - even if half-smashed genial - in the elevator. Up in the room, the view was indeed expansive, through a glass corner. Quite nice. He reclined on the bed to admire it, I sat on the corner of the bed. Now I was being the awkward one. Yes, imagine that. Your old pal Mr. Cocksearch being reluctant to make the first move. Maybe something about the weight of history. So it wound up being he who made the first move by inviting me to get comfortable on the big hotel bed. And when I did, laying next to him, pretending to look at the view, he reached for me. He grazed his knuckles across my chest, pausing to give attention to my nipple. He didn't say a thing. I rolled toward him and the race was on.

It started with a lip lock, moved on to shucking our clothes, and progressed to me blowing him. But that didn't go well, despite the heavy passion in our kisses. He, being a tad middle aged, wasn't getting all that hard. I mean he got bigger, but not really rigid in the usual way. And it was clearly bothering him, and causing him to shy away from my attention to his cock. The good thing was that he seems pretty submissive in the face of available cock. He was pleased to just worship mine. He wasn't much of a cocksucker, clearly inadequately experienced. But he made up for it in enthusiasm and absolute adoration of my big dick. His tongue kept creeping lower on my balls. Is this going where I hope it's going? Does he totally want to eat my ass - because he's totally got an invitation to go there.

I telegraphed the invite with enthusiastic moaning and groaning every time his tongue went lower. He finally got the nerve to instruct me to roll over onto my stomach. Won't fight you there, pal. And what followed was what seemed like hours of the most adoring attention my backside ever got. My cheeks were fascinating to him as his nerve built (or maybe thought ought to be - as his inhibitions slipped). After an achingly tantalizing build-up, he went for it, right onto the target. And he licked and sucked and tongued and on and on like he never wanted to stop. And I didn't want him to, either. Except that at some point I'm gonna need to cum.

I finally begged him: "I've gotta cum here . . . let me cum." He let me roll over and flopped onto the bed on his back. I got the message. He wanted me on top, so on I climbed and stroked out a HUGE load all over his chest and his face before collapsing onto him in an extended lip-lock tasting of sperm. God that was good. We lay around all snuggly for a while. He made no move to get himself off. The real surprise was that he wanted me to sleep with him that night.

But I don't do well sleeping in others' beds, and I had to be up the next morning. I begged off, feeling like I was letting him down something terrible. In fact, I still kinda regret it.

I left him at the door with a big, deep kiss.

He was on a plane home the next morning.

Undated - Fall/Winter 2009

Ah, the restaurateur. The well-known restaurateur. The one with the TV show. And the wife, who's all over the restaurants (which really are worth the fuss - I'm a good customer) and the TV show. Watching him, you can't but conclude he likes boys - his manner is unmistakably sodomite. Indeed, there's vigorous debate on the interwebs as to whether he likes boys. And I have the answer. He does.

The restaurateur goes to my gym, occasionally. One of those occasions happened to be a dreary Sunday afternoon late this fall - or maybe early this winter - somewhere in there. The restaurateur was heading into the gym just ahead of me, close enough that I was able to spend a few moments mulling over 'which way does he go, anyway?' Frankly, I can't look at him, be it on TV, on the street or in his one of his restaurants, without mulling that important question. Little did I imagine today was the day I'd get a rock solid answer.

In the locker room, he undressed and appeared to head straight for the shower/steam/sauna. A good sign. Nice slim, athletic bod - particularly for a guy in the food business. Nice I suited up and headed for the weights. Call me virtuous (or, read some more of this blog and see if you can still say that with a straight face). Half an hour or so later, it was my time to shower/steam/sauna. The place was fairly empty, it being a dreary Sunday afternoon. I settled into the sauna, where I chatted with Mr. Taste Free for a few minutes (he and I now chat in a familiar way that pretty much rules out any more anonymous blo-jobs). Then I made for the steam and was surprised and delighted to see the restaurateur passing by toward the showers looking well heated and sweaty. Maybe he eyed me. 'Ha, spending a lot of time in the company of other sweating naked men, Mr. Restaurateur? Got ya!' I thought to myself. In my mind, at that point, he was as busted as could be.

I settled into the steamroom with one other guy sitting by. A few minutes later, in walks the restaurateur. And he sits down next to me, to my left, but at a respectable distance. On his towel, not wrapped up in it. Wow! I switch on my full telepathic communication capability and start beaming the message "exit the steamroom, now!" at the third guy in the steamroom, while simultaneously beaming the message "the other guy will be out of here in two seconds" at the restaurateur. And sure enough, my telepathic systems were in good working order, as the third guy left pretty much on cue.

Then began a few moments of awkward mutual checking out, and the sending of self-groping signals. But progress was swift, with no unnecessary face-saving gestures of disinterest. He wanted it. He wanted it in a sad, guilty, but very passionate kind of way. He was the first to actually take hold of his cock and start stroking. He reached for me before I reached for him. And he reached first not for my cock, but for my right nipple, which he wanted to stroke. I responded in kind, with my tongue on his nipple (safe bet he was a nipple guy) and moved on to the side of his neck. And he responded with a happy shudder, and began groping my cock as I reached for his. This was a lot of body contact, and a lot of passion for steamroom sex. My right hand (by this time I was completely turned toward him on the bench) found his cock - long, skinny, with short trimmed pubes - and stroked gently. He was clearly enjoying himself hugely.

I whispered in his ear, an inch away: "do you want a blo?" to which he responded with a quiet, husky sound that I took for a 'yes'. I bent down, and took one long slow gentle stroke. We were suddenly interrupted by the door opening. "It's OK, don't stop for me." Mr. Taste Free! Very considerate, thank you, pal. I went down on the restaurateur again, and he lasted but about three more strokes before urging me off his cock. Two pumps of his own hand and he spewed - good distance and quantity for a middle-aged guy, I might say. I went back to nuzzling his neck as he caught his breath.

He gave me a long look, with actual eye contact, that was tinged with what I think was sadness. Or maybe straight out guilt. And then he was out of there. When he was safely out the door, Mr. Taste Free asked me, with his charming Spanish accent: "you do know who that was?" I played dumb.

11/11/09

It should always be this easy.

Early morning visit to the 'burbs. Really early - my errand is done by 7:00 am. And I'm in the vicinity of the recently rediscovered bookstore. As I'm heading south down the big six-lane road it's on, I come to the bookstore and see its parking lot is all but empty - about the only vehicle in the place, a Dodge Dakota pick-up, is idling at the mouth of the parking lot waiting for traffic to clear so he can pull out. Darn, only one guy there, and I'm just missing him. I pull a u-turn and head back north again. The Dakota guy pulls out just as I round my U-y, and catches my eye. Yes, catches my eye. No way. That would be way too efficient.

But it's also way too good not to at least follow up. I wind up just behind him in traffic, then maneuver my way next to him at the next light. I glance casually his way, and he mine. But too casual to really draw any definite conclusion from. Good enough, though, that I'm not going to give up. I fall in behind him, and sure enough a couple blocks later he's got his signal on for a left turn. And he activates the blinker early, giving me plenty of warning he's going to turn. This is looking promising.

I follow him around the turn (and catch the above pic) and he goes on about a quarter mile into an industrial area. And then, again with plenty of signaling, he pulls into a parking lot along the side of a warehouse/office building and proceeds slowly down the long narrow parking area. I pulled to the side of the road, not being quite confident enough in my judgment to follow him. He pulls head into a parking spot, sits a second, then backs out again and continues to where he had to turn around behind the building. When he turns, he stops long enough to give me the idea he's looking. I plunge in.

On the other side of the building, I find him backed in in front of a freight forwarder's office. I nod, he nods back. My first clear look at him. 40ish, heavy-set, a working man. Married, with ring. Not particularly attractive in any noticeable way. I pull in and park. He nods again, and I'm out of the car and over to his passenger window directly. No games: just a simple "You looking for a blo?" "Yeah, hop in." As I haul myself into the passenger seat he says: "I thought you were looking for something back at the bookstore." "Pretty amazing we got this worked out, huh?" He heartily agrees.

He's got his hard cock out already, and pulls aside his shirt to show it off. "Nice!" It is nice. Short, but really fat. Cut. And plenty of unruly untrimmed pubic hair. He gives it a good wag and urges me forward. His crotch smells sweet and soapy fresh. Two minutes of good vigorous sucking, and some purposeful thrusting from him and he's spilling a big sweet load into my mouth. He thanks me heartily as I swing out of the cab and spit his hefty, tasty load. I give him a salute and thank him back, noting for the first time the kiddie car seat in the back of rear seat. Daddy needed to nut.

He dropped his idling truck into gear and was moving out of there before I even started my car. End of story.

Undated - Fall 2009

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