Bottoms Up

I've turned Derek into a bottom.

Well, not a total bottom, but I have inadvertently, through my amorous assiduity, made his impossibly impenetrable ass accessible to tops who've aspired to enter that formerly forbidden tunnel of tough love.

Besides being hard to recite quickly, the above is newsworthy because Derek's always been known (rightfully so) as a masterfully dominant top with a trademarked jackhammer thrust. That hasn't changed; he still gets instantly hard at the sight (or thought) of a hot inviting ass, and sinking his 8 inches into a warm hole is still one of his favorite pastimes. But he's also got himself a butt that drives other tops (and me) wild...a rock hard, solidly muscular, perfectly round little blond furry butt with a perfect, sweet, tasty little hole. (OK, he's not the only one who gets hard thinking about a hot ass because it just worked for me.)

So, you ask (go ahead; I'll pause): how did I fortuitously find the key to Fort Knox, which I now graciously share with amatory tops who want to amatorially tap it? Well, it all started with my need to knead Derek's thickly-muscled back, shoulders, traps, legs, arms...his whole body, actually. Maybe he'll be sitting at the kitchen table, or lying on the bed, or driving his pimped-out truck...or maybe we'll be in a hotel elevator on our way up to see a client, or in the supermarket stocking up on proteins for me and cookies for him, or waiting on a ridiculously long line at the post office, or --

OK, you get the picture. Wherever we are, whatever we're doing throughout the day, I will just start giving him an extremely deep massage, which makes him moan and groan in a combination of intense pain and intenser pleasure. Sometimes I go at it so hard that my jaw aches afterward from gritting my teeth. The more he moans and groans, the deeper and harder I go. As a result, I don't have to work on forearms anymore at the gym, because they get a better workout on Derek.

And the other result is that he now craves cock up his ass. You don't get the connection? Read on.

One day, about 6 months ago, I was delivering a particularly deep massage to his gorgeous gluteus maximus (sorry to go all technical and stuff but how many different ways can I say "butt"?). This is no easy feat, as that thing is solid muscle. It's so solid that my fingers not only get a workout, but I also get to, each time I massage this part of his adamantine anatomy, utter one of my favorite lines from "I Love Lucy" (from the Season 5 episode "Lucy Visits Grauman's," where Lucy and Ethel are attempting to steal John Wayne's cement footprints...some pedestrians approach so Lucy & Ethel quickly drop it back into its space with Lucy's hands still underneath...after the people are gone, Fred helps pry up the slab and Lucy holds up her crimped hands and says, "Just what I've always wanted: a pair of Chinese back scratchers.").

Anyway, I was really going at it, giving it everything I had. Derek was groaning, grunting and growling (he often says that a good massage is as good as good sex, and from the sounds he makes, it must be true because those grunts, groans and growls are identical to the ones he makes when he's humping hole).

Then, in a guttural voice, he suddenly said, "Hey!" He doesn't normally say anything intelligible when he's getting a "Rick Rub Down," so I asked what the "Hey" he was talking about. He said that he suddenly was able to really and truly relax his ass for the first time...that I had worked my fingers in, kneading and manipulating and pushing and squeezing those cheeks of steel so relentlessly, that he had suddenly just let go and unclenched, and suddenly felt like he could get fucked without the usual discomfort.

You see, I have topped him over the years, but there were often complaints ("You're too thick"), which, while they fed my typical male ego, also frustrated me. Once I start, I like to finish, you know?

I seized the opportunity to tentatively test his new open-door policy. I grabbed the Eros, gently got him greased, and slid right in. Now, it was still nice and tight, which felt great to me, but he was also allowing himself to open up and accommodate me, which felt great to him. It was probably one of the best fucks either of us ever had.

Within a few days (late January, shortly after my last blog post), we went on one of our road trips, and it became common that anytime we came across a top who wanted to fuck, Derek would be first to volunteer, much to the tops' pleasure -- and mine, because I love seeing cocky, macho, Topman Derek put in his place. Hey, we all need hobbies.

The funniest point for me was when one fun guy, with whom we'd just done a sandwich (is that what it's called when one guy fucks another guy who is fucking another guy at the same time?) where I was on top screwing him while he was screwing Derek, said to us afterward that he could tell that Derek was a true total pussy bottom, and that I was a total top. He was surprised when I told him that, while I was always versatile, Derek's hot ass had actually only recently begun to entertain gentleman callers.

I guess it's true that a great top often makes a great bottom.

And that a great massage is what makes that great top into a great bottom. Let's give credit where it's due. :)

I'm a little bit lazy, I'm a little bit Patti Smith

Last year, Patti Smith -- musician, poet, muse for Robert Mapplethorpe, parodied as "Candy Slice" by the great Gilda Radner and one of my favorite females -- was awarded France's prestigious Commander of the Order of Arts and Letters. The French Culture Minister referred to her as "one of the most influential artists" in rock and roll, noting her appreciation for 19th century French poet Rimbaud. This October, she was chosen to be the last person to perform at New York's famously infamous CBGB's before they ripped everything out of the club and shipped it off to Vegas. She'll be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year. You get my point? Oh, OK, sorry, I'll clear it up in the next paragraph.

You see, Patti has a website, as many famous people do, and she started a blog on it a few months ago, called "Coffeebreak," with the promise that she'd be blogging daily with whatever was on her mind. The first post was a charming (yes, Priestess of Punk Patti Smith can be charming) memoir of her late mother's passion for coffee, and how she inherited that love/desire/addiction.

Then, the next day, that same charming reminiscence still appeared on the page. And the following day. And for another week, at least (I stopped checking, as I'm sure most of you have stopped checking in here). I'm registered to receive periodic emails from Patti and sure enough, a couple of weeks after her promise to blog daily there appeared in my in-box an explanation from Patti as to why she hadn't blogged daily (the reason: she was on tour).

Well, Derek and I have been on tour, too. But the reason I haven't blogged is that I'm a professional procrastinator and, as my 7th grade social studies teacher wrote in my report card, "lackadaisically lazy" (I hated the bleached broad but I loved her alliteration). I mean, put me in a hotel room with a horny man (or two) and I'm bursting with energy and enthusiasm. But sit me in front of a computer, tell me I "have to" blog, and suddenly I feel like I'm back in 7th grade and there's a term paper due. Back then, I always waited until the night before and then I let my mother do most of the thinking and all of the typing. Mom, if you're reading, we need to talk.

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions because they never last more than a week ("I'm going to wake up very early every day and go for a jog along the water!" is always good for one jog and then I'm back to sleeping until noon and heading to the gym at night). But I think 2007 is going to be the year where I blog really often, without anyone nagging me.

Or maybe not.

I've got Digital Post-It Notes all over my Dell desktop with hundreds of ideas for posts, and I'm going to randomly reach into the pile and toss out some stuff:

This summer (yes, my notes go back far), we were just arriving at Jones Beach on a Saturday when the weather was sweltering and the shore was swarming with horny homos. I was shirtless, my thick curly torso hair was shining with sweat & sunblock and all I had on were my Puma sunglasses (only $14.99 at Century 21) (why was I just possessed by Fran Drescher, TV's "The Nanny"?) and my slutty denim cut-offs (why bust your ass doing squats at the gym if you don't show it off?).

Where was I? Oh yeah, strutting my sultry stuff down the gay runway of Jones Beach, Field 6. As we passed one sexy little tight-bodied, built, Latino motherfucker wearing a white bulging bikini (through which one could see the thick ridge of the mushroom head and a hint of black bush) and a friendly, confident smile of white teeth with a tiny space between the front two (yes, I can take it all in really fast...that's what we writers do), he nodded at me and I nodded back with a wink (yes, I winked...sometimes I amaze even myself). He was sitting on a large Igloo Playmate cooler with his legs spread wide and one hand rubbing his slouching abs.

And then he said something. But I wasn't sure what, because I was wearing my Shure noise-canceling earphones again -- the same ones that I'd had on during the almost-arrest. And my hands were full with beach bag, umbrella and lunch. So, as Diana Ross belted out "The Boss" (or The Who asked "Who Are You"...I really need to keep better notes) in my ears, I mouthed back, "What?" and he repeated it, and I tried to read his lips, and suddenly I realized what this was all about. The cooler, the inviting smile...it all made sense. He was asking if I wanted to buy a beer or soda. He was one of those drink vendors. So, I smiled and said, "No, thanks!" and kept walking.

However, I was wrong, as Derek told me a few minutes later, after we'd passed a few dozen other hotties (and a couple of coldies) and were already settling into our chosen spot. Apparently, he wasn't a drink vendor at all. What he'd yelled out was, "Hey sexy ass, do I get a taste?" And when I'd asked what he'd said, he had repeated, "Hey sexy ass, do I get a taste?" And my response was...."No, thanks."

I felt like a jerk, but it sure put a smile on Derek's face (he loves it when I am humiliated). I debated going back to explain, but figuring that the whole thing could end up like a Seinfeld episode, with him being offended that I thought he was hawking Gatorade and Heineken ("Not that there's anything wrong with that!"), I decided to let it go.

I wonder if he has his own blog and has already written about the creep on the beach this summer who spurned his invitation to a hot rim job. If anyone's read anything like that, please let him know I was just temporarily deaf and he can eat me out anytime. Thank you.

That's it for now. I'll dig into the Post-It pile again soon.

hung like a cous-cous

And now, a special guest of the Munroe Monument: Mrs. Bin Laden.

Public Service Announcement

People have been writing to ask me for the URL to the escort review message center, so here it is: http://m4m.message-forum.net/

Also, Daddy's (the webmaster's) new email address is: daddy@daddysreviews.com

Also, please remember:

• They mind very much if you smoke.
• Cross at the green -- not in-between.
  
• Give a hoot -- don't pollute.
  

Have a nice day. We're off to the beach for major tanline maintenance.

How I almost got arrested this week

It started innocently enough -- a typical day in the life of one Rick Munroe, just a regular down-to-earth yet drop-dead gorgeous, world famous stud (and modest, to boot!). I had suited up for a workout -- nothing fancy...just butt-hugging sweats, a clingy threadbare black tank, vintage-repro Mexico '70 Adidas sneakers (all pictured on me to the right, but switch the cords for sweats) and my iPod with Shure noise-canceling headphones, which are beneficial for blocking out the horrible hip-hop and techno-noise of the gym and replacing it with my personally-preferred soundtrack of The Who, The Supremes, The Partridge Family and Patti Smith, with an occasional Connie Francis tune tacked onto the playlist (she's great for ab workouts...don't ask me why...maybe it's her incredibly powerful use of the diaphragm).

Anyway, Derek was off with a client (one of those rare occasions when one of us is asked to go solo) and I had left my deceased cell phone at home to charge. Heading north on 8th Avenue, I was absentmindedly checking out the manly merchandise which is only vaguely visible in gents' jeans these days (damn this baggy-pants fad, which is lasting way too long for us cockwatchers).

I had sort of noticed this swarthy-ish man pedestrianing (my new word) near me, at the same pace and in the same direction. I glanced over at him a few times because he looked unusual (in an interesting way): a Panama hat,
a wild palm-leaf-patterned shirt that looked like it belonged on a Beach Boy,
and nicely-fitting trousers (i.e., the crotch wasn't down to his knees). I wasn't really paying him much attention, as I was focused on getting to the gym (it was chest day - my favorite) and Stevie Wonder was belting "Superstition" in my noise-canceled ears.

As we turned onto 23rd Street, I suddenly saw 2 men coming at us from the curb. One was shouting something in my face but all I could hear were the blaring horns of Stevie's funky band. I turned and saw Panama Hat Man with his hands over his head, up against the wall as the other undercover cop was cuffing him or frisking him or something otherwise coppy. I gently removed one of my headphones (they form a seal in your ear and you cannot just yank 'em out) as "my" cop was repeating to me, "I said, 'Get your hands in the air and up against that wall!'" I said, "Why? I'm just walking down the street." I'm normally a cool-headed "dude" in almost any situation, but this whole scene was happening so fast and my heart was racing. All I could think was, "Derek will come home and wonder where I am, and I won't be able to call him because I don't even have a dime." (I know pay phones don't cost a dime but I live for old sitcoms on DVD and that's what a call always costs in that world). I wondered if Panama Hat had loose ties to Al Qaeda and if I were about to be shipped off to a lifetime of "detention" as an enemy combatant. Suddenly, a light bulb went off over the officer's head and he said, "Wait a minute...you're not with that guy, are you?" I said, "No, I told you, I'm just heading to the gym." "Oh, OK, you can go." Gee, thanks.

As I resumed my journey, I could see people staring at me and I wanted to go up to them and tell them that it was a case of mistaken identity and that I wasn't really a bad person...just like in the episode "Put On a Happy Face" from season three of the Mary Tyler Moore show. You know, that's the one where usually-has-it-all-together Mary is having a bad day: her hair has a funny sleep bump in it, she sprains her ankle and then catches a cold from soaking her foot in cold water, her dress is ruined by the cleaners,
she breaks a heel of one shoe, loses a false eyelash...
...all right before she has to go up and accept her Teddy Award at the big banquet. The opening line of her acceptance speech: "I usually look...so much better than this."

Well, I wanted to go up to the bystanders on 23rd St. and say, "I don't usually get almost arrested like that." Instead, I re-inserted my headphone, changed tracks to Elvis Costello's "Pump It Up" and went off to pump my pecs. The adrenaline was still flowing so I worked extra hard and my chest was really sore the next day. I've been telling people that I was in pain due to police brutality. Makes a better story that way, don't you think? (Don't tell Oprah.)

Being Sally Field

Hey, don't look now but I just took 5 months off from blogging. You didn't notice, though, because I had my good friend Samantha Stevens stop time while I mentally vegetated (luckily, the GOP Congress didn't step in and try to screw things up by writing special legislation to revive my metaphors). Man, it felt good to just let my brain turn to broccoli (not that I was all that lucid to begin with, or "with which to begin" -- see, I still have the grammar in me; it's like riding a bike, or Derek's cock. It all comes back in the end). They say you should "leave 'em wanting more" but that's never enough for me. I feel it's more personally rewarding to let things come to a complete, truck-hitting-a-brick-wall halt, and then when everyone thinks I'm never coming back...BAM! Here I am again. Just like Kathy Bates in Misery.

Assisting me in my nearly half-year mind-meltdown was a never-ending array of TV shows on DVD. The Golden Girls, The Facts of Life, Mary Tyler Moore, Roseanne and Dark Shadows have kept Derek and me busy (when we weren't busy working out hard or traipsing all over the country to entertain gentleman callers...but I'll get to that later). These old shows are ridiculously addicting. It is impossible to watch just one episode...22 minutes later, another one begins and we groan and say, "But we need to go to bed!" but there we sit, transfixed in the glow of our kitchen flat-panel TV as the sun begins to spit morning.

We love to watch in the kitchen, because Derek has a constant craving. No, he doesn't belt k.d. lang songs at karaoke bars. I mean, he loves to eat while we watch...usually some sort of breakfast carb like Eggo waffles, English muffin toast, or a sweet childish cereal (since he's such a sweet childish guy when he's not being a nasty dominant top). While he's eating and laughing out loud at the ageless antics on the screen, I stand behind him and alternate between deep-massaging his mucho-muscular back and shoulders, and lightly scratching the same up and down. Both options deliver the same result (moaning and lots of "Shit!" and "Fuck!"), which means I have to keep rewinding the DVD to hear what I missed (he gets loud). Is that the right word? Do you rewind a DVD? Well, whatever it's called where you go in reverse, that's what I do.

The last 2 nights, when we returned from our evening appointments, we began working our way through The Flying Nun, Season One. What a bizarre show. She glides through the air like a small plane, never talks about God or Jesus or religion at all, and has a sexy Latin lover named Carlos. It almost makes me want to join a convent. I wonder if they accept gay male atheist whores...

Watching Sally Field soar over San Juan made me remember something I hadn't thought about in a long time. I used to have this recurring dream from age 18 to about 25. In it, Derek and I are walking down a tree-lined street, enjoying a beautiful, perfect sunny day. Suddenly, the sky turns dark and we turn and see bad guys coming toward us with knives, guns, baseball bats and other assorted assault objects. But we know that all we have to do is hold hands and we'll be fine, because when we hold each other's hand, we're protected and we can suddenly rise up and fly over the buildings and into the clouds. If we let go, we will fall crashing down to earth so we don't let go. We're Superhero Lovers, and we're invincible. Kind of like the Ambiguously Gay Duo, but without the ambiguity.
I'm not a dream analyst but I always assumed that it represented the power I felt from being in love and having a soulmate. I was out at a young age and used to get picked on in high school, and when I met Derek, I guess I felt protected and empowered. Or maybe I just watched too many Flying Nun reruns as a kid.

Since the last time I blogged, we've been traveling a ridiculously lot (that's not right, is it? -- it sounds like a British improv troupe: The Ridiculously Lot). I had so many stories to tell of our drive through the Deep South and ensuing encounters in Florida, Atlanta and DC...then in SF, PS and LA (OK, these abbreviations are getting out of hand) and then Chicago, Grand Rapids, and Cleveland. But I have to stop for now because Derek is seductively sprawled on the living room floor and I think I need to practice some animal husbandry.

Clients and poppers and coke (oh my!)

Derek's in the car waiting to leave for our roadtrip down South, but too many people have been requesting (demanding!) that I post so here I go. It's now or never (well, or another few weeks). You'll notice by the date of this post that I did make an attempt to blog a month ago (today is actually Feb. 21). I got as far as the clever title above but then put it off until now. Yes, now, as Derek waits in the car. Bad timing but I'm in the mood so here I go.

OK, before I begin, let me just say (well, you don't need to "let" me; I'll say it anyway because I'm just that kinda guy) that if you're an anal-retentive perfectionist like me, DO NOT GET AN iPod! Here's Excuse #47 for why I haven't been blogging: we got an iPod for Christmas (we don't celebrate Christmas but we happened to buy it in December and after months of mocking people who strut around the city with their hip, trendy iPods --and then throwing in the towel and buying one for ourselves -- we have no choice but to tell people that it was a Christmas gift so we can save face).

Well, silly Rick had to go do some googling to find out the best way to transfer our few-thousand CD music collection to mp3's, and what I found was that you shouldn't use iTunes because there are quality issues. You must, if you are an audiophile (or completely and incurably neurotic), use EAC (Exact Audio Copy), which is software that will rip copies of your CD's to your hard drive, without a big loss in sound quality. The only drawback is that it is time-consuming (about 25 minutes per CD, versus a couple of minutes if you use iTunes). So...for the months of January and February, I became a man driven by an intense and burning desire to get this huge fucking project finished. When I wasn't at the gym or entertaining gentleman callers, I was at the desk, popping a Yoko Ono or Partridge Family or Diana Ross or Elvis Costello or The Who CD into the computer, downloading the corresponding artwork so that when the song plays on the iPod, a cute little icon of the album cover appears. I stayed up until dawn for a couple of weeks, not even being swayed to bed by sexy, hunky, lonely-in-bed Derek's demands for me to come to bed already so he could hold me and drift off to sleep ("I just want to do this one CD and I'll be right in...can't ya jerk off or something?"). Yes, I neglected my husbandly duties for the sake of Connie Francis Sings Burt Bacharach. Bad, bad Rick.

But things were worse on New Year's. We had a client couple over to celebrate the only way we know how...with moist mouths, eager assholes and condomed cocks (who needs noisemakers, balloons and party hats?). They brought champagne and we popped the cork and partook (just a little bit for me; I'm a real lightweight in the booze department). Then off to the bedroom for kissin' and suckin' and fuckin'...until one of them took out a bottle of poppers. That stuff, no matter the brand or type, makes Derek sick. Literally. He gets some kind of allergic reaction to the fumes, and only has to be in the same room with a bottle that's been quickly opened-and-shut before he starts feeling headachey and nauseous.

We quickly and politely asked him not to use them, but he insisted, and being the kind of guys we are ("at your service!"), we said it would be OK if he did it in the other room...which he did, at first. Little by little, he kept taking more, and with each hit, he would travel less distance. The first time, he went into the living room. Then he was in the kitchen, then the hallway outside the bathroom, and finally in the doorway of the bedroom, where the evil amyl nitrate gases flew right up into Derek's nostrils as he was standing on the bed, innocently (but aggressively) face-fucking the other guy.

Within a minute, Derek's got the headache. He went to the living room and sat with his head out of the window for fresh air and I sat with him while they waited on the bed, calling out for me to return (they were equal parts concerned about Derek and wanting me to resume the festivities). Derek assured me he'd be alright in a while, so I hesitantly returned to "the scene of the fume," and he joined in about 10 minutes later.

Things were getting back into the groove (cue the Madonna music), and now Derek and I were getting our asses eaten out. Man, we fuckin' live for a great, wet, sloppy rimjob. These guys were good at it. The poppers-user kept going to his bag and doing something which I couldn't see, but he assured me he wasn't poppering-up. Then he'd return to the Rick and Derek Ass Taste Test, to our approving moans and groans.

Anyway, there was a climactic ending, seed was spilled, we said our goodbyes and they left.

We sat down at the kitchen table, where we like to watch DVD's of old sitcoms before bed, and as the opening credits of Mary Tyler Moore rolled by, I noticed Derek's leg shaking back and forth. I figured he was moving it in time to Mary's theme music, but then he continued after the show started. I asked him why he was doing that, and he said he couldn't help it. Then I realized that I, too, was feeling kind of jittery and...well, I guess "high" is what it was.

Me: "Derek, what did he keep doing over by his bag?"
Derek: "I don't know. I wasn't looking. What did you see?"
Me: "I couldn't see, but now that I think about it, I kept hearing sniffing."
Derek: "Umm...I bet he was snorting coke."
(lightbulb goes off over our heads)
Me (in horror): "He snorted coke, then ate our asses and gave us a contact high!!" (Don't ask how I knew about "contact highs"....it must have been on an episode of Starsky and Hutch).

We've never used cocaine and have never wanted to (we aren't known as the Nancy Reagans of the Escort World for nothing) so it was, shall we say, somewhat annoying to then be awake and coked-up most of the night. I put on some Donna Summer at one point...somehow, that felt right. Very Studio 54. "Happy New Year!"

Nice guys they were, and fun in the sack, but I think you ought to ask permission before you apply cocaine to someone's ass with your tongue, no? :-P

Right after that, I went into iPod-CD-conversion overdrive...hence my web-absence. And now we're off for a few weeks of tanline maintenance and sexy shenanigans.

See you here when I get back. If I take the advice of our best friend Stephen (whom we affectionately refer to as Pine Cake), I might do a travel blog while we're away, but no promises I might end up breaking.

I remain, as ever,
Drug-free, alcohol-free, smoke-free, but not horny-free,

Rick

Judging a book bottom by its cover cock

People have been writing in, asking when I'd be talking about our trip to Montreal and the big Black and Blue party. Well, all I can say is: damn, those fuckin' Frenchies are sexy. Not just the Canadians; the ones who were visiting from Paris drove us crazy, too. We especially loved/lusted after the French Arabs...they just drip with juicy sexuality. We like all types of guys, in all shapes and colors (we really do; it's not just a marketing line), from young skinny punks to older suited daddies, from muscular men to beerbellied bears and everyone in between. But these dark, hairy, macho Arabs were really nice...really. Nice. And friendly. And horny. And lots of them seemed to like a certain couple of hairy American muscle boys (hey, if you divide the world into boys and girls, then we're boys).

Being the (presumably) only two people (out of thousands) at a circuit party who were not high on anything other than our inherent joie de vivre gave us a certain sense of vision. That is, we could see what everyone really looked like without the distortion of drugs. And you know what? They all still looked fucking good, especially this one Parisian who was dancing up on a platform. Hot, muscular, brown hairy body, with a sexy, friendly confident face. Big smile with white teeth and pink lips surrounded by stubbly black hair. Yum. He was definitely one of the hottest guys there.

Then we caught eyes, he got down from his perch and spent the next 2 or 3 hours dancing with Derek and me. Sometimes he'd jump back up on his go-go box and pull one or both of us up with him (a first for us; we usually prefer to do our dancing on the ground). You know that saying, "Dance like nobody's watching"? Well, it's kind of hard when you have hundreds of eyes looking up at you, but I think we did OK (no tomatoes were thrown).

He stated at one point, "I go home wiz you!" Well, that was fine with us. We were not looking for a hook-up; casual sex is something we stopped pursuing when we started escorting. But this was a god (and I don't use the term loosely) so we made an exception. However, one thing he did on the dance floor stunned us as Derek thought to himself, "What have I gotten myself into?" and I thought, "What's going to get into me?" You see, what he did was drop his pants a little to show us "the goods" and our jaws dropped with the pants. It had to be like 9 x 6 (soft)...it came jutting straight out of his body a few inches and then drooped down the rest of the way, ending with a very pretty hooded head. There's no use in my trying to come with better adjectives -- there's no better way to say it than just: that was one big fucking beauty of a cock.

Then, we all left and went back to our room at Le Gouverneur Hotel. That's when Derek and I discovered, to our relief (I'm tight!), that this super-hung stud was...a bottom. I guess we should have taken a hint when, on the dance floor, he kept turning around, dropping his pants and pushing his hairy bubble butt back into us, but we thought that was just one of his dance moves. Yes, we're professionals but we're also clueless sometimes.

There is one drawback to not getting high at an all-night party: you get tired when the morning comes and you're back in your hotel room for hot sex with a god. Yes, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed (well, after we all had a nice long sensual shower together where I did, briefly, get to work my deep throat magic on his huge meat). Derek had one last burst of energy in him, so while I drifted off and became the 7th Brady Bunch kid (a recurring dream of mine), Derek slipped on a Beyond Seven condom and rode the Arab ass like a...well, I don't know because I missed the whole thing. But the cuddling/spooning/sleeping afterward was nice.

We've kept in touch by email and he wants to see us again (and we want to see him again, too). We had been planning for quite some time to adopt a dog, but maybe we'll adopt a long-distance big-dicked bottom instead. Stay tuned...

9th Grade Redux

Eighth grade was my favorite school year because I had an enthusiastic (also cute and probably gay) English teacher who inspired me and pushed me to write and perform and express myself. I'd always wanted to be a superstar singer anyway -- my dream was to be the next George Michael, shaking my butt in tight jeans on MTV. Later, when I met Derek, I thought he'd make a great "That-Other-Guy-From-Wham!," but alas, it was never to be because we followed our (other) true calling and became escorts instead. But back in the glory days of 8th grade, I wrote a novel (about a boy superstar singer named Ricky Rock), many vaguely homoerotic poems (i.e., "Ode to a Salacious Sailor"), and sang in the school choir (my big solo number was Culture Club's "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me"). I was prolific, precocious and pulchritudinous. But then, freshman year in high school, I got overwhelmed with schoolwork and extracurricular activities, so I stopped writing for a while. And my cracking, changing voice put a damper in my urge to belt out a number on stage.

Lately, it's been happening all over again. My life the past 2 months has been a whirlwind of horny men and pretty cities, and apparently I don't multi-task very well so the writing kept getting pushed back (or is that forward?). I have many scraps of paper filled with blog ideas in a neat little pile on my desk, though. I jot them down wherever I happen to be (which explains why one is on a San Francisco MUNI receipt, one is on my ticket stub from the Black and Blue party in Montreal, and one is on the invoice for my latest amazon.com DVD purchase: The Brady Bunch Complete Season Four -- oh yeah, another distraction to add to the list is our ever-growing family of sitcom boxed sets which keep us up watching episode after episode until the sun coming through the window tells us to go to bed already).

I wish I hadn't promised "a nice long blog post" back in October because I kind of feel guilty about that. (Hey, my mother would be so proud; all her years of hard work have finally paid off. Yes, Mom, I feel the guilt, I feel the pain.)

Anyway, here I am again on my latest blog comeback. Liza, eat your heart out because I can out-comeback you any day (I'm just not as glitzy).

As for the ass pic at the top of the page, I have no idea where it went. Did the Ass Fairy take it away? Wherever it is, I hope it's happy and is getting the loving attention it richly deserves. But I will figure out a way to get it back up there where it belongs. "If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill! As God is my witness, my blog'll never go buttless again!" (Update: It's back so ignore this and I'll promise never to quote Scarlett O'Hara again)

I'm also gonna grab pieces of paper from the pile and start posting my thoughts more frequently, probably in shorter doses. That way, when I come home from an evening where Derek and I have totally given ourselves to a guy and I just want to vegetate with the Brady Bunch afterwards, I can still do a quick post and not feel guilty about it being short. Quickies can be satisfying too, right? :)

"You don't have to moan."

I never would have thought that 5 little words could fuck me up so much (aside from "Ricky, wanna touch Mommy's titties?"). Well, for a few minutes, anyway. There I was a couple weeks ago while on my latest hiatus, having a really good time with a playful, sensual new client. He was a great kisser...actually, that mouth sure was talented at everything it did to every part of me. He seemed to intuitively know just how I liked to be licked. And, apparently, I was moaning like crazy. I always make noise during sex; I always have, but not always the same way (I'll get to that in a minute). It's real, it's genuine, it's organic. I don't usually know I'm doing it until someone comments (e.g., "Rick, please, these hotel walls are paper thin!"). But the boy/man just can't help it.

Then, right in the middle of a moment of intense pleasure, he softly whispered in my ear, "You don't have to moan." I don't remember what I replied (I think I just giggled), but for the next five minutes there was a neurotic Woody Allen/Jerry Seinfeld-esque scene running through my mind:

"OK, so he thinks I was faking my moans so now I have to concentrate on not moaning. But if I suddenly stop moaning, he'll think he was right and that I really was faking it. So I'll just have to continue moaning. But in order to continue moaning, it's not going to be real anymore because now I can't stop thinking about it and being aware of it and it really is going to be fake moaning. Shit! Have I been moaning while I'm thinking about this? And have I been moaning the same way as I was when I was really moaning and not aware of it? How do I moan anyway? I never listen to it. How's this? No, that sounds too much like Donna Summer. And now I sound robotic like Jeff Stryker. Uggh..."

Well, fortunately for both of us, I was soon able to forget the five-little-words and Rick Got His Groove Back. I mean, in some ways, I can be as neurotic as the best of 'em (and my people are experts), but when it comes to sex (especially the kind involving talented tongues), I let it all go and savor the sensations - just like an old coffee comercial.

When I met Derek, my sex moans were quite different than they are now. So were Derek's. Mine, he says, sounded like a little girl having a bad dream. His, I say, sounded like a recording of a hyper hyena played at fast speed, especially at the moment when he was fucking me jackhammer-style and pumping out a powerful teenage load. But over the years, as we've matured (physically, at least; mentally we are still about 20), so have the moans. Now, Derek has his trademarked guttural grunt and...well, I don't know what mine sounds like because, as I've said, I really don't listen to it and I don't want Derek to tell me what it sounds like because then I'll become Woody Allen all over again. (OK, he just walked by and was reading this over my shoulder, and he said, "Tell them you still sound like a little girl having a bad dream - the one where she's in school naked, being chased down the hall by a monster.")

So here is my latest comeback. I feel like Liza, but without the weight gain. Actually, I've lost some size recently, because I've been working out like a maniac (no, I don't wear a Flashdance outfit to the gym) and have decided to stop force-feeding myself protein shakes day-and-night to get huge. I've decided that my natural, normal weight is just that - natural and normal - and it's such a relief to not have to drink that stuff any more, and just consume regular amounts of good, healthy food. And clients and guys in my 'hood seem to like it (hint: wear a skimpy tank top on 8th Ave. and suddenly your cruiseworthiness increases exponentially).

Derek and I spent most of August at the beach...and yes, we saw Tushy on the Beach one last time. He did his little routine for a friend of ours (a sexy Brazilian boy) whose towel was parked nearby (near enough for our friend to keep coming over and getting on top of me whenever I was lying on my stomach...he's got such a big, pretty dick and it is always hard...I must make a mental note to plan that trip to Rio at last). Anyway, Tushy soon gave up and left in search of new prey. That's when our friend confided that he'd let Tushy blow him the week before, right there on the beach, so he could get a ride home in Tushy's car and not have to take the train. And they call me a whore. :)

I never had any sex at the beach the whole summer, until a few days ago when we were showering. Well, almost. There was this cute, tall, soft-spoken black boy showering nearby in his trunks, which made me assume he was straight (gay guys are the only guys who have the balls to expose their balls in public showers anymore). It was near closing time and Derek, he and I were the only ones there. Well, I was washing my front, and I turned and saw that the boy had stepped back and was checking out my ass, and that he had taken off his trunks, and that his very big (like 9") cock was rock hard and jutting straight out at me. I stepped away and went to the corner, where I had placed my towel, and he followed and stood there with that big ol' thing saying "Hello!" I grabbed it and said, "That's really nice" and he said, "You like it?" and I said, "Fuck yeah!" which is when he put his hand on the back of my head and pushed me down on it as he said, "Then suck me!"

Well, you know how easily I deep throat so I had the whole thing swallowed to the base right away, and got about 5 up-and-down sucks, but then Derek heard someone coming (one of the workers) and I had to stop. None of us got to cum. Then I asked him how old he was, since he had such a young face, and he said "Twenty one." How nice...when he was a baby, I was 13-years old, taking Bar Mitzvah lessons. Oy. Does that make me an uncle? (I don't think I'm ready to be a Daddy just yet.)

Anyway, we brought the camera with us the other day so here are some beachy new photos of Derek and me:

Tushy on the Beach

(Please sing the title of this post to the tune of Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" or The Doors' "Riders on the Storm;" Derek and I usually alternate melodies and we're working on counterpoint). Tushy on the Beach is our nickname for one of the regular denizens of Jones Beach. Perhaps you've noticed him: compact, waxed all over, bald, bronzed and built with a true bubble-butt that looks silly in the thong swimsuits into which he is constantly changing (first the fuchsia, now the navy, time for turquoise, slip into the silver, then dive into the deep dark jungle of the tiger stripes...it's like an obsessive-compulsive International Male catalogue come to life).

I could use an acronym and call him TOTB but Tushy on the Beach is so unsexy, so humbling, so something-my-mother-would-say. Those are just the kinds of words I like to use on swaggering showoffs -- guys who love to flaunt their physical gifts and make everyone pay attention to them (yes, I know I'm calling the kettle black, but my kettle is stainless All-Clad, and I hate to cook, anyway).

Derek and I have always given nicknames to people that we frequently see but don't actually know: like, at the gym, there's this guy whom we call "Beefy Black Man Whose Head Is Too Small For His Body," and the boy with short spiky black hair and a big shnoz ("Jewish Joyce DeWitt"), who is not to be confused with the girl who has longer, tousled black hair and wears Chinese slippers ("Asian Ashlee Simpson"). Oh, and there's also the sexy Hispanic who wears fancy tie-dyed workout pants: "Mr. Tie-Dye Fancypants" (hey, they can't all be clever).

Sometimes we wonder if other people have nicknames for us. I really don't think I'd want to know, though, because it's probably something embarrassing like "Those Two Incredibly Drop-Dead Gorgeous Studs" or "The Gods." Yeah, we're better off just not knowing.

We've seen Tushy on the Beach for a few years now, most recently this past weekend. We have his routine memorized (we don't even need cue cards). He shows up, scopes out a hottie, and subtly drops his bag (along with his camouflage cargo shorts, revealing the everpresent thong) a few yards away. Then he quickly spreads out his towel and flops down on his washboard tummy, with the round and tanned ass globes pushed up and on display.

Sometimes, his prey will respond by watching for a while, sometimes they'll discreetly start stroking their cock through their bikini, and some even take it out and use it to wave a brief, hard but drippy "Hello there!" Sometimes they'll leave their own towel and go visit Tushy at his, hanging out for a while to stroke the cheeks. And always, throughout this pleasant playlet, Tushy on the Beach changes thongs with the frequency of my cousin Donna in the dressing room at the year-end clearance sale at Loehmann's.

After about ten or twenty minutes of this, TOTB (I changed my mind; acronyms are cool, remember?) will invariably throw in the towel (well, actually, he rolls it up and puts it back in the bag), pull on the cargo shorts (after one last swimsuit switch), and head further down the beach in search of a new interactive audience.

So, we know his modus operandi but not his purpose. Does he merely crave attention? Is he looking for a hook-up? His assiduity when it comes to his ass is fascinating and perplexing. What's with the rotating thongs? I wonder if he just wants an excuse to strip down in public...or maybe he realizes how awful thongs look on men (come to think of it, they're don't look so great on women, either) and he keeps thinking he'll eventually put on the one that's flattering.

We find the whole thing quite compelling from a sociological standpoint. And very funny, too. So funny that, this last time, we couldn't stop laughing at the whole situation...probably a little too loudly (have you heard Derek's distinctive laugh?) and especially because this time, we were Tushy's "chosen ones."

Tushy on the Beach left even sooner than usual, which was a shame for him because a beautiful and hung Brazilian man showed up soon after. He was a really good kisser, too. ;)

Shaping Up

Now, where was I? (I'm pretending a month hasn't really zipped by since my last post; please humor me and play along, like Derek does every day of his life.) Oh yeah, I was going to tell you what happened on GPS (Gay Pride Sunday). I like to call it GPS because acronyms are so cool and very 2005, YKWIM (you know what I mean)? Well, let's just say that this year, GPS left Derek and me feeling LTP (less than proud). Not ashamed, though; just kind of let-down when we realized that sometimes you really can't go back and relive your roaring 20's.

We hadn't attended the parade in a couple of years. We'd watched or marched annually from age 18/19 to 29/30. Then we de-monogamized our marriage, started escorting, and suddenly had other plans (read: sex) that day. But this year, we had the day off and decided it was time to return. Slipping on some sexy tight jeans and tucking our T-shirts into the back pockets (it was uncomfortably hot and humid that day), we headed down to Christopher Street, which is where we used to hang out to observe the festivities (read: cruise hot guys).

Well, nobody told us that the dykes had taken over Christopher Street. And that they had changed their look. The last time we'd paid attention, lesbians had choppy k.d. lang hair and wore flannel shirts, boots and 501's. Now, it seems, they have embraced hip-hop style and are doing the whole do-rag, oversized backwards baseball cap, diamond earrings and ridiculously huge T-shirt and baggy, below-the-butt pants "look." When did they abandon the Village People's construction worker for Fifty Cent and Eminem? I want my old dykes back.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was...where were the men? Maybe they were back in Chelsea and we should have stayed in our 'hood. All I know is that we turned a corner and suddenly we were trapped on the sidewalk in the middle of a massive, slowly-moving, barricaded-in mob of hip-hop dykes. And there was no love being spread, as we'd recalled from past parades. No, this was an angry assemblage of man-hating bitches; the muggy weather was not bringing out the best in "the ladies."

So there we were, trying to squeeze our way through the claustrophobic crowd, determined to escape that sapphic hell and get back to the cooled cozy cocoon of our IKEA-and-antiques-furnished flat (I never say "flat" but as you know, I love alliteration). Well, between the sweltering heat and the close quarters, I was drenched, and as I passed one gal, she jumped back and shrieked in overdramatized horror as my saturated-with-sweat hairy chest brushed her arm. Pride, anyone?

But the better interaction came moments later from another lovely lassie who got up in my face and spewed the following words of advice: "YOU NEED A SHAPE-UP!" At first, I thought she'd said, "You need to shape up!" which sounded like something my mother would say (although Mom would have had more Brooklyn-Jewish angst in her voice) and I wondered what I'd done to upset her...but when I asked her to repeat, it was definitely a noun, "a shape-up." Derek and I were both puzzled by this until a light bulb lit up over his head as he realized what she'd meant.

You see, at the Cuban barber shop we've been patronizing for years, there's a big sign on the wall that says, "NO SHAPE-UPS!" Translation: "Don't come in here asking us to neaten up your hair for free a week after your haircut." So, we assumed, she must have been referring to my furry chest and abs, and beseeching me to trim the hair. Of course, in hindsight, the only proper response to a dyke shouting, "You need a shape-up!" in your face would have been "And you need a dick up your ass!" but at the time, I was still trying to share (or find) the love of Gay Pride.

Anyway, the encounter gave us something to do to amuse ourselves on the walk home (we never did get to see any of the parade) as we shouted, "You need a shape-up!" to each other all the way back. ("You need a shape-up!" "No, you need a shape-up!")

Hey, it's light out and I need to get to bed. I began this post last night, but then my phone rang and I ended up spending the next few hours with a guy at the Helmsley who really knew how to suck cock and eat ass and kiss. Man, I live for oral experts. Nice cock on him, too; I loved reciprocating with my comparable skills. Anyway, I really need to get to bed because these chirping birds outside my window are starting to annoy me, so I will continue in a day or two. Derek's out of school at the moment, so the computer is mine again and I will be posting. People have been emailing me, asking why we don't just get a second computer, but as I've told them, if we did that, I'd lose my best excuse for taking time off. :-P

The Truth Can Now Be Told

The reason I haven't been blogging is not that I've been too busy; it's that Derek is taking classes at NYU this summer and has been on the computer (we just have one) all the time. Well, not all the time; just every time I feel the urge to write. I can't complain, though. The strong silent Derek never gets to use this machine because I hog it, so he deserves a chance. Plus, he just looks so sexy when he's concentrating on his schoolwork and moving his lips while he reads.

OK, I made that last part up. I think. I always like to say that he's dumb, hung and full o' cum; sometimes I start to believe the "dumb" part but it's just not true. Well, he does count on his fingers so I guess I can't ever be sure. (I am really gonna get it when he sees this. At least, I hope so. I like when he gets riled up and puts me in my place...on my knees).

Oh, by the way, I'm shy. Really. Well, not in most situations; I'm a native New Yorker, after all, and everyone knows we're cocky sons of bitches (and I have the mother to prove it). And yes, I do find it natural and easy to walk into a hotel room -- or open my apartment door -- and get naked and intimate with a stranger within minutes. But that's the thing: they have made the choice to meet me, and all the work has been done. It's when I'm in certain situations, like at the beach the day before Gay Pride Sunday, that I put on the "Coy Rick" face that makes Derek simultaneously groan and laugh.

We had chosen a spot (at Jones Beach, or as I like to call it, Joan's Beach) that was pretty secluded. Derek and I seek serenity at the shore, although we never rule out an occasional surreptitious excursion into the dunes to check out the "merchandise" on display. But for the most part, we just like to enjoy each other's company: rubbing sunblock on each other, making out on our blanket like teenagers, feeding each other cherries, peaches and plums (and licking the dripping juices off the other's face). We share so much of ourselves with other guys (and enjoy doing it) but it's nice to have this time alone to be "a couple."

But the other day, after we'd frolicked in the cold water (Derek gets sort of aggressive with the waves...it looks like he's punching them for splashing him), teased each other about shrinkage and fell asleep in the hazy sun, I awoke to see that someone had chosen to camp out (or is it "beach out"?) just a few yards away from our umbrella. Relieved to see that he didn't have a radio, I closed my eyes again. But then I opened them right back up because of what I'd seen him doing as I closed them.

You see, he was applying sunscreen to his own back, and not missing a spot. (I'm fond of fellows who are limber and long-limbed.) His back and arm muscles were so taut yet fluid. There were so many of them, too, all very visible and all working like a well-oiled machine. Now, I don't usually go for very muscular guys. I mean, I like most types of men and that does include muscular, but it's not something I require or seek out. But this man, and his well-constructed physique, and his butch buzz cut, and nice amount of hair in all the right places...well, it kept my eyes open and in his direction.

He noticed me watching, and did his own watching back. I felt a little like Lucy Ricardo checking out William Holden at the Brown Derby, when Mr. Holden turns the tables on her and gazes back starry-eyed, making her eat large amounts of spaghetti and she eventually runs away, right into a waiter carrying a custard pie, which ends up on Mr. Holden, and later she puts on a fake nose that catches on fire and then the jig is up...



Well, that's not really a good analogy. I wasn't gawking at him and he was definitely as much into me as I was into him. And he did decide to "beach out" right by us in our seclusion.

So, then he smiles a big confident sexy smile at me and nods his head. And Coy Rick does his coy smile back, all sweet and shy and...and then Derek burst out laughing. And if you haven't heard Derek's distinctive laugh, well, you'll just have to meet him and say something funny. Or I can do the coy smile and start him up.

Anyway, he then walked over to us, and soon the three of us were in the water, and what a site that must have been. Derek punching the waves like a demented boxer, Fluid Muscle Guy splashing water on himself like your grandmother in a kiddie pool, and me doing my shy, sweet Coy Rick smile whenever he'd look at me. Thank goodness there were no cameras around. I mean, I'm sure we all looked hot (FMG in his baggie shorts, Derek in his square-cut Speedos, and Coy Rick in my little black bikini) but I think we also looked a little insane. Then again, I have always found a little insanity to be a big turn-on.

We ended up back at our blanket, the three of us making out, humping (I prefer that word to the more clinical "frottage," don't you?), sleeping, and feeding each other fruit. It didn't go any further than that, but it didn't need to. For some reason, it was just a perfect day, and nothing at all like the let-down of the following one (I'll get to that next time; please remind me).

To my adoring public (all 3 of you)

(and that includes Derek)

I have been busy but I'll have something for your eyeballs to peruse in a day or two. And that's a promise you can take to the sperm bank (or rim seat; take your pick).

Tell Me Something Good

Derek and I did it with cell phones -- no, we didnt "do it" with cell phones (although I bet there are some neat-o things you can do to your nipples with a Nokia).

Let me start over.

What I am about to do in this post is just like what Derek and I once did in regard to cell phones (there, that's better). You see, we used to mock and ridicule people we'd see on the street who seemed permanently attached to their cells...we'd say, "What can they possibly be saying that can't wait until they get home? 'Hi, I'm walking down 8th Avenue at the moment and I am currently passing a pizza shop, and now a deli, and now I am crossing the street because the light is green.'" Well, of course, we eventually got our own phones, and we not only grew to use them religiously but we use them ridiculously. I'll call Derek from the bedroom when he's in the living room, just a wall and a few feet away, to say things like "I love you" or "I'm hungry; let's go eat" or "I love to eat you when I'm hungry."

It was the same thing with my body. When I was a teenager in the 80's and androgyny was all the rage in pop music thanks to Boy George, I idolized and tried to look like Pete Burns of the group Dead or Alive:



It didn't please my otherwise liberal parents and I got teased at school (mostly by the girls, jealous because I could apply my eyeliner better than them), but I didn't care because I knew that Pete and I were cool and I knew that, although I was never effeminate-acting, I would look that way forever and never give in to society's expectation that I be a man and get all muscly or somethin'.

Well, that didn't last long, because then I met Derek, who promptly buzzed my hair off and took me to the gym. Oh, and that's another example for you: when Derek and I met and fell in love and lost our virginity together, we swore (not because we felt we should but because it was truly what we wanted) that we'd be monogamous forever. Well, that lasted about 12 years, and then we decided to "open things up" (things like our legs and lips) so we could experience other men before it was "too late."

So here we are: cell-phone using, he-man whores. You've come a long way, baby.

But wait; what was my point? Oh yeah, I'm doing something that I promised myself I'd never do. I swore I wouldn't put anything typical on my blog, but I'm about to quote (anonymously) some of the emails I've received about past posts, and isn't that just so common? OK, I'll get over it and just get on with it already.

I got lots of mail about the Edible Hair, but this one had a twist:

While this was a very sexy story and I can relate to it...although those moments when I've actually wanted to put it in my mouth are very, very rare..it has happened....your story comes at a strange time. Are you not aware of the fact that during the Michael Jackson trial a number of witnesses have talked about how Michael would lick the hair of some of his "boy" friends..and he would do this in public, kind of a spontaneous "act of affection." Kind of like the way a she-wolf washes down her pups? It wasn't until I read "Edible Hair" that I realized just how sexual an act this is.

No, I was not aware of that at all. Derek and I cancelled our cable TV subscription months ago because there's nothing but trash and propaganda on the tube, so we have totally missed all coverage of "the trial." How funny; I wonder if anyone else made the same connection. Well, I don't think Derek has anything in common with she-wolves or she-males. He just likes to taste stuff.

And then there was this, from a fellow NYC couple:

Your post entitled "Edible Hair" was of much interest, not because
of the hair part, but because your modus operandi seems very much
like that of ours, and it is unusual. We are often prowling about in
the company of the drunk and drugged, getting frisky in the dark
corners without any chemical boosts.

Hey, I thought we were the only two like that in all of New York City. I think we need to meet these two. I wonder what else we'll have in common? Maybe the four of us will have to switch partners for a week like on one of those reality shows. Anyway, they continue:

The only problem with
being alert during a threesome with a hot Puerto Rican
in a mens room is that you can't help noticing
how dirty the floor is. (Will the sludge marks on the knees of my jeans
wash out?)

OK, now I know we don't have everything in common. I'm gonna have to tell these guys that dirty is "in" and that people pay hundreds of dollars for designer jeans with faux-mens-room knee smudges. Wear those smudges with pride and tell 'em you got 'em at Barney's.

I thought this email was sweet:

...it does seem that Derek is the subject of many of the
blogs. I think you two seem to have something really
special and sexy!...I love what I read
about you two and I love the fact you seem very
intelligent and erudite.

That was really nice and we really appreciated reading it; however, I must admit that neither Derek nor I knew what "erudite" meant without looking it up, so I don't think we're really good examples of eruditeness (eruditity?). But "special and sexy," we can live with that (and thanks).

Finally, a fellow rocker (a cute one, too; I saw his pic) wrote this, after I mentioned being kicked off the Heart message board:

And I'm glad to see that there is another homo out there who loves the
band Heart as much as I do. You made my day.

I was glad to hear that, too. From our trips to Fire Island, those few circuit parties and everyday at the gym, I'd grown to believe that every gay man on earth must only listen to monotonous dance noise where divas wail about pride and freedom. How cool to find "another homo" who listens to hard rock where divas wail about Barracudas and Magic Men.

Keep the emails coming.

rickandderek@aol.com

Let's Make a STDeal

When Derek and I were in SF two months ago (right after the romantic cum-drenched second honeymoon in the woods), we had a yen...but with no time to fly to Japan, we couldn't spend it (sorry; I hear you groaning). No, we had a yen to put our cocks through glory holes and get blown. There is nothing in the whole fucking wide world like pushing your pelvis up against a hard flat surface while an eager mouth on the other side envelops you in moist warmth suction and keeps going until you let out an involuntary gasp/groan and pop (hey, that would make a great cereal name; Kellogg's, are you reading my blog?). Oops, I'm dripping precum on my chair now. Hang on a minute...

OK, I'm back; now, back to the hole. Yes, there is nothing like the feeling but it is not a feeling Derek and I have had the pleasure of feeling many times. There was a gloryhole (henceforth referred to as GH, and hopefully that's the last time I'll use a word like henceforth, here or anywhere) at college. It was located in the basement men's room at the main library -- or "the libes" as we cool collegiates called it -- and I wasted many hours in that room, with many beautifully bursting jock cocks sliding through the hole to my side, but being monogamous and also afraid of "catchin' somethin'," all I ever did was pet and stroke the cocks, which pissed off many a horny jock. I would usually jerk off while on the toilet, so at least someone was satisfied (me).

Boy, I am so different today. Now, in most situations, I'm all about making sure the other guy gets off. Well, no, that's not true. I guess it depends on my mood (and whether or not the other guy will let me be a selfish pig).

Back to the hole again. Derek and I did get blown through that tea room GH at school -- by each other. And the feeling was intense. I mean, we already knew exactly how to suck each other (Derek preferred a smooth up-and-down rhythm with an emphasis on "down," while I liked to jam it in deep, keeping it there while he'd use his tongue to polish my shaft), but that expertise, combined with the isolation of the GH (and the whole naughty aspect of doin' it in adjoining toilets while other guys were at the urinals pissing) made it more intense. The hardest part was trying to be quiet when we shot. Sheer torture.

Anyway, here we were in Frisco, as my father calls it, in March. A client had cancelled on us at the last minute so we had the evening free. We'd visited Blow Buddies, SF's private GH club, on a previous trip. Well, we'd visited the entrance, at least. You see, there was this literature at the door -- great, responsible stuff about the syphillis & staph epidemics in the gay community, where to get tested, how to be careful, etc. That had been enough to make our already-erect-in-anticipation-of-awesome-head dicks go soft, so we'd headed to the Castro Theater instead to watch a double feature of some mediocre mid-60's Audrey Hepburn films. Not quite as good as awesome head, but the popcorn was good and buttery.

However, on this trip, we decided to throw caution to the wind and give Blow Buddies a second chance. The idea of rooms and mazes full of gloryholes and cocks being sucked left and right was too intriguing. We figured we'd just watch. But then we realized that going to a sex club and just watching is like going to McDonald's and just sniffing the fries. It ain't stopping there.

So then we thought we'd try to pick the cleanest, healthiest, most disease-free looking guy there, but how do you do that when all you can see are his lips? The more we thought about it, the more reasons we came up with not to go, but we were also too fucking horned up not to go. And so, as we ate chicken skewers at Asqew Grill, our favorite healthy fast food shop, we played a little game. I got some scraps of paper and wrote the following possible outcomes to our evening on each piece:

• incredible night of hot sex with hot guys and memories to last a lifetime
• syphillis
• drug-resistant strain of staph

I folded up the scraps, and Derek closed his eyes & drew first, choosing "syphillis." We folded it back up, shook the scraps, and I drew..."drug-resistant strain of staph."

Well, at least this time the movie at the Castro was much better: Bigger Than Life, a brilliant film from the 1950's starring James Mason as a man who gets hooked on (and becomes psychotic from) the "new" miracle drug, cortisone. Somehow, it seemed a fitting film for two otherwise carefree guys who had spent the evening neurotically agonized over the prospect of blow jobs.

Who's afraid of the big, bad message board?

Runner-up titles for this post:

• Come Back to the Message Center, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean
• West Side Message Board Story
• Thoroughly Moderated Millie

Pretty lame, huh? I guess I should stick to what I know (classic sitcoms & passionate sex) and leave the Broadway stuff to the theater lovers (I would say "theater queens" but I dislike that phrase; I prefer theater lover, drama lover, size lover -- anything with "love" in it is OK by me). Anyway, I'll explain what this is all about if you're lost...

Some of you find me here through Hooboy's site, which started up around the same time Derek and I began escorting. The whole concept of clients writing reviews was a novel idea, one which attempted to (and for the most part, did) remove the doubt and danger associated with hiring escorts. HooBoy's is a place where men who rent men can exchange info and sort the good from the rip-offs (I won't say "the bad" because I think some guys get off on getting ripped off, in which case the rip-offs are also "the good," you know what I mean?).

The other part of the review site, the part where we escorts can -- if we want to and have thick enough skin -- join in the conversation, is the message board. By posting my typically smartass or silly (but sometimes serious or socio-political) replies, I've been able to show that there's more to me than just a gorgeous body, a killer ass, a suckable cock and luscious lips that were born to kiss: yes, I've shown my humility, modesty and selflessness, too. :) Like I've said before, I'll always be grateful to HooBoy for giving me a voice and therefore the chance to sell a "total package" (since I'm not so good at selling on my own; Derek and I still don't even have our own website).

Along the way, there have been rough times -- catfights & cockfights -- at that message board, as there have been at every message board since the inception of the internet. And there's always going to be "the one" that some others despise and want removed. For example, I love 70's rock. The band Heart re-grouped last year and put out a new album and a new website. I joined their message board and was permanently banned from posting after I replied to a thread about the group's appearance that day on The Ellen Degeneres Show. Everyone was gushing about how "incredible," "awesome" and "kick-fucking-ass" the gals were, but I disagreed. When I offered that I thought they'd sounded a little tired so early in the morning (aren't rock musicians usually up late, like me?) and that I didn't think Ellen's background singing was as funny as usual, I was immediately branded an internet troll and booted out. Now, that was funny.

Well, I've posted exactly 4,999 times at the HooBoy message center, and was all set to create number 5,000 when the site administrators decided it was time (again) to shut down operations for a while until things cooled down from a recent rash of negativity, personal attacks and overzealous moderators. I don't think the break is anything permanent, and it's probably beneficial for me, since I spend so much time (when I'm not in bed or at the gym) on the computer as it is. Hunting and pecking is grueling work, you know? But I'm also going through withdrawal, which is why today's blog was devoted to this topic. I do hope that those of you who frequented (posted or lurked at) that board will return after the vacation. I know I will. I need to at least get to 5,000. It's like singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and stopping when you get down to 2 bottles. That's torture!

On another note, a bi-curious married man who just wanted to watch us two "gay guys getting it on" proceeded to jerk out a bucketful of cum on Derek and me yesterday (like 6 gushing spurts...fucking amazing), and then wanted to see us embrace. We felt like a cum sandwich. A Fluffer-cummer, if you will. (Or a Cummer-nutter?)



But when it had dried and we tried to pry our hairy selves apart, it was kind of like pulling off a Band-Aid.

The married guy thought that was very amusing. Hey, anything to entertain the husbands of America. :)

Edible Hair

I don't believe in reincarnation or anything spiritual (well, I do believe in the power of harnessing sexual energy but that's not spirituality; that's just me being a horny fuck and getting off on using the words "harness" and "sexual" in the same sentence). However, the Shirley MacLaine in me does think that Derek was a cat in a former life. Not just because he purrs (well, groans) when you stroke his silky blond fur, and not just because he likes being King of the Jungle in this household. No, I'm referring to his fondness for having certain hair in his mouth...what he calls "the edible hair." And no, he doesn't actually ingest it and there are no hairballs ever coughed up. It's more like sucking, licking, and holding it in his mouth -- so I'm not the only orally-fixated one here.

It all started last year, on one of our rare excursions to a circuit party -- you know, one of those events where hundreds of hot, sweaty, half-naked guys are swallowing and snorting recreational drugs while swaying back and forth to that throbbing, mind-numbing techno-junk that passes for dance music today. It's kind of fun, except for the fact that most party boys shave their bodies and you go home with abrasions on yours from their stubble. We went to our first one in 2000 and we did experiment a couple of times with ecstasy, just to see what the fuss was all about...because our new part-of-the-whole-gay-scene friends kept insisting, and because we'd seen Holly Hunter take it (and enjoy it) in the movie Living Out Loud. If it was OK for Holly, it was OK for us, you know? Getting high was enjoyable, but not something we will probably ever do again. We're not Nancy Reagans but we just don't need that stuff to have a good time, and we don't enjoy sex with guys who are partying, either. Besides, Derek and I already behave the way other guys do when they're on 'x'...we're sensual, tactile, love to touch and lick and kiss...and we don't need chemical stimulation for that.

So, there we were at Alegria over Memorial Day weekend. We'd spent the evening boogying down with beauteous boys and muscle men, periodically being dragged to the toilets for more private makeout sessions (read: "blowjobs"). It was now about 5 AM, and being assumably the only two sober studs there, we were ready to call it a night. Headed toward the exit, we spotted a very sexy Puerto Rican sitting all alone, and watching us as we passed. We backtracked and sat down, straddling him. His skin was radiant, his muscles were lush and full like a ripe piece of fruit, and his face was intensely pretty but masculine, with deep black-as-pitch eyes. Oh, and on top: glossy, wavy black hair, wet with sweat and looking just like licorice.

That's when Derek leaned forward and did something that stunned and amused me. He started to lick and suck at the licorice hair -- not something he'd ever done before or fantasized about before or even considered before, but this man's mane was just too inviting and irresistible. So, while I kissed him and he rubbed our bodies (saying, "You two sexy guys!") (or was it "You too sexy, guys!"?), Derek held a lock of hair in his mouth and looked like a sexy blond hunting dog retrieving his master's prey. Or, maybe he just looked like Derek sucking Latino hair. Either way, the image makes me smile. :)

After about ten minutes of that, now I was the one doing the dragging. I grabbed both of their hands and off we went to the men's room for some face sucking, ass fingering and assorted licking and tasting, ending up with both of them jerking out loads onto my chest as I knelt before them, getting myself off on the floor. Yes, parties can be fun when you're drug-free.

Since then, when I'm not scoping out asses for Derek to test, I'm also searching for that edible hair...not for him to taste, necessarily, but just to see if that was a one-time thing. I've had a few misses ("Nah, that's not edible...it's just pretty") but there have been a few guys upon whose heads that Derek has said he'd feast (there is something weird about that grammatically but I'll leave it...I wouldn't want you to think I'm perfect or something).

Derek has never nibbled or licked my hair but he does love to rub it every night in bed, especially now that I have buzzed it off for the summer. He says it feels like a G.I. Joe doll he had as a kid. Hey, whatever works.

The Ass Tester

Derek is a real ass, man. Oops...that was a typo. Please remove the comma after "ass" or I'll git me a beatin' for sure. No, Derek is not an ass; he is a true ass-man, an ass-lover, an assaholic. And now, an ass tester.

That's right. Tester, not taster (the only person he'll do that to is me). Yes, I'm married (I mean engaged) to someone who tests men's asses for firmness (or lack thereof...Derek likes when they have "some give" or "some play" and those are direct quotes).

He doesn't do it to guys who come to our apartment for mind-blowing sex, nor does he do it when we go to their hotel rooms for the same reason. No, he prefers to poke the posteriors of (seemingly) innocent bystanders, often straight ones -- but not exclusively -- and usually in non-sexual situations and locales.

For instance, we were coming home from a Times Square job three days ago on the number 9 train. A 20-something twinkish boy with a pretty face and a salon hairdo (not particularly our type; we like men and regular guys) got on, and stood right in front of Derek (the train was not crowded). He had his back to us so I, playing my usual role of "Derek's Ass Scout," looked down and noticed how nicely he was filling out his distressed Diesel jeans. Perky and plump. If it were a haircut, I'd call it "high and tight." Anyway, he was just standing there holding the pole (the train's, not Derek's) and Derek shifted his weight and pretended to bump into him. I wanted to laugh because it looked as if he'd literally punched the kid in the rump with his fist. The twink did not budge -- and, according to Derek, neither did his backside. Later, he told me that it'd been rock-hard (just like his own).

So, over the course of the ride, through 3 more stops, Derek kept bumpin' and bumpin' and bumpin' that butt. I kept waiting for the sweet thing to turn around and say either, "Hey, quit it!" or "Please take me home and fuck me mercilessly!" but instead he just stood there, either oblivious to the gentle blows (doubtful) or too nervous to do anything about it (more plausible) or perhaps just enjoying the blatant attention his ass was getting him. Hmmm...I wonder what that's like.

Then, later that same day, we went up to Fairway Market, which, for you non-New Yorkers, is NYC's most popular grocery store. When you've got a car and you tell people you're heading to the upper west side to Fairway, suddenly everyone's your best friend and everyone wants a ride (but we only really have one friend in NYC anyway, and he's usually in the backseat already). However, this time we were alone, and within minutes of entering the store, as Derek was bagging some luscious-looking tomatoes, I spotted a set of shapely spherical melons attached to a stocky muscular guy with a real "guy's" face and a shaved head. On top of that, I overheard him speaking to someone with a sexy Israeli accent. I'd hit the jackpot. I mean, we truly do love almost all types of men, but there is just something irresistible about that accent, you know?

Israeli Ass was walking through the store, so I trailed him and called Derek on his cell, giving him a play-by-play and insisting that he come over to test it out (I didn't really have to insist very vehemently). You should have seen the adorable look on Derek's face when he saw it. He was like a -- well, like an ass-lover seeing a very nice ass (how's that for creative writing?). As Derek later put it, this tail got a "ten" on a 1-10 scale, and very few asses have ever earned that title (he says mine's a 10.5, but only because he knows I'll withhold it from him if he doesn't). He especially loved how it moved when the guy walked ("It's gotta fookin' life of its own!!"). It definitely had "some play."

I didn't get to witness the actual test, as the store was insanely crowded and I wanted to finish shopping ASAP, but according to Derek, he got in two good swats. One with the back of his hand as he was passing by, and the other with his open palm as Derek reached for a bottle of salad dressing. He also squatted down, pretending to examine something on a low shelf, so he could get a close-up look. Luckily, a cranky old lady with a walker came pushing through just at that point, because apparently Derek was having great difficulty keeping himself from just grabbing that gluteus maximus and taking a bite, which would not have been cool because Fairway doesn't allow sampling.

We had good sex that night. For some strange reason, Derek kept wanting me to say stuff in Hebrew for him. I don't know any Hebrew so I kept saying "Matzoh" and "Bar Mitzvah" and it seemed to do the trick. He was quite the gusher.

The Great Cum Back

So, here I am back on the blog. I feel like Celine Dion, after she took her two-year hiatus to have a baby...although I return to you childless and without a huge Vegas revue. Hey, it's not like I didn't try to get pregnant -- just ask Derek (when he's 8" tall).

As you may know, although I love to have my ass played with and eaten out and admired, it is rare for it to get penetrated by more than a gentle yet controlling, probing finger or an eager, aggressive tongue. Actually, I do love bottoming out (what is bottoming in?) for a guy, especially a dominant one (and by dominant, I mean naturally dominant, not dominant in the silly, artificial porn way where the top says stuff like, "Beg for my cock!" which only makes me giggle). No, I enjoy feeling a guy on top of me, holding me down (even if he's smaller and not as strong as me) and making me his bitch. But it doesn't happen frequently because we're either meeting up with bottoms or oral bottoms or tops who just want oral, and my throat has never met a healthy cock it didn't like, so...that's that.

However, lately (or should that be "Lately, however"?) Derek has been mounting me almost daily. I think he has a Lone Ranger complex and thinks I'm Trigger. It all started last month, when we took a much-deserved vacation in California. Well, most peoples' vacations are much-deserved and we don't work full-time jobs, so you may think it's ridiculous for me to say we needed a vacation, since we get to play and have fun all the time anyway. But it's very different when your time is your own and you get to choose how you spend every minute.

We got a cabin in the mountains and turned off our cell phones (because we couldn't get reception anyway) and went hiking -- where I swear I really didn't complain at all; don't believe anything Derek says, OK? -- and took new photos for our ads:



Oh, and Derek fucked me mercilessly. He said it had something to do with the fresh, clean mountain air, the incredible ocean view we had from our cliffside cabin, and the fact that I was traipsing around in my lace-up "booty jeans." The poor thing; he just couldn't help himself. And it had been so long since he'd been inside me that we'd almost forgotten what a perfect fit we are; my hole is right where it's supposed to be -- his cock head just finds its way there immediately -- and he hits all the right spots in me, G and otherwise.

And although we are strictly (almost neurotically, but in a good way) super-safe with everyone else, we've always been bare together. Hey, when you start out together as virgins in high school, you don't think about condoms. You just want to fuck like dogs. And there's nothing hotter than feeling those 4 big spurts he pumps out inside of me, whitewashing my guts (sorry, I stole that line from some porn I once read that made me cum and laugh at the same time -- not an easy thing to do!).

I will always remember this one terribly embarrassing day when Derek came to see me in my dorm room at college, fucked a monster load into me and went off to class. I looked at the clock and realized that I was about to miss dinner (as awful as it usually was), and being famished, I hopped into some sweats and a T-shirt and ran to eat. But, while I was on line, in a very crowded dining hall, I suddenly felt a little surprise running down my leg. I reached back and felt and sure enough, it was Derek's copious cum-load. Why-oh-why couldn't he be the type to cum in a small dribble? Why did it always have to be Old Faithful? Anyway, I did what I'd seen people do in sitcoms when their skirt or pants split and I tried to back out of the place, which was futile because there were students everywhere, in all directions, and the huge wet spot(s) were clearly visible on my light-gray Gaps. Derek was hysterical when I told him, and has never let me forget it to this day: my humiliating day of showing a university what a whore I was for my boyfriend.

So anyway, the romantic vacation in the woods was one big impregnation-fest. But, thankfully, no rabbits died and we are still just a twosome. Motherhood will have to wait.

Then again, Derek and I cannot get legally married in New York yet so I don't know if I'd want to have an illegitimate baby. I mean, I remember how upset Diana Ross was in the Supremes song "Love Child," you know?

gone fishin' (for meat)

I'm going to put the blog on hiatus for a couple of weeks. I just haven't had the time to do it the way I want to do it, since I'm a 2-finger typist, and now Derek and I are off for a little vacation. When I return, I'll make a fresh start. Keep the place warm for me, OK? :)

Check back in April...

wearing it home

I don't want to whine about it again, but hey, this is my blog and I come from a long line of Brooklyn Jews; it comes with the territory (even if my territory is now Chelsea). So here I go again: can all the girls (the ones with genuine vaginas) please go away? This was such a fuckin' fun neighborhood before -- or, I should say, a suckin' fun place. Before, it was all about the art of the cruise, the silent sexy ritual of clocking a cock bulge and having it follow you home and jump into your mouth. Sometimes it didn't even wait until you got home; a darkened doorway or a space between two parked trucks was all it took. Now, it's all about the shopping/dining/gallery-hopping while we suffer the skullfucking scarcity, the dearth of deep throat. I mean, the lack of public indecency is...indecent.

So that's what it comes down to, I guess: I don't really hate the girls; I'm just bemoaning the end of public sex in New York, especially in Chelsea. It's not like I ever really took advantage of it all that much; as I've said, Derek and I were completely monogamous throughout most of our 20's (a combination of love and a fear of "catchin' somethin'" -- a fear that remains but we've learned you can be careful and still have a good time). There was only a brief period before we began escorting when we actually did more than look, but that's just it: I want to still be able to look, to see guys pressed up against a wall when I leave my home, to smell the scent of sex on a guy as he walks by...

And then, of course, there was the time, a few years ago, that I blew a guy right on the sidewalk, right down the street from where I live, in the middle of a sunny summer day. That's right; we didn't even have the protective covering of a dark sky. Anyone could have seen from a passing car or an apartment window, and that's what made it so fucking exciting. I mean, I've kissed guys in public, I've worn slutty attire, I've sent photos of my ass all around the globe, but I have never felt as exposed as I felt that day.

I met him online. He was about 28, tall, lean, with a cute scruffy face and big fat dick (I won't say how many inches because that kind of thing doesn't matter to me) (OK, it was probably a solid 8.5). It was his idea to get blown outside, and I was extremely turned on by the idea.

He was already waiting for me when I got outside, looking just like his photo, and together we walked until we found a spot we thought would be suitable. Actually, he must have found the spot because I was probably too excited and my heart was beating too fast for me to think about suitable locations. Then, right there on the sidewalk, the same sidewalk where today girls walk by pushing baby-strollers or gabbing on their cell phones, he opened his fly and out sprang this beauty of a cock...cut, rock-hard, veiny. I slowly got down on one knee, put my hands on his tight waist, and started to suck.

I could hear some cars driving by but none stopped and probably didn't see. A few times, a pedestrian or bike rider would pass by, so we'd stop and he'd quickly button his fly, and I'd pretend to be tying my shoe. Then we'd go back to it, his hand gently pressing the back of my head, and my deep throat easily taking him down.

Then, he said he was ready to shoot, so I pulled off and he unloaded a pretty decent amount of cum on my cheek, neck, and chest (I had taken off my T-shirt). I could have wiped it off, but instead I wore it home (the cum, not the shirt). It was my badge of honor. "Look at me, the sidewalk slut!"

Well, even though those days are gone, I wish summer would get here already. Not because I hate the New York snow; not because I'm eager to slide my ass into a skimpy speedo and hit the beach; not because the normally horny Derek becomes a fuck machine when the weather's warm. All of the above are true, but the main reason I'm jonesing for June is that that is when the official RuPaul doll will be available for purchase.


One more thing before I go for today: HooBoy, the man who changed the world of escorting and gave both clients and escorts a voice through his revolutionary escort review site, has been gone for over a week now. If you didn't see it, here's what I wrote about him on the message board of his site. It's also the reason I've been kind of quiet this past week (LOL...that reminds me of one of the last emails I got from him. A client had asked me to check up on a review he'd submitted for me weeks earlier, so I forwarded his note to HooBoy, who found the misplaced masterpiece in his spam folder, after which I wrote, "Thanks for finding that review; now I can shut up for another year." And his reply: "You quiet for a year? Now that is funny!"). Well, just to prove him wrong, I was quiet for over a week but I'm back. :)

of 501's, moustaches and untrimmed pubes

I've cum so much in the last few days, yet I still feel like there is so much still inside of me, begging for release. You know that feeling?

While cleaning our love nest over the weekend, Derek and I found a box of classic gay porn videos we'd collected when we were in our teens and early 20's. The majority of it came from the estate sale of an apparently extremely horny man (he probably went with a smile on his face and a load in his hand). VHS tapes from studios like Fox, Nova, Gage, Falcon, Colt, Buckshot...

We'd totally forgotten about this box's existence, so it's been an eye-opening (pants-dropping, cock-stroking) experience. You see, we'd been wondering lately why guys in their 20's just don't turn us on anymore, and seeing how they used to look in the 70's and 80's gives us the answer.

Guys just don't seem to want to look masculine anymore. Waxed/plucked eyebrows à la Joan Crawford, carefully coiffed hair (such as that Dionne Warwick-style 'do currently worn by the Gotti boys in their reality show), and the words Abercrombie or Armani billboarded across their Naired chests...it just doesn't say "man."

Now, the guys in these old flicks are just too sexy. Body hair where it ought to be, natural steroid-free muscle, and seemingly not much thought or care about their hairdos or attire (most start out in snug 501's with nothing underneath so you can see every curve and bulge -- as compared to today's boiz who only want to show off their baggy boxers). Oh, and every single one has a moustache. Not a wimpy, thin Little Richard-type moustache. No, a nice, bushy, tickles-your-ass-when-he-eats-you-out growth of fur: now that says "man." And in these videos, they more often than not get thick ropy strands of cum shot in their faces and mouths, and that looks damn fuckin' hot hanging from some thick whiskers.

One of my favorites is Dick Fisk:



I'd love to be that guy on his knees.

Something else we're noticing is that in the old porn, the action seemed to progress naturally and slowly...there was none of this "a little from Column A, a little from Column B" mindset that pervades porn today. Well, I shouldn't really say that because I honestly don't watch porn all that much, but some guys we've met have acted that way...sucking nipples for 5 seconds and then abruptly moving on to cock or ass or something else. I don't think they don't let themselves just enjoy the moment and let the moment last, and maybe that's the influence of today's porn. It sometimes feels like we're being edited into a video, you know? Now, to be fair, maybe they want to fit as much activity as they can into an hour (or two), which is totally understandable and fun in itself. But when I'm feeling really good, I like to let that feeling last and build, and that's what I see the guys doing in this good old porn.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to help Derek see if he can recreate a scene we watched earlier today, where a juicy-dicked top fucked a luscious-assed bottom through a hole in the bottom's 501's. Gee, I just hope he doesn't plan on ruining my favorite Old Navy ass-hugging low-rise bootcuts.

watch this space

Just like I used to do for my mother on Mother's Day, I am hereby posting this I.O.U. which I will then replace with a real-live post later today. Or maybe I'll do what I used to do for my mother and make you all breakfast in bed instead (burnt toast, soggy cereal and fresh-squeezed OJ with lots of seeds, anyone?).

don't tell Derek

Damn, I really thought, after that last Mary-Kate and Ashley set, that I was over my obsession with tacky celebrity dolls (yes, one can be masculine and play with dolls; tell me otherwise and I'll scratch your little eyes out). Now I see that that awful overexposed Lindsay Lohan is joining Mattel's "My Scene" collection, and I'll be forced to buy one.

Derek said that if I buy any more dolls, he's taking back his proposal. Hmmm....decisions, decisions.

Rick Munroe, White House Reporter

So, how cool is it that a fellow escort got to be a part of the White House press corps and toss some softball questions to Mr. Bush and Mr. McClellan? Maybe this means a new day for the world of whores, now that we've been accepted and embraced by the anti-gay "family values" crowd. (<----tongue firmly in cheeks) (yum, tastes good down there)

I didn't have much time to blog this week (I type with two fingers, stubbornly refusing to learn how to use all ten on the keyboard; hey, I'm a Taurus) so tonight I tried to audioblog -- that is, dial a special number to phone-in an audio post which shows up here as a link for you readers to click on and listen to. Well, I started to relate the story of the fucking great blowjob I got earlier in the week (some guys just really know how to use that tongue, you know?) but then I got the greater idea of having Derek do it for me as a guest-blogger. And then the gears in my dirty little mind went spinning wildly and I thought it would be fun and sexy to have him just grunt and groan like he does when he's pounding a hole...I'd title the post, "And now, a word from Derek."

Easier grunted than done.

At first, I dialed the special number, handed him the phone, and he started to talk that special Derek language ("uuhh...uuhh...uuhh...fook yeah...yeahhh...uuhh...") but my laughter in the background kept getting picked up by the ultra-sensitive audioblogger technology.

Then we tried it with me in the other room, but Derek felt silly sitting there groaning into a phone. You see, faking it is something neither of us does well. So, on the next attempt, we got on the bed, fully-clothed, in our favorite fuck position (with me face down and ass up) so he could pump away and let the noises come naturally.

However, something still wasn't right and I still couldn't help giggling.

"Derek, what is that?"
"What's what?"

"That noise you're making."

"I'm gruntin'!"
"Is that how you grunt?"
"Yeah, this is how I sound when I fuck!"
"It is??"
"Yeah, I think so."

"I'm not sure about that. It sounds kinda gorilla-ish."

"Yeah?"
"Yeah, like a really dumb gorilla who's agonizing about something."

Well, that was when we finally figured out what was wrong: we needed to strip down and actually fuck. Apparently, my Derek is a method-fucker. It has to be real or it just isn't real, you know?

Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the shower, all cleaned out like a good bottom boy, to find Derek lying back on the bed, stroking his cock with Eros (my favorite lube). After I sucked it a while (I can never resist, and luckily that lube is as tasteless as the Ethel Merman Disco Album), I got back into position, and Derek climbed on and mounted the monument (I know, that was corny).

He started slowly (I'm tight) but gradually got into a good rhythm. And yes, he was grunting and groaning like a breeding beast. Then I remembered why we were doing this in the first place, and reached for the phone...which I had habitually returned to the base. I couldn't reach it, so I deliberately shifted back up into a doggy position, and we carefully got off the bed with him still inside, not missing a banging beat (I've known Derek long enough to know that once he starts driving into a hole, he does not like to stop the golf game).

I started to dial the audioblogger number, but this fuck was feeling so good that I didn't want to risk ruining the whole thing by laughing again, so I hung up the phone, and let Derek pump away, finishing up while still standing, with me bent over the bed. I could feel three strong loads travelling along the shaft of his cock and out the head (we always use condoms with other guys but not with each other), and then he collapsed on top of me.

Later, I came back to the computer to blog and saw, to my horror (well, not really to my horror, since I was laughing) that I'd been hitting the wrong button when we were recording the audio posts. Instead of starting over and re-recording, I'd been posting each of our misguided attempts right here on my blog, from my initial crack-up through the dumb gorilla crack. I immediately deleted them, but then realized who the dumb gorilla really was: me. I should have just left them here for your enjoyment.

My next idea was for us to go back and recreate it all...the initial attempts to have Derek do it on his own, followed by our ridiculous fake-fucks, and this time I'd even record the grand finale. But since Derek is now in a deep sleep (the guy really gives it his all when he pounds ass), you'll just have to settle for this regular, old-fashioned, two-finger-typed post.

I wonder if I could submit this to the Washington Post.

The Penis Parade

Chelsea may have become straighter than I'd like, but the gyms are still gay congregations where guys gather to worship at the altar of manliness (and if I ever write another pretentious sentence like that again, somebody please shove a cock in my mouth -- actually, do it even if I never write another affected phrase, OK?).

Going to the gym, for me, means seriously working out, flirting a little, and briefly checking out the locker room cock. Yes, there were a couple of times at my former gym (Steel), where I blew a guy (or got blown) in a toilet stall, and that one time this hot hung hunk invited me into his shower (I accepted the invitation, but quickly declined when I discovered that his plan was to lube up my hole with liquid soap and "just stick it in real quick"). But for the most part, I'm there to pump iron, not pump out loads.

I've been noticing, at the place we recently joined, that nearly everyone is completely naked in the locker room...no towels, just bare bodies, as if they're all perpetually in a state of either having just taken it all off or about to put something on, but never moving beyond that point. There are never any hard-ons or touching or activity of any kind. It all seems to be for show, but the show never starts.

I've been trying to figure out why it's so uninteresting. I mean, most of the bodies are really nice and most of the guys would turn me on in other situations. But the flaccid floppy cocks, no matter the size, start to look ridiculous after a while. Maybe if they were all hard, it would be better...no, that might even look sillier, since no one would be putting any of them to use.

I guess it's like what I wrote the other day about the dermatologist: it's hotter to visualize what they've got under their clothes than to just have it exposed and displayed. And it was very sexy to see that guy pissing when he didn't know I was there. It's more arousing to imagine the possibility, or to see what you're not supposed to see.

At college, there was a tiny hole in one of the stall walls in the library men's room. It wasn't big enough to be a gloryhole, but it was at the perfect height to watch guys pissing at the urinal, unaware of the watchful eye of the toilet fag, jerking off on the other side of the wall. I spent a lot of time "studying" at that library. And sometimes I purposely went there to show off and stroke my fat cock for whoever was peeping through the hole. Derek and were completely monogamous, so it never went any further than that for me.

But getting back to the Penis Parade: I guess it all ties in to what you find sexy. I like to see a guy totally attired and then have it gradually come off. That's why, in the bedroom (or wherever a guy and I happen to be), I like to start out clothed...and as the passion intensifies, items are removed and tossed. Anything else can seem clinical ("Let us now undress and commence the sex!").

Having said all of that, I must confess that, at this moment, as in every moment when I am at the computer, I'm not wearing a thing. You see, Derek likes to keep me naked and vulnerable. It's a little distracting, since he keeps coming over to tweak my nipple or caress my balls, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make to please him. :)

Oh, by the way, I've decided to blog a few times a week, instead of daily. I still haven't decided which days, so keep checking back.

apologies, shmapologies

I'm sorry my blogging has been so sparse. Wait, what am I apologizing for? This is my gig, right? I'm the boss; I'm beholden to no one. Then again, I never use words like "gig" or "beholden" so maybe I don't know what the hell I'm talking about here. Maybe I do need to grovel at your feet and beg forgiveness for my less-than-prolific week. Ah, what the heck. I love being on my knees, anyway.

Derek and I had the pleasure of meeting a first-class ass-eater this week, and it got me to thinking about types of asseaters (I can't decide if that's one word or two with a hyphen). I love having a top tongue out my hole because it is the one thing that truly makes me crave cock up there. Tops seem to do it with the intention of fucking, and not necessarily for my pleasure, which can be a huge turn-on. But I love sitting on a bottom or fellow versatile guy's face because it's hot to smother 'em and dominate 'em that way. In any case, it is still one of my all-time favorite activities, and when a guy does it just right, it can make my head spin. I used to think the best position was when I'm lying face down, but lately I'm really into face-sitting...much better for jerking myself off, you know?

While I'm on the topic of jacking off: most guys have different methods that they prefer, and I am very particular about how it's done to me. First of all, no lube or spit for me...my own pre-cum is enough. And I like a firm hand -- but not a tight squeeze -- that stays below the head (mine is super sensitive), especially after I shoot.

Btw, I'm sleepy. Too many DVD box sets are arriving lately from amazon.com. I apparently ordered a bunch (including the Brady's) , forgot about them, and now they're showing up, taunting Derek and me, making us stay up all night watching "Full House" and "I Love Lucy" and "Cheers."

Yes, this is the glamorous life of a NYC superstar escort. :)

Where the Boys Girls Are

I once posted on HooBoy's message board about the absence of sleaziness in NYC -- that is, the new dearth of public sex/cruising spots -- and how my neighborhood, Chelsea, had changed from gay ghetto to horribly hetero (I am not a heterophobe by any means; I just don't want them living near me) (just kidding). If you click on that link above, by the way, you will get to see a rare post by my fiancé, Derek Ross. He's a man of few words but when he speaks, it's always worth it (unless he's telling me to stop buying Mary-Kate and Ashley dolls on eBay).

This afternoon, we went to ABC Carpet and Home in search of a new rug. We wanted something modern and plush; what we found at the store was furry and cute. You see, a girl was strolling through the store with a sweet little black puppy who came right over to Derek and made us realize, for the millionth time, that we need to get to a shelter and find one of our own (thankfully, we're not in Florida, where they've banned gay adoptions). Derek did his favorite thing where he rubs that specific spot behind the ear to make the mutt's hind leg scratch at the air. He tries it on me sometimes, and I usually oblige with a couple of quick kicks.

On the walk back home, we passed girl after girl after twenty-something-in-a-cute-little-Sex-and-the-City-outfit girl, instead of guy after guy after come-home-with-me-so-I-can-blow-you guy. I don't know if we'll ever get used to it. I mean, once we started escorting and stopped hooking up with guys as an extracurricular activity, it was all just flirtation and pointless phone number exchanging, anyway. But still...that's pretty much gone, too. Where are the gay guys? People say "it's all online now" but the computers have to be located somewhere, right?

Jeez...even the puppy was a bitch.

Doctor Love

I went to the dermatologist today because I had what looked like a hive or something on my neck yesterday. I'd called and said it was an emergency so they'd squeeze me in to his busy schedule. Of course, it ended up being nothing (probably an allergic reaction to the hotel soap I'd used earlier that day after a satisfyingly fun session Derek and I'd enjoyed with an eager oral bottom) ; as a matter of fact, the blemish didn't even exist when I got to the doctor's office.

I could have cancelled the appointment but I wanted to go anyway. I'm not a hypochondriac, although I do get pretty anal (not because of my famous ass) about health issues and get myself checked often. No, I wanted to go see this particular doctor because of "it" -- you know -- the substantial bulge in his snug-fitting dress slacks.

He's 40-ish, kind of nerdy looking, with glasses and conservative parted-over-to-the-side thinning hair...soft-spoken and kind and caring. But who cares...man oh man, that's a fucking tasty-looking mound of gabardine-garbed flesh. No, he doesn't flirt and there is no sexual tension, but he must be proud of his cock to flaunt it that way. I get hard just from the sight of that convex cloth.

I'm not a size queen by any means (although I do love the look of surprise and pleasure on super-hung guys' faces when I show 'em what my bottomless, gag-free deep throat can do) and I, like most successful escorts, can and do find something sexy about most guys I meet. But I have always loved seemingly mismatched men -- like a big macho bear with a very petite pee-pee (yum...that is just so fucking sexy!) or a skinny nerdy doc showing off some massive meat. Or an incredibly perfect ass on a straight guy.

When I got home, I was reading online about the ruling today in NYC, finally allowing same-sex marriage (until further notice). I was so excited I wanted to yell and scream, but not being a yeller/screamer, I instead reached for my cell phone to call Derek (whether it's big or small, I always love to share everything with him). Just as I was dialing, though, he was putting his key in the door. Apparently he'd already heard the news because in his hand were a dozen long-stemmed roses and coming from his mouth were the words, "So...ya wanna get hitched?"

I told him I'd have to give it some thought.* I mean, we've only lived together for 17 years; how do I know he's "the one"?

* I actually said "Yes!" and jumped up and down like a fool until I stubbed my toe on a chair. Moments to treasure...

dry as a...well, just dry

Update: no wet dreams for me last night, although I did have that weird one about Angie Dickinson and the dancing/singing chicken leg again. Paging Dr. Freud...

speed starch

I was in bed this morning (well, alright, it was noon but that's my morning) and Derek did what I thought, at first, was the wake-up thing I told you about yesterday -- you know, grabbing my hand while I'm sleeping and placing it on his morning hard-on. He always produces a lot of pre-cum so sometimes he just shifts his body and lets it leak onto my hand...I like romantic little touches like that. :)

However, today was different from usual. He wasn't hard, and he wasn't placing my hand on his cock, but rather on his boxer shorts (he wears sexy, tight, little white ones from H&M) and saying, "Hey, get a load o' this!" (which was pretty articulate for him, especially first thing in the morning). What I felt was stiff and crispy; I thought he'd sprayed his underwear with Easy-On Speed Starch -- Derek likes to do laundry so it wasn't an outrageous assumption.

But it was way more fun than that: my 35-year-old boyfriend had had a wet dream during the night.

The last (and first) time either of us had had a wet dream was when I was 18 and he was 19. We'd been living together at college for about 6 months, and during that time we spent more time sucking and fucking than going to class -- actually, we probably spent more time sucking and fucking than breathing. But we were really curious about this whole wet-dream-phenomenon that most other boys had supposedly experienced already so we tried to induce them by abstaining from sex for a whole month. God, that was torturous...especially since we'd cruelly bring each other almost to the point of cumming and then quickly stop. I remember a few times he'd be driving his cock into me, and just when I'd feel he was getting close (breathing coming faster and shorter, grunts becoming more like whimpers), I'd pretend to suddenly get a painful leg cramp and say, "Ow, quick, get off me!" I'd buck him off me, then I'd be hysterical laughing, and he'd be pissed off. Ah, to be teenagers.

We finally had the wet dreams, almost at the end of our sexless month, within days of each other (kind of like girls and their periods). It was fun, but not as fun as finally being able to stop stopping ourselves from cumming.

Anyway...what made Derek have one now, 15 years later? It's not like he hadn't had sex or shot in a long time. I think it had something to do with the website I'd found and shown him before we went to bed (sorry, I can't remember what it was or I'd link to it). All we remember is that it had lots of amateur pics of hairy, muscular guys with very hot asses. Derek says that in the dream, he was sort of walking through an Ass Museum, and sampling each one in succession...each ass getting hotter and hotter until the final one was clamping down and squeezing Derek's cock until he shot a huge load...all over his boxers, the top sheet and his abs.

I'm off to bed...I wonder if tonight'll be my turn.

Jerky's Law

I woke up so fucking horny today that I thought my dick was gonna explode. I did the usual trick of reaching for sleeping Derek's hand and pulling it to my hard-on (it's a way we've often woken each other up; been doing it since we were teenagers), knowing that once he had a "grasp" of the situation, it wouldn't be long before his mouth would follow. I've had world-rockin' good head, painfully bad head, and everything in-between, but nobody knows how to suck me like Derek (and vice versa, he says).

But today, something was amiss. When I reached for his hand, all I got was a fistful of pillow. Uggh. Why, when I'm this close to shooting and all I need is his warm, wet mouth, did he have to get up early?

I don't jerk off very often. I try not to, even when I'm as horny as I usually am everyday. It's not that I don't enjoy it; I'm a big fan of j/o, especially when I'm kissing someone or have a mouth sucking on my nipple or a teasing finger at my hairy hole. But you never know what the day is going to bring, and I like to remain "on edge" when I'm "on call"...although it doesn't usually take me long to recharge anyway.

But today, I just couldn't abstain, and it didn't take me long to pump out a nice, thick load onto my stomach. And then I held my breath in anticipation. You see, I have some sort of magic spell: the last time I wacked off, the phone rang just as the cum was spurting from me and it was someone wanting to know if I were available "right away." It's something I call Jerky's Law (actually, I've never called it that before but I thought it would sound clever now). Anyway, nobody called this time so I guess the spell is broken.

pissed off...or at

So there I was doing legs at the gym last week. It was a typical evening for me there. I'd already asked the baggy-jeans-and-doo-ragged Justin Timberlake-y front desk clerk (or whatever you call the person who scans your membership card) to lower the painfully loud mid-90's techno music with my usual polite plea: "Can you please turn the music down for those of us who are serious about our workouts and aren't interested in snorting crystal meth at the Roxy?" OK, I don't really say the part after "Can you please turn the music down?" but it's what I think. :)

I'd done squats and discovered, halfway through, that I had a mini-audience watching me: two twinks -- well, I'm not sure if they were actually twinks...they had waxed eyebrows and highlighted hair but larger-than-twink muscles...I'll call them "twunkles." I noticed them staring out of the corner of my eye in the mirror, and I swear I didn't push my butt out just a little bit extra to give the twunkles a show. I swear I didn't. ;)

I'm a sweater -- no, not argyle -- at the gym, and even though it was below 0° outside, I went to the window to crack (<----one of my favorite words) it open and get some air, but what I got was much more entertaining.

The window is right at street level (it's a basement gym) and as I approached, I was stunned to see a really nice looking, meaty 6" (soft) cock forcefully releasing a steady stream of hot piss (I knew it was hot from the steam rising up off the icy ground). The dick was attached to a cute guy, maybe Greek or Italian, late 20's (I think; I'm bad at the whole age thing because it doesn't matter to me), with dark close-cropped jet-black hair which matched his leather jacket. I quickly turned away, because (a) I'm a polite person and I figured he might want privacy, and (b) if he were straight, I didn't want no trouble. But then I realized that (c) if he wanted privacy, he wouldn't be pulling his pretty cock out in the window of a gym that was obviously open-for-business, and (d) I like straight cock.

So, I turned my gaze back to the fire hose (or ice hose, really). He was just finishing, and then did an odd thing. Instead of shaking the last few drops, as I do and as I think most guys do and which I would have liked to see, he instead pulled out a tissue from his pocket and proceeded to wipe the head dry. He wiped...and wiped...and wiped. It was starting to border on obsessive-compulsive but I enjoyed it all the more because he had nice hands: long fingers (but not bony) and sexy veins. I definitely have a hand fetish, and he gave good hand.

He never noticed me the whole time...even though my face was right at his cock/piss/hand/tissue level. That's when I noticed that he wasn't alone: there was a friend, similarly dressed, standing a few feet back but now walking toward us. He had noticed me, and had a big smile on his face. He gave me a "thumbs up" and I returned it with a big smile. He said something to The Pisser, who was stuffing his plump cock back into his jeans. That's when he finally looked down and saw me there, got a very sweet look on his face, winked at me, and they left.

Oh, by the way, welcome to my blog. Lots of guys have been encouraging me to do this, and to shut them up already (just kidding), here it is.