Symphony for Cock and Fingers in A Minor

This starts out as being about Lance, and then goes waaaaay afield into my family bullshit, and then swings back around to the porny part, I promise. If you're just here for the throat porn, skip to the bottom. 

Also, Lance is not really a minor. That part's a joke. [disclaimer - to the very best of my knowledge, all the guys involved in these situations - and make no mistake, these are real guys that I'm fucking with my personal penis - is legally of age, in his right mind, fully able to give informed ENTHUSIASTIC consent, and here of his own free will, including a consent conversation about right to publish this on my blog. If the guys are willing to communicate, I give them some creative veto power on how things are phrased or what video makes it in. I often don't even know their last names in real life, and I don't get waivers; these are guys doing it for fun, and in some cases I've told them about the blog first, or sent them a story or video link on Scruff or Grindr.] He tells me that he's 21; the bath house checks ID's and he can't be under 18 and get in (unless he's committed some damned good identity fraud.) But he LOOKS really young, and that's just how he's made. He's small, and slim, and kind of elfin, and he looks like he could be sixteen. Fourteen, if his pubes came in early. We've had some hot and erotic conversations around that Daddy/boy dynamic, Father/son incest role play, middle-aged men fucking very young men - because it's a thing in the gay community. I am literally 2.5 times his age, and I'm rocking his world. Some gays, and an awful lot of straights, get it twisted - for most of us, it's never been about taking actual advantage of someone too young to make clear decisions, or engaging in an encounter with someone who can't legally consent because of an age difference. It's not about *actual* rape, statutory or otherwise. It's about older men teaching younger men things about their own bodies and about pleasure, and going into the erotic energy of those situations, and mining them for the hot part, and discarding what doesn't fit with us as sexual perverts with HEALTHY (and I think, after LOTS of reading and quite a bit of living and PLENTY of therapy, that it IS healthy) kinky imagination. 

A lot of guys were raped or molested as kids, sometimes by bullies, sometimes by family members, sometimes by priests or other violent strangers. 

A lot of these poor guys who got molested and horribly, brutally mistreated as children have an itch, a twist, that goes back to that violation of trust and decency... the problem is, a lot of them also found it hot, at least on some level. Some of them ejaculated, or had full-on orgasms. Many men tell me they still masturbate thinking about how their uncles and cousins and neighbors and priests would fondle them, force them to suck dick, rape them in the ass with Crisco. For many guys, it was a formative sexual experience. That's the exact wording my therapist used when we were talking about it, because, you know, I still believe that one of the reasons this kind of weird sex is so hot for me, and why I'm so drawn to it, is because it's therapy-adjacent. Because I understand it, and it HELPS. In a couple of senses - it performs a para-therapeutic function for ME a lot of times, and it also does for some of the guys I play with. Good kinky sex play can sometimes loosen up some emotionally blocked material, and let you get your head around the conflicting vibes of "I was totally not in charge of this, and I was terrified and abused and violated in a fundamental and horrible way," and "My dick was hard the whole time, I always thought Uncle Fred was a stone hottie." These are STRONGLY opposing emotional situations, and they are very often duking it out in some guy's libido. They have been in mine since I was a kid. 

I was sodomized by my cousin George, "playing" in the living room where we had our sleepover; he had heard all about sex (for, I think a thirteen-year-old; he got erections, but wasn't hairy much yet, and what he thought was ejaculation, I knew even then as pre-seminal fluid, because I had been entrusted by the fates with some sex manuals for Good Christians that were in a church garage sale we held at our house; this was the big one, "Sex Without Fear," and Xaviera Hollander's memoirs were very illuminating.) and George Knew Things. He didn't read about them like I did, but he knew all kinds of things from friends. I didn't have many friends, and none of them were that advanced; they were still mostly kids. I was still mostly a kid. He was on the cusp of being a young man, more than me, but he was still THIRTEEN. I was twelve. 

He knew that you could masturbate by putting baking soda on the head of your dick. He said the word like it was in a foreign language, which I suppose it kind of is since we just borrowed it from Latin and stuck some forms on it. But I get the impression that although his wife speaks Spanish beautifully, Latin will always be very foreign to George, and "jerk off" wasn't something even he had heard about. We never did figure out what that baking soda was actually was supposed to DO; I think he may have misheard something. What he had learned through his naughty middle-school grapevine, was that masturbating could make your penis hard, and that you used baking soda somehow, but there wasn't much information past that, no additional instruction. And, a horny young barely-teenager playing with his penis is going to get a hardon, regardless which ridiculous kitchen chemical he uses. We didn't have olive oil back then, it would have had to be Wesson or Crisco or something - anyway, would have been better than that damned baking soda. HE WANTED TO DO IT ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS, MORE THAN ONCE - he felt like he had to prove something after I laughed and said it felt dumb and not very nice. Adding water to make a slurry was not an unqualified success, but better than the dry powder. We mostly just touched our own dicks, but there was some overlap, trying to judge the differences. He knew that playing in the creek at our mutual grandparents' house in the country, you could push little round creek-tumbled stones into your butthole and it felt good, because that's where babies come from, women's butts. Red jasper was best, although I don't think he remembered names, just the red one. He wasn't all that bright, and his parents weren't NEARLY as forthcoming about the biology and geology as mine were. He knew that if you put peanut butter on your penis, the dog would lick it. These are things that my cousin taught me, and things that we did together, and his mother died not knowing this, and if he's nice smart and doesn't act a fool at a funeral, his wife and kids and everyone else in his family will too. It's pretty much zero percent chance that anyone on that entire side of the family would read anything like this, but if you're out there, GC, I see you, fucker. I've still got scars from EV's fire where we melted the milk bottles on sticks and you splashed it across my hand in drops that burned as they sat on my skin. And, he was my older cousin, and even in his preteen years he had a rugged, casual, throwing-tiny-toadlets-at-cars masculine bravado, all motorcycle-racing and mean woodsy, and I was horny for him in a way that I didn't understand then, and am only really sorting through now. He was hot. If you've seen the older brother Georgie on Young Sheldon, but in the FIRST SEASON - that was thirteen-year-old Montana Jordan (actor) but the differences between thirteen-year-old Georgie and my thirteen-year-old cousin George are pretty much cosmetic.  George's hair was always a sandy streaked blond then from summer swimming pool chlorine; mine was faded too, but not nearly as much. 

I have to be really clear - this is not a post about pedophilia, or child abuse, or any kind of sex with actual kids. And I feel like a creepy old dude, posting a picture from the Internet of a hot CHILD whose resemblance to my cousin at the age when he was teaching ME things about my personal butthole, is almost uncanny. Like, if they made a movie, this would be the actor, but he's the Hollywood hot kid. I feel pretty much no shame getting aroused by looking at him now, now that he's TWENTY, but I want to make it clear that I'm not trying to sexualize this obviously attractive child actor. But the slide in his photos/costumes/makeup/styling from "cute rascally older brother" to "horny but awkward young father" is a creepy slippery slope if you ever want to stroke your way through figuring out where your own line is. 

These things were kids' play, but he is quite certainly the first male who fucked me in the ass. He had heard about condoms somehow - I think he had some also-not-real-bright friends who were older - and he rolled a rubber balloon onto his, what I think of now as, little boy penis. He had not heard enough about lube, and I think he spit on his balloon-covered boydick and tried to press it into me. It wasn't terribly successful, although he didn't seem to have any specific image in mind as to what success actually represented, just that it was this thrusty thing with his dick into my butt. There was no mention of orgasm, like what I'd read in Sex Without Fear. Like maybe he had seen porn magazines, but he hadn't seen anything that moved, and was picturing it flashing back and forth from "holding penis in front of vagina" to "penis thrust deep into vagina" photo spreads, and do you remember those little plastic pictures with the plastic ridges that if you looked at one angle were one thing, but at another angle were a different thing, and most of the ones I saw were like one cartoon animal bopping another with a hammer or something? They were just like that, they didn't show you how you got from A to B, but the ones Dad had out in his shop were the same lady with her clothes off and on, and I always wondered if they painted an image of the clothes onto the photo of the woman, or if they somehow photographed her and then snipped the clothes off her with scissors and took the naked picture without her moving, because they were always completely in the same pose, not a eyelash moved, and you have to fake it somehow. Then again, most of George's sexual fantasies were torture stories about searing women's bodies with implements the temperature of the sun (he was very specific about this one), and he wasn't interested in hearing that such a tool would KILL them instantly, he just thought it would hurt a lot and he got off on that. So, yeah. His wife is really nice, and also strikes me as the kind of spicy Latina who would castrate her husband with a kitchen knife if he touched her daughter, but I worry. I'm sure it's settled down some. And, frankly, I can't talk about who's weird, [looks around at this blog and the videos I'm about to post, so help me Pan] but I wonder if he's ever gone to therapy. I know his sister, my bitch cousin, did, but that was a locked ward thing because of the drugs, and she was one of leaders of the crew that broke into the air conditioners IN THE LOCKED WARD, to get high huffing the coolant. Now, she's a holier-than-thou good God-fearing woman who bought a brown baby from Central America because it was starting to look like nobody was going to put up with her bullshit long enough to knock her up, and I'm afraid that child is going to end up being Enrique Tarrio, an entitled asinine Latino boy who roots for Team Confederate Jesus Flag. I don't think she participated in her own recovery, as Brother Boy says (maysherestinpeace, he was a funny comedian, but a MESSSY drunk). This is a LOT of stoned, rambling stream-of-consciousness; if you're getting fed up, skip down and look at the cute boy being brutally throat-milked for slime, it'll take your mind off things. But I promise, I think it's thoughtful and insightful writing in parts. I'm proud of this one. 

After a while, we switched. Part of me says, this is what he wanted all along; he seemed more interested in GETTING fucked, than he had been in entering me. We traded turns a couple of times in a knees-up lying supine position; I think at one point we also tried face-down, the penetrator lying on top and trying to squeeze the other's buttocks open. I wasn't particularly successful either, especially because I'm a year younger than he is, and "hardon" was not something I had a lot of control over at twelve, and I was already getting chunky then, and I don't remember actually feeling like I got INTO anything, so much as just poked at his ass with my little pecker. We abandoned the "condom," but without wasn't much better. NOW, I KNOW THAT YOU'RE STARTING TO WANT TO GOOGLE "twelve year old boy penis", and this is why YOU and I are going to HELL in the same handbasket, you fucking nasty cocksucker. 2.0 to 4.0 inches, I'll save you the mortification... I'm blessed to be on the upper middle part of the bell graph, but, on a little fat kid, who'd already started to pack on the poundage that I felt made me more safe and protected... probably more like 2.5. Trying to visualize the data-gathering process whereby scientists measure the range of the erect penises of the varying ages of boys, is totally not creepy at all. "Mrs. Smith, do you mind if I masturbate your child just a little bit so we can get a measurement?" 

Then his mom walked in. We were flagrantly butt-fucking in the middle of the living room on a camping cushion; there was not a lot of room for misinterpretation. She called his name repeatedly and fled the room crying, and he followed after her and cajoled and lied and said we were wrestling, and BEGGED her, wheedling tearfully, to not tell, and I suppose she eventually calmed down and promised not to tell my Uncle Wayne, who would have flayed his ASS off and mine as well, and caused a HUGE family rift - like I said, you behave when I have to go to your father's funeral, fucker, and I may bring my husband to support me, because the only reason I'm going myself is to support my own father who still loves his SERIOUS ASSHOLE brother... and we won't have to hear about how things went down over the baked ham. Otherwise I will READ THIS FUCKING THING ALOUD. I never liked or trusted my uncle Wayne, and then I got a pants-down belting from him because George had gotten us lost in the woods behind his house, and we'd gotten into quicksand [f'real, y'all, it's really more of a colloidal clay formation than sand per se, but you would lose your leg up to the knee, and you had to kind of lie back and wiggle-drag-roll your way out; we didn't have any of the great big ones that you couldn't eventually, with help, get out of] behind his house, and he had lost one of his boots irretrievably in the quicksand, and mine were pretty much ruined in addition to we made a mess coming into the house, because this stuff makes almighty mud tracks on everything you walk across, and so apparently because I didn't stop my older cousin from being a dumbass at his own house and getting us into honest-to-Zeus quicksand, I got whipped, bare-assed, face-down (my Dad never humiliated us with the nudity; he spanked over underwear) on Aunt Margaret's couch with the stupid plastic on it to "keep it new." I still begrudge him that beating, and I still begrudge it to my father, because I've talked with him about it, he remembers it quite clearly, and HE OKAYED IT OVER THE PHONE because his brother Wayne had called in advance because he knew he was crossing a line and wanted his own ass protected while mine was bare and covered in red welts. I no longer hold onto it as a personal grudge in the sense of it mattering in my life on a daily basis, but it definitely puts a tick in the "no" column under "Would you piss on this person if he were on fire." You only get so many fucks, and that whole branch of the family hasn't earned my respect. I have UNFAMILIED them. We have relatives in common; we are no longer related. 

Anyway - what I'm saying here, is that I have plenty of my own emotional freight in a spanking scene, an older-younger scene, an incest scene. Yeah, it riles me up, and it was both a painful and terrible thing, and a spanking was an emotional moment with my often not-very-emotional father, and occasionally other older relatives. Usually just my Granddad, and then only a couple of smacks with his broad belt, more to make sure we knew he was really disappointed... and the bond of beating was not one that I necessarily enjoyed, but it was a bond. 

On some level, I knew that Dad was doing it not out of any sense of being mad at me (although spankings, which he still insists were just healthy normal spankings when he was drunk and/or irate, were not healthy. He said to me on our recent big trip, "I spanked you boys, and you turned out okay." I've been in weekly therapy for years, trying to unwind some of this shit. I didn't turn out OK. I'm GETTING to OK, and I'm at peace with most of it... but that kind of thing leaves a MARK), but he was really trying to help me get my act together. That shit is JUST NOW, in my fifties, bubbling up as REAL - not, like "Oh, I understand the child-rearing strategy he used was often difficult to control if his temper was uneven, and it was often ineffective on my weird brain as a motivational mechanism, but he believed it was the right way" sort of sense, but like actually feeling myself in my father's place, trying to keep his bizarro son growing up decent, and GOD DAMN, would it hurt for him to stop being QUITE such a little mincing weirdo with the BUGS and the EMBROIDERY, and all the long words and flowers?? But we rebuilt a carburetor together, and we bled brake lines, and we hammered shingles with an air hammer, and I learned basic carpentry, and how to reload ammunitions and shoot a variety of guns which I hated, and how to tan leather, and to drive on a TRACTOR, because I'm not all THAT country, but I'm that country. This wasn't one of the new ones, this one had all metal parts and a sprung metal seat. Dad's was something like an early John Deere acre-lawn model; Granddad's was something like a tractor version of a Model T. I joke, but it really was probably from the fifties, I just remember he was proud of keeping it looking nice. Damn  - rambling again - but I love that man, and it cuts me in half to think of how much the anger over some of the spankings/whippings/brutal beatings separated us, and I can see both why he drank and got mean to still the constant dread of having a family in your care (despite his Transcendental Meditation practice, which he still does) not to mention existential anxiety because they might drop a bomb on us any day, and why he would sometimes be so overmastered by his anger with my literally dangerous curiosity, turning over logs in the swamp, climbing trees to get the cool mosses and ferns for a terrarium; by my stubborn insistence on being RIGHT, when I knew what I was talking about - even if it meant explaining solemnly to respected adults why they were mistaken. I wasn't Little Sheldon, but there were DEFINITE parallels. I was a DIFFICULT child, but not because I was dishonest or angry or mean-spirited; I was difficult because I would take off on my purple bike (which I only learned, years later, was a girl's model because I INSISTED on a purple bike with a banana seat, and they only came in girl's models - and I bet that cost him dearly to put together so that it was ready to ride for my birthday.) I was difficult because I'd take all the toys out of the toybox and put in only the strategic soft ones, and then curl up inside the toy box like a coffin and sleep, because it was small and safe. I was difficult because I cried at things that weren't even sad, and I was the child of a man who rarely let us see him cry, for all that we heard him shout plenty, and he didn't know what to do with my weird tears because I was touched about something or upset or afraid of the boy scouts he insisted we camp with, despite my constant complaints about the bullying and abuse. He cries now, after the chemo and the stroke and the realization that you really can fuck your family up for good when my brother attempted suicide. And I'm crying typing this, because it's deep, and it's real, and it's vulnerable as fuck, and I'm proud of who I've become and I'm STILL fucking weird and this blog and this amazing sex life I've been blessed with have been my therapy in many ways. 

ANYWAY. All this is to say - I've got a lot of freight on my own side; HOWEVER, I feel like having done the work with the mushrooms and the therapy and the readings and the meditations and the tantra... I feel like I can spank a man, in a way that turns ME on, and that turns HIM on, and then there's more. To break it down a little... for me, I'm spanking him mostly for his own good. In a very literal sense. I haven't done real honest-to-goodness discipline roleplay spankings for guys who feel they need to atone for their failings in adulthood, but as Thor is my witness, I'm going to be doing some soon. I feel like I get the psychodrama aspects, and I want to lead other guys through that, and also at the same time, I'm HEALING MY OWN SHIT. Because when you really are spanking a guy to give him a beautiful experience - I'm not just spanking randomly, it's not about inflicting maximum damage, usually (although, that IS a thing I've done, and it's got its own dark appeal) but it's about using pain as a kind of percussion in a sex scene, and it enforces that Dom/sub dynamic, and it makes the bottom HOT AS FUCK. The pain gives him, well, the actual sharpness of the pain itself... but then there's a corresponding rush of endorphin, and there's often a struggle aspect that gives you that magical cocktail with the acetylcholine and the adrenaline, and when Lance says, "This is fucking hot," he means it. I think this time he said he came five times during the five or so hours we were playing, but honestly, I think it's hard even for him to be sure, with the level of excitement I had his body at for parts of the evening. At one point, he said "It's about being out of control" - and I had to correct him, as he sat blindfolded with his hands cuffed behind him, seated in front of me on the the bed, as I pinched his nipples and then slapped him on the chest. It's not about being out of control, it's about RELINQUISHING control - submitting - giving over the control to the top, trusting him to make it hurt but not to hurt you, to take care of things. It's about being CONTROLLED. Somebody else is making the decisions, someone else is in charge, and you're safe. You're being cared for (and, OK, brutally throat-fingered and irrumated and spank-fucked through multiple orgasms) by a man who pushes that button. And, for a lot of guys, that button was INSTALLED by an older man. Sometimes it's like with me and George, and it was just a little quirk for a couple of years. Other times, it can echo down through somebody's entire sex life with such violence that it makes a normal sexual expression almost impossible. I'm lucky. I've gotten my mental shit together, and I'm VERY comfortable and empowered in my skin sexually in my fifties, and these hot submissive guys know they can turn it over to me, and I'll take them through it. 

I don't really need to transcribe these videos, the dialog is quite clear - I did my own damn camera work for most of it, but I learned from the guy who made the really blurry video [see also: He earned being called a pig] and did such a messy job, and I got better camera angles and lighting and wiping the lens and not turning on the damned on-board light. And Lance has confirmed that YES, he is turned on AS FUCK by being in the blog in video like this, and I should probably get some sort of management contract on him before he runs away to join Cirque du Throate and flies off to San Francisco to kneel for monster meat in specialty porn. I literally had guys ask me if I thought he was able to consent, because I'm a big strong guy and he's a little slim small guy, and I'm really being rough... I mean, IN PERSON, like guys were checking to make sure it was equitable, to confirm that he was OK, that I hadn't drugged him, ferchrissakes. I was IMPRESSED. When you hear me say, "You guys heard him say 'KEEP GOING,' right?" - I'm talking to actual men standing out of the way of my camera, there were about three in the room with us, and a few more out in the hall, watching me and listening to my weird little demonstration of the drool response and the FUCKING AMAZING saliva this beautiful boy produces, and how I like to mix up prostate massage with rough open-hand spanking. And I got some little video lights, which make the world of difference. I'm pretty pleased with the video. For Twitter, I had to chop it into shorter segments, and I think each one holds together, like they have a little dialogue or explanation that fits and makes sense. Five segments of throat-fuck, and two of prostate massage/spanking. I thought about posting those here in the little chunks, sprinkled through the post, because they tell a story differently that way, and you get them a little bit at a time - but I know that there are guys reading this who will be JUST AS HARD for the thinking-writing part as they are for the video, and I respect and appreciate your ability to get an erection from a gray block of text, because I often have one while I'm typing it out. I also know that there are guys who will skip to the video and TL;DR the rest. And that's valid, although I think the best part is both. ALSO, I was pretty proud of getting that whole progression in the throat-milking segment IN ONE TAKE, and even though that means just under four minutes, you can literally watch the amount of throat mucus develop as I work his gag reflex in gentle increments, and I think this is HOT AS FUCK. By the end, my hand was so slick, his throat was so copious, that I DIDN'T OPEN THE LUBE UNTIL AFTER HE WENT HOME. I fucked him AND the other boy with his throat slime, and additional lubrication wasn't needed. Well, I take that back, I used a little when I was working open Juan's hole, but I was trying to fist someone who's never taken a fist, and what I needed was J-lube or X-lube or Crisco, but what I had was one amazingly gag-the-fag lube-drooling pig and a tiny bottle of silicone Swiss Navy.

The guy who says, "Oh, wow" - he got his own turn on the learning train, but I didn't have a consent conversation with him, so suffice it to say he's a middle-aged cocksucker who learned a lot and a fun time was had by all, and YOU'RE WELCOME, other tops in Dallas. He knows now. 

Lance didn't know how to do this a week ago. He doesn't seem to have any idea how rare that is, like it's a thing that's DIFFICULT for most guys. This is advanced; it's a thing you work up to and practice. And he got to skip the line, and I don't know whether it's just natural talent, or if he's just really, really keen on the whole thing and his body just adapts because I know how to do it to him - which is what he says. 

The spanking/prostate massage is shorter; there was a lot of stop-and-start because I was trying to hold the camera AND fuck the boy, but I love these two. Especially because he squeaks out his enthusiastic consent in that high falsetto voice, begging me to keep going at him, alternating the pleasure with the pain and making him cum and almost cum again.