There’s not a lot of chat actually goes on on these videochat sites. Usually it only amounts to a string of terse instructions. “Show cock.” Show balls”. “Pull down boxer”. That last isn’t anything to do with asking me to borrow a fighter and make like an all-in wrestler. For some reason guys whose first language isn’t English seem to use that word indiscriminately for any underwear when they want you to get your kit off even if you’re obviously wearing slimline briefs or a thong. And while we’re at it, as it were, “Hole” isn’t usually a misspelt Spanish greeting, either.
It’s a pity, really, because now and then I do feel like exchanging a pleasantry or a view or two on the world as well as cyber-fluids. As I mentioned right at the beginning of this blog—it’s over there in the archive, back in January if you missed it—I wasn’t altogether naive about what most guys might be after, but I did have this flicker of hope at the back of my mind. . .
Admittedly, the whole business of exchanging texts rather than video cum is a bit slow. (I've told you already some guys seem to do that pretty quickly.) It’s not really conducive to typing more than a couple of sentences at a time at best, so it’s not exactly the place for a deep philosophical discussion. That’s always assuming as well there are any guys out there who can spare the use of the other hand so they could type with more than two fingers. Never three. You don’t know where the third might have been. But we can guess, can’t we?
The funniest thing is the males who actually say they “just want to chat”. It could be that they take one look at me half-naked, suddenly lose control and can’t help their repressed sexual urges breaking out, but so far barely any of them has managed more than about three whole sentences before their shirts are off, or their belt’s loosened and their zip’s open and we’re down to the simpler style of conversation I mentioned in the first paragraph. Or maybe they are just lying. I prefer to think I’m sexually irresistible of course, but I fear it's just a fib. I don’t take them at their word any more. Too many just cut me off when I did, tried to start a conversation, and didn’t strip fast enough, or show my dick quick enough, for them . . .
It’s a pity so many gay guys are so monosyllabic. In real life as well as cyber-life, I like to be fed compliments and seduced with soft words. I’ve never been one for the brutalist approach. The guy who comes up to me in a club and comes out with “Wanna fuck?” without any preliminaries just isn’t going to get to come with me in any sense of the word. At least not unless I’m really desperate. Or unless he’s really beautiful and says it with a smile.
So, if you see me somewhere in cyberspace, boys—you might recognise me now, even if it’s only from the ankle bracelet, always assuming you look down that far—just remember. Treat me gently, seduce me with words, and we might have a really good time together.
Coming up . . .(oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): men who're married or engaged but want a boy in the middle; embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; what to do with a hairy arse apart from the obvious; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
A nicely turned ankle?
After the serious stuff, thought I'd show you something just to lighten up...
Now, Now, Kiddies
I mentioned before that my few experiences among the heteros have not been happy ones. That “Adult” chat room seems to be the province of just a dozen or so men and women who are terribly jealous of oustiders. The way they keep it that way is simple, and childish. Anybody new just gets insulted as soon as they type a single line, no matter how innocuous.
Let’s give an example. I answer about a misbehaving computer, suggest it might be one of MS Vista’s little tricks. I mention I’m a ‘Mac” guy. (And, as a little joke, add "Apple, not dirty".) Reply from a macho male: “I stay away from all guys, Mac or not”; answer from an equally macho woman: “I stay away from all guys who call themselves “[my alias]”. The woman who said that uses a name that I could easily make a really cheap jibe at, but I’m too nice a boy.
There have been far meaner put-offs than that, and not just at me, either, but the rest of the chat anyway is usually on the level of 10-year-olds round the back of the school lavatories. “Hey, show me your boobies” ; “XXX has a real rack”, (men and women both) “I’m getting so wet over you, XXX”. That’s when they aren’t getting even more excited over Nascar racing. How anybody can get a sexual thrill out of cars being driven round in circles and crashing into each other is beyond me. Happens all the time on the M25 or the Peripherique. Neither have ever given me an erection.
I’ve worked out why they’re like that. They’re mostly in their forties and divorced or married with kids. To put it bluntly, the women fear the menopause and so do the men. In bed, they’ve blown it. Or rather they haven’t, which also explains their constant nudge-nudge junior-school references to oral sex. Oh, and to their pets shitting or pissing on the carpets. Do I really need to point you in the direction of Dr Freud?
They’re all also incipient rednecks, even when they are thousands of miles away from the midwest. In other words, they’re homophobic, even when the women are putting on a show of being man-hating lesbians.
Let them find out you look sexy, are bi, let alone gay, and you can bet they’ll get their retaliation in first just like the bully in the playground and in a way they daren’t do in real life. (Been there; got the torn T-shirt.) Their fear is tangible. And as we all know, that kind of fear comes from sexual insecurity.
I wonder if they realise how much it shows? If I could only think myself back to the playground, maybe I’d tell them in the only way they might understand . . .But I’m a big boy now. Might even show you how big, one day.
Let’s give an example. I answer about a misbehaving computer, suggest it might be one of MS Vista’s little tricks. I mention I’m a ‘Mac” guy. (And, as a little joke, add "Apple, not dirty".) Reply from a macho male: “I stay away from all guys, Mac or not”; answer from an equally macho woman: “I stay away from all guys who call themselves “[my alias]”. The woman who said that uses a name that I could easily make a really cheap jibe at, but I’m too nice a boy.
There have been far meaner put-offs than that, and not just at me, either, but the rest of the chat anyway is usually on the level of 10-year-olds round the back of the school lavatories. “Hey, show me your boobies” ; “XXX has a real rack”, (men and women both) “I’m getting so wet over you, XXX”. That’s when they aren’t getting even more excited over Nascar racing. How anybody can get a sexual thrill out of cars being driven round in circles and crashing into each other is beyond me. Happens all the time on the M25 or the Peripherique. Neither have ever given me an erection.
I’ve worked out why they’re like that. They’re mostly in their forties and divorced or married with kids. To put it bluntly, the women fear the menopause and so do the men. In bed, they’ve blown it. Or rather they haven’t, which also explains their constant nudge-nudge junior-school references to oral sex. Oh, and to their pets shitting or pissing on the carpets. Do I really need to point you in the direction of Dr Freud?
They’re all also incipient rednecks, even when they are thousands of miles away from the midwest. In other words, they’re homophobic, even when the women are putting on a show of being man-hating lesbians.
Let them find out you look sexy, are bi, let alone gay, and you can bet they’ll get their retaliation in first just like the bully in the playground and in a way they daren’t do in real life. (Been there; got the torn T-shirt.) Their fear is tangible. And as we all know, that kind of fear comes from sexual insecurity.
I wonder if they realise how much it shows? If I could only think myself back to the playground, maybe I’d tell them in the only way they might understand . . .But I’m a big boy now. Might even show you how big, one day.
The Art of Premature Erection
You haven’t read that wrong, it is “premature erection”, not “premature ejaculation”. On a videochat site, there’s not much embarrassment attached to the latter, I suppose. A lot of guys seem to look for someone who has a hard-on already organised to match theirs, and then a few quick jerks and . . .aaaaaaaaah! they’ve come.
I think that it’s probably more to do with the expense of bandwidth than “th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame”. (Oh, yes,I have been known to hold a book in my hands as well as the obvious thing. I can do culture as well as sex. Seldom both at the same time, but one day . . .) A few minutes of video costs, so, obviously, if you need the wank, and you’re ready, best to get it over with quickly.
In a way, I’m exhibitionist enough not to care much if the guy needs to see me naked and seductively stroking my cock to bring himself off. (Especially, sometimes, if I’m not actually looking. Or at least not focusing. And you’d be surprised how often that can happen. Just don’t tell them.) It’s quite gratifying in its own way. It’s always good to feel wanted, even if it’s only as a sex object.
But, while I can keep an erection going for quite a while, as long if not longer than the next man, though I have to admit my dong is not as long as some I’ve seen, nobody, surely, can reasonably expect me to get it properly tumescent in the 5 seconds or so some of them only seem to want to wait? They may be pulsing with Viagara bought at ridiculous expense via all those spam e-mails you get, but as far as I know it keeps it up, it doesn’t get the initial rise out of you any quicker. And, honest, I don’t suffer from any kind of erectile dysfunction as it’s so coyly termed. Not even when I’m fairly pissed. Even if I’ve only just come, I can still usually manage it in a few minutes.
So, to stay in demand, I’m obviously going to have to learn the art of premature erection: just so I can get an instant hard on, and not go on disappointing all these randy men. Assuming that they care about whether I get any satisfaction at all, that is. Maybe they don’t. A thought to bring on a spasm of real erectile dysfunction, that.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
I think that it’s probably more to do with the expense of bandwidth than “th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame”. (Oh, yes,I have been known to hold a book in my hands as well as the obvious thing. I can do culture as well as sex. Seldom both at the same time, but one day . . .) A few minutes of video costs, so, obviously, if you need the wank, and you’re ready, best to get it over with quickly.
In a way, I’m exhibitionist enough not to care much if the guy needs to see me naked and seductively stroking my cock to bring himself off. (Especially, sometimes, if I’m not actually looking. Or at least not focusing. And you’d be surprised how often that can happen. Just don’t tell them.) It’s quite gratifying in its own way. It’s always good to feel wanted, even if it’s only as a sex object.
But, while I can keep an erection going for quite a while, as long if not longer than the next man, though I have to admit my dong is not as long as some I’ve seen, nobody, surely, can reasonably expect me to get it properly tumescent in the 5 seconds or so some of them only seem to want to wait? They may be pulsing with Viagara bought at ridiculous expense via all those spam e-mails you get, but as far as I know it keeps it up, it doesn’t get the initial rise out of you any quicker. And, honest, I don’t suffer from any kind of erectile dysfunction as it’s so coyly termed. Not even when I’m fairly pissed. Even if I’ve only just come, I can still usually manage it in a few minutes.
So, to stay in demand, I’m obviously going to have to learn the art of premature erection: just so I can get an instant hard on, and not go on disappointing all these randy men. Assuming that they care about whether I get any satisfaction at all, that is. Maybe they don’t. A thought to bring on a spasm of real erectile dysfunction, that.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
Don't Glare at Me!
Why is it that so many men, trying tor a sexy come-hither smile and a sultry pout, end up just scowling into their webcam? If you’re glowering at me I’m going to fear cyber-rape more than cyber-sex . . .At the very least it makes me worry I’ll have to stock upon a really big tube of cyber-gel and then still not be able to sit down for cyber-ages.
Maybe the convicted-rapist-look does turn some guys on. It does the opposite for me. The sort of thing I’d turn my back to and run from if I wasn’t bothered that turning my back wouldn’t be a bit risky . . .Practice a sweet smile in front of your shaving mirror. Please!
Maybe the convicted-rapist-look does turn some guys on. It does the opposite for me. The sort of thing I’d turn my back to and run from if I wasn’t bothered that turning my back wouldn’t be a bit risky . . .Practice a sweet smile in front of your shaving mirror. Please!
Het-up about being Hetero
No, I don’t wear girl’s clothes. (Unless you count a girl-friend's jeans now and then.) That’s being ‘Tv’ not ‘Bi’. I didn’t realise those two letters were going to attract young hetero boys who are just curious about what being bi or gay is like and are, apparently, clueless. How they manage to get to 18 or 20 and stay that dumb about it is a bloody mystery.
Apart from the cross-dressing, they mostly want to know if fucking a boy is like fucking a girl, so maybe they might like it. The trouble is, they don’t seem to have grasped that the rectum isn’t self-lubricating like a girl’s vagina.
It's usually a bit of a shock to hear that in bed with a boy, they might just find that it’s their arse he wants to fuck, rather than them doing the fucking or just having a bit of a wank like they do over their porno films. Without fail that discovery turns them off. What pisses me off, is why ask me, and then get all angst-ridden about the answers? I'm a randy boy, not a randy therapist.
What pisses me off even more is that I nearly always fancy them, and I’m obviously wasting my time. If they’ve been to bed with a girl, they were probably wasting her time as well, I can’t help but think. Knickers down, straight in, back and forth a few times and “Wow, that was great, wasn’t it!” as she reaches across a limp dick for the vibrator . . .
Oh yes, if you’re one of them, and you’re wondering, being bisexual doesn’t mean I have tits either. That’’s—oh, sod it, go and find out for yourself. Just don’t ask me, that's all!
Apart from the cross-dressing, they mostly want to know if fucking a boy is like fucking a girl, so maybe they might like it. The trouble is, they don’t seem to have grasped that the rectum isn’t self-lubricating like a girl’s vagina.
It's usually a bit of a shock to hear that in bed with a boy, they might just find that it’s their arse he wants to fuck, rather than them doing the fucking or just having a bit of a wank like they do over their porno films. Without fail that discovery turns them off. What pisses me off, is why ask me, and then get all angst-ridden about the answers? I'm a randy boy, not a randy therapist.
What pisses me off even more is that I nearly always fancy them, and I’m obviously wasting my time. If they’ve been to bed with a girl, they were probably wasting her time as well, I can’t help but think. Knickers down, straight in, back and forth a few times and “Wow, that was great, wasn’t it!” as she reaches across a limp dick for the vibrator . . .
Oh yes, if you’re one of them, and you’re wondering, being bisexual doesn’t mean I have tits either. That’’s—oh, sod it, go and find out for yourself. Just don’t ask me, that's all!
Politically Incorrect
I know you really want to read about my adventures (or misadventures—and preferably the more comical ones) with my cock and gorgeous naked body in cyberspace here, but just for once, something serious . . .
I mentioned a few posts ago being a bit upset by the reaction of a rather rude (verbally, not morally!) American when I showed myself in the Adult chatroom. Despite that, I still trawl around the lists of users, though I’m not going into that chatroom again, not on my own anyway, and read what they have to say about themselves in their bios. You never know; the sex-object, if not love, of my life might be lurking there . . .
So that’s how I came across one of those right-wing tirades about “America—love it or leave it” masquerading as a bio. And realised that quite a lot of Americans seem to make a big deal of their flag in their pics. Funny that. I’m a Brit—part Italian as well, that’s why I’m so sexy!—and the most likely place for us to find a Union Flag is on a pair of underpants. I didn’t even know until last year you could accidentally fly the thing, or wear it, I suppose, upside down, and I haven’t a clue how you can tell.
I thought patriotic sex was like Mrs Disraeli’s—”lie back and think of England”. Or in this case, I suppose, think of the USA. (I told you I could read as well as screw. And I’ve got a book of quotations.) I’ve nothing against Americans, really. Except the wars they try to drag everybody else into. And that sanctimonious way their politicians and think-tank commentators have of telling us “Yurpeens” we’re, well, fucked, basically.
I have done it the other way round; fucked an American, I mean. But no Stars and Stripes around, even on the underwear . . It'd put me off, I think. I might lie back and think of Iraq or Afghanistan, or, worse, MacDonalds. Oh, I forgot. At the end of that tirade, the guy said “And NO queers!” Phew. He won’t be contacting me, then. Mind you, some “str8” guys have been . . .makes you wonder, doesn’t it? But that will be another story. . .
I mentioned a few posts ago being a bit upset by the reaction of a rather rude (verbally, not morally!) American when I showed myself in the Adult chatroom. Despite that, I still trawl around the lists of users, though I’m not going into that chatroom again, not on my own anyway, and read what they have to say about themselves in their bios. You never know; the sex-object, if not love, of my life might be lurking there . . .
So that’s how I came across one of those right-wing tirades about “America—love it or leave it” masquerading as a bio. And realised that quite a lot of Americans seem to make a big deal of their flag in their pics. Funny that. I’m a Brit—part Italian as well, that’s why I’m so sexy!—and the most likely place for us to find a Union Flag is on a pair of underpants. I didn’t even know until last year you could accidentally fly the thing, or wear it, I suppose, upside down, and I haven’t a clue how you can tell.
I thought patriotic sex was like Mrs Disraeli’s—”lie back and think of England”. Or in this case, I suppose, think of the USA. (I told you I could read as well as screw. And I’ve got a book of quotations.) I’ve nothing against Americans, really. Except the wars they try to drag everybody else into. And that sanctimonious way their politicians and think-tank commentators have of telling us “Yurpeens” we’re, well, fucked, basically.
I have done it the other way round; fucked an American, I mean. But no Stars and Stripes around, even on the underwear . . It'd put me off, I think. I might lie back and think of Iraq or Afghanistan, or, worse, MacDonalds. Oh, I forgot. At the end of that tirade, the guy said “And NO queers!” Phew. He won’t be contacting me, then. Mind you, some “str8” guys have been . . .makes you wonder, doesn’t it? But that will be another story. . .
M. de Sade, Herr Sacher-Masoch, and me
It had to come—but for once, I didn’t. Didn’t even feel like it. An invitation, not just to beat the meat, but to kind of beat myself up, raise welts on my bum, if not elsewhere, and maybe shed a little blood.
There’s nothing in the little piece I wrote to describe my innermost feelings and desires people are supposed to read, but hardly ever do, before they contact me about liking pain. Very much the opposite, I’d have thought. And I don’t. The only sort of pain I’ll even contemplate is that of unrequited love or the end of a relationship. And I’m not that keen on that.
I’m not even aroused that much by a bit of spanking, which is actually about as far as I’ll go on the S&M front. And you wouldn’t see me dead in that S&M club in London I’ve heard about. Actually, what scares me, is that if I did go, you might. Or at least half-dead. I’m not a very big boy, as you’ve probably gathered. And some of these guys look as though they could pull an artic uphill with their teeth. What they might do to me with those same canines if I was tethered to one of those frames I’ve seen in the sex shop basements I hate to think.
And I do not like the sight of blood. I faint. At least, for some reason, I faint at the sight of my own blood. One slip with a sharp knife, and wham! I’m down on the floor. It doesn’t apply to other people’s blood though, rather to my surprise. I’ve actually been first on the scene at a couple of road accidents with a fair bit of blood splashing about, and not even felt slightly dizzy. I hope that doesn’t qualify me for the “S” of “S&M”.
Anyway, I’ve never been into self-flagellation, and apart from my natural inclination to a painless existence, I can’t see me practically whacking my own bum with my belt in any way that’d be really satisfying to the guy watching. Certainly not, out of pure squeamishness, with the buckle end. Ok, so I’m a wimp. But I’ve seen some people’s backs who were into this and I don’t want those welts and scars on mine. How could I go nude sunbathing on the beach looking like that?
Anyway, I said ‘No’. I didn’t like the look in his eye, apart from anything else. I hope I don’t attract any more. Especially the ones who actually blatantly advertise themselves as sadists and live in Germany. (I’m not going to forget that ‘cannibal’ in a hurry. I don’t want anybody even thinking, however idly, my prick might be nice with onions and mustard in a roll.) I know it’s cyberspace, not real space, but all the same, it frightens me.
Something has just occurred to me. Maybe I’d better change that bit in the “About Me” over on the right. I meant “easily hurt” emotionally, folks, if by any chance any of you reading this are into S&M.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; the art of premature erection; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
Yes, I know I keep promising these, they’re all written already, it’s just that things pop up on the spur of the moment, as they do. . .
There’s nothing in the little piece I wrote to describe my innermost feelings and desires people are supposed to read, but hardly ever do, before they contact me about liking pain. Very much the opposite, I’d have thought. And I don’t. The only sort of pain I’ll even contemplate is that of unrequited love or the end of a relationship. And I’m not that keen on that.
I’m not even aroused that much by a bit of spanking, which is actually about as far as I’ll go on the S&M front. And you wouldn’t see me dead in that S&M club in London I’ve heard about. Actually, what scares me, is that if I did go, you might. Or at least half-dead. I’m not a very big boy, as you’ve probably gathered. And some of these guys look as though they could pull an artic uphill with their teeth. What they might do to me with those same canines if I was tethered to one of those frames I’ve seen in the sex shop basements I hate to think.
And I do not like the sight of blood. I faint. At least, for some reason, I faint at the sight of my own blood. One slip with a sharp knife, and wham! I’m down on the floor. It doesn’t apply to other people’s blood though, rather to my surprise. I’ve actually been first on the scene at a couple of road accidents with a fair bit of blood splashing about, and not even felt slightly dizzy. I hope that doesn’t qualify me for the “S” of “S&M”.
Anyway, I’ve never been into self-flagellation, and apart from my natural inclination to a painless existence, I can’t see me practically whacking my own bum with my belt in any way that’d be really satisfying to the guy watching. Certainly not, out of pure squeamishness, with the buckle end. Ok, so I’m a wimp. But I’ve seen some people’s backs who were into this and I don’t want those welts and scars on mine. How could I go nude sunbathing on the beach looking like that?
Anyway, I said ‘No’. I didn’t like the look in his eye, apart from anything else. I hope I don’t attract any more. Especially the ones who actually blatantly advertise themselves as sadists and live in Germany. (I’m not going to forget that ‘cannibal’ in a hurry. I don’t want anybody even thinking, however idly, my prick might be nice with onions and mustard in a roll.) I know it’s cyberspace, not real space, but all the same, it frightens me.
Something has just occurred to me. Maybe I’d better change that bit in the “About Me” over on the right. I meant “easily hurt” emotionally, folks, if by any chance any of you reading this are into S&M.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; the art of premature erection; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
Yes, I know I keep promising these, they’re all written already, it’s just that things pop up on the spur of the moment, as they do. . .
Pants . . .underpants, and mucky minds
I keep getting pictures daily from the same guy. He must be keen on me, which is nice, but I’m not so keen on him. It’s not that the crotch-shot he keeps sending me is unexciting, exactly, though I do wish sometimes more people would show me more than just that. It’s that I’ve realised now he wears the same briefs, seemingly, for a week or maybe even longer.
It could be, I s’pose, he’s obsessed with wearing the same colour and style and his bottom drawer is packed with them. (A slightly weird, but all the same harmless fetish perhaps. More harmless than some, anyway.) All the same, I’m bothered that he might not do any laundry. And in my experience, men who don’t wash their knickers don’t wash much of what’s in them either.
Fortunately, this is cyberspace, so it doesn’t matter as much as it might in a real space like my bed. (And that reminds me of a real-life story and a little play that necessitated urgent recourse to the washing machine and the boy being kicked out of my now sheet-less bed at three in the morning. I might tell you about that sometime.) I am not one for foxy smells: I like armpits deodorised and pubic hair that, if not nicely shaved, shampooed or blow-dried (?) has at least been close to a shower head before it gets close to mine.
I can’t think of anything I’d like to be faced with (as you might say) less than the bloke an 18th century English Squire paid not to wash at all for three years. Can’t quite remember where I came across that. A book by Edith Sitwell about English Eccentrics, I think. If smelly boys are your thing try Googling it to get excited. My reading is pretty broad, you know. Almost as broad as some guys’ bums in week-old underwear, to take us back a bit closer to today’s topic.
He might, since he sends these pics so often, be obsessed with li'l’ me and panting with feverish lust as well as being unimaginative in choice of lingerie. He’s not very communicative, though. Never types a message. If I do ask if they really are the same pants today as they were a week ago and he says yes, I’m never going to be able to look at them again without imagining the likely stink. If after that he wants me to be sexy or randy, it just ain’t gonna work . . .Not for him either, with a peg on my nose.
A lot of the time, I wear black under my jeans. But this last week or two, I’ve been ringing the changes like a girl in a changing room. White, red, black and red stripes, blue, blue and black, grey. Briefs and thongs. Not boxers, though, I hate them, even though I have a couple of pairs. Even shorts and cut-off jeans on-line. Just so nobody suspects the same about me as I do about this bloke. I’m a clean boy. It’s just my mind that’s a bit grubby in the corners. I do need to go out and shop for more, though.
It could be, I s’pose, he’s obsessed with wearing the same colour and style and his bottom drawer is packed with them. (A slightly weird, but all the same harmless fetish perhaps. More harmless than some, anyway.) All the same, I’m bothered that he might not do any laundry. And in my experience, men who don’t wash their knickers don’t wash much of what’s in them either.
Fortunately, this is cyberspace, so it doesn’t matter as much as it might in a real space like my bed. (And that reminds me of a real-life story and a little play that necessitated urgent recourse to the washing machine and the boy being kicked out of my now sheet-less bed at three in the morning. I might tell you about that sometime.) I am not one for foxy smells: I like armpits deodorised and pubic hair that, if not nicely shaved, shampooed or blow-dried (?) has at least been close to a shower head before it gets close to mine.
I can’t think of anything I’d like to be faced with (as you might say) less than the bloke an 18th century English Squire paid not to wash at all for three years. Can’t quite remember where I came across that. A book by Edith Sitwell about English Eccentrics, I think. If smelly boys are your thing try Googling it to get excited. My reading is pretty broad, you know. Almost as broad as some guys’ bums in week-old underwear, to take us back a bit closer to today’s topic.
He might, since he sends these pics so often, be obsessed with li'l’ me and panting with feverish lust as well as being unimaginative in choice of lingerie. He’s not very communicative, though. Never types a message. If I do ask if they really are the same pants today as they were a week ago and he says yes, I’m never going to be able to look at them again without imagining the likely stink. If after that he wants me to be sexy or randy, it just ain’t gonna work . . .Not for him either, with a peg on my nose.
A lot of the time, I wear black under my jeans. But this last week or two, I’ve been ringing the changes like a girl in a changing room. White, red, black and red stripes, blue, blue and black, grey. Briefs and thongs. Not boxers, though, I hate them, even though I have a couple of pairs. Even shorts and cut-off jeans on-line. Just so nobody suspects the same about me as I do about this bloke. I’m a clean boy. It’s just my mind that’s a bit grubby in the corners. I do need to go out and shop for more, though.
The Pleasure Principle
It’s been brought to my attention, in quite a kindly way really, that “it doesn’t look as though you’re having that much fun yourself in this video sex thing”. If you are thinking that on the basis of the posts so far, let me hasten to correct you. I’ve seen some very sexy boys and had some wicked wanks. Quite frequently with the cum spurting well above my navel onto my chest. And I’ve had enough favourable comments about my cock and my bum to have made my prick at least an inch longer if compliments alone could do it. (I like my bum just as it is, so I don’t really want another inch on that.) As they say, I’m lovin’ it. Oh, and it’s finger-lickin’ good as well.
I Gotta Girl!
I know the title is “Gay Camerawhore”, but if you read a previous post, you’ll know I’m bisexual. You’ll also know that I’d pretty well given up on the straight “adult” group because I reckoned the ratio of boys to girls was against me. Well, I got a girl!
She caught me when I was both clothed and flaccid. Both are getting to be fairly rare events now when I’m on line—not many people seem to want to see much of you in either state, or not for more than a few seconds, anyway.
We exchanged a few half sentences by way of introduction. There’s obviously a difference between boys and girls. (Yes, I know the essential ones—I mean in chatroom conversation.) Instead of the usual peremptory “cock!”, this ran roughly, “how r u”. “where u live?”, “what do u do?”, and since she wasn’t English, “most British men play Rugby, yes?”. This last portended doom.
Readers of previous posts—you haven’t read them? Why not now? It takes less time than wanking, or at least it should, and it’s probably better for the brain—will know I had a suspicion the few girls about were really after beef on the hoof. I’ve never played Rugby, or any other sport much; I swim, but though I’m slim and slight, I don’t really have that “swimmer’s build” you see in the gay escort adverts so often.
Next message: “u take shirt off?” Although a little anxious, I complied, hoping I was in with a chance here. Disappointingly, by the way, the girl was not yet displaying amything of herself on cam. But I had hopes. Wham! End of connection. Barely time enough for her to count my ribs. Forebodings confirmed. I don’t think I have an ugly chest; I wax the hair just like a footballer, if not a rugger bugger (there is a very large number of very hairy heavily-built men about, I’ve noticed) and I’ve been complimented on my nipples occasionally, by boys, at least.
Oh well. If you are a girl, reading this, and by any chance you are looking for a reasonably slim, smooth-chested, long-legged, sensitive bi-guy, get into that chatroom! I’ll be waiting for you. My tastes are very similar to the foregoing. Maybe I’m just narcissistic. I’m certainly disappointed. She’d seemed to fit nicely. And I’m sure I would have fitted her.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
She caught me when I was both clothed and flaccid. Both are getting to be fairly rare events now when I’m on line—not many people seem to want to see much of you in either state, or not for more than a few seconds, anyway.
We exchanged a few half sentences by way of introduction. There’s obviously a difference between boys and girls. (Yes, I know the essential ones—I mean in chatroom conversation.) Instead of the usual peremptory “cock!”, this ran roughly, “how r u”. “where u live?”, “what do u do?”, and since she wasn’t English, “most British men play Rugby, yes?”. This last portended doom.
Readers of previous posts—you haven’t read them? Why not now? It takes less time than wanking, or at least it should, and it’s probably better for the brain—will know I had a suspicion the few girls about were really after beef on the hoof. I’ve never played Rugby, or any other sport much; I swim, but though I’m slim and slight, I don’t really have that “swimmer’s build” you see in the gay escort adverts so often.
Next message: “u take shirt off?” Although a little anxious, I complied, hoping I was in with a chance here. Disappointingly, by the way, the girl was not yet displaying amything of herself on cam. But I had hopes. Wham! End of connection. Barely time enough for her to count my ribs. Forebodings confirmed. I don’t think I have an ugly chest; I wax the hair just like a footballer, if not a rugger bugger (there is a very large number of very hairy heavily-built men about, I’ve noticed) and I’ve been complimented on my nipples occasionally, by boys, at least.
Oh well. If you are a girl, reading this, and by any chance you are looking for a reasonably slim, smooth-chested, long-legged, sensitive bi-guy, get into that chatroom! I’ll be waiting for you. My tastes are very similar to the foregoing. Maybe I’m just narcissistic. I’m certainly disappointed. She’d seemed to fit nicely. And I’m sure I would have fitted her.
Coming up . . .oh, dear, these inevitable puns!): embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who claim to be gay and JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
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