I blamed you for everything. My bad mood. My limp dick. My disappointment in the food, the scene, the view. My anger landed on your face. Again and again. I looked away. Over your shoulder. Over my shoulder. Down at my lap.

You did the same. Kept my head swiveling on my shoulders. I tried to keep up with your moods. Your anger. Your disappointment. Disillusionment. Despair. You were my first disaster. Cordoned off. Explosives set. Wired to go at any moment. My muscles too tight. A desperate boxer struggling to stay on my feet. No longer loose. Lost. Waiting for the punch that will drop me to my knees. My limbs, bricks, everything implodes. Leveled.

This started before either of us can remember. This started before we met. Between being a child and being grown, it takes seed. The dirty break up. The shameful mistakes. The root. The route.

Blame me. I’m ready to take it. That long fall. Such form. Such grace.

I took you into Forever 21. You tried on gold lamé and burgundy fake fur and pushed my fingers inside you in the dressing room. I turned your face against the mirror. Everything was fun until it soured.

The park bench in the cold with the broken slat that ripped through your stockings and into your knee. We laughed about the blood. I left my cock sticking out of my pants when we ran to the car.

Your friends couch. Realizing too late, with the keys slipped through the mailslot, that the dirty condom wasn’t in my pocket. Not knowing where we’d left it or when it would surface.

You liked to suck me off when I was late getting to work or meeting someone. I had to run out the door confused and dizzy from getting off.

I never thought we would last. I never thought I loved you. It never occurred to me what you wanted. I don’t think you cared much either way. You always seemed ready to walk out the door and never see me again. You never left anything important behind. Nothing I would have to return.

I don’t remember anything about the last time. The end wasn’t anything that stuck with me. It was the heady beginning and the slow burn that comes back to me. I still jerk off remembering the way you looked when you slipped out of your skirt. I can feel your tongue in my ear. The way I loved that and hated it at the same time.

I don’t miss you as much as I miss who I was to you then. The role I played. When you were gone, you were long gone. I can’t imagine you ever looked back. I thought you were my toy but I know better now. You knew all along. You had the map. You saw where we were headed and how little I knew. You were watching as I disappeared from the start.

If I saw you now, my hands would be on my belt before I recognized your face. The thin, pink scar on the back of my hand would blush red. I’d stand right there and wait.

Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink

I’m excited to share a new story of mine that’s available in DL King’s new anthology, Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink. The story I wrote is called Cuckold and I hope you’ll get the book for yourself and check it out along with a whole host of other great stories.

Here’s an excerpt from my story, Cuckold:

“I don’t know if it was the night or the girl. It wasn’t as if I’d never had a girl laugh in my face before. But this time it lit a fuse somewhere deep inside. A fuse that burned so imperceptibly slowly it took me a few minutes to realize what had happened. I was on fire. This girl had set me on fire. When she laughed, she looked at me in this way that said, “Stay right here and watch me, you fucking asshole.” And I obeyed. I wanted to learn and I knew she could teach me something. I stayed right there. I stood with my beer in my hand until it was too warm to be any good.”

If you get the book, let me know what you think!


Dear Reader

First of all, thank you for being patient. I haven’t posted a new story in a long while. I hope to correct that soon.

Today I noticed that Instagram has deleted every single photo I had posted there and linked to from this blog. None of the photos violated Instagram policy by themselves, but it seems linking to them from my blog is considered a violation overall. This included photographs of my fingers working on a car, photographs of my hair, photos of jeans. It’s ridiculous. I’m doing my best to track down the original photographs and rebuild these pages one at a time.

Please be patient with me as this will be a significant amount of work. Fuck censorship. Fuck the fact that talking about sex is considered taboo and gets your work banned but the president threatening to destroy an entire country stays put on Twitter. Speaking of that – you can report him for threatening violence. I did. But I will start posting stories again. I will continue posting photographs. Let’s keep fucking and being queer and resisting all this bullshit.




On Your Knees

Wear that dress for me tonight. The one that’s cut so low I can’t help staring. The one that wraps around your belly and hugs your hips. I want to sit at our kitchen table and watch you cook. Bend over to open the oven. Let me see you. Slow.

I am hungry for you prove it to me. Anything I ask. Anything I want.

Let me sit in my chair, relaxed, and watch you fetch. Down on your knees. Bring me my napkin. Hold it in your mouth. Feel the edges of my stiff cock held tight in my pants as you lay the cloth across my lap.

All through dinner, I am anxious. Staring at your tits. Watching you breathe. I am waiting for us to be done. The dishes in the sink. I am waiting for you to come sit on my lap and wrap your hands around my head. I am waiting for that kiss that tells me what you need.

On your knees. I want to see you crawl to the bedroom. I want to walk behind you, kicking at your feet. Don’t turn around. I want you to hear my belt come off, the jangle of the buckle. Feel the tip of the leather teased across your ass as you move so slowly across the floor.

Stay on your knees as you get to the bed. Rest your head and arms on the mattress. I will crouch down low and loop my belt in my hands. I will lift your dress and slip your panties down your thighs. I want to spank you and see the bright stripes rise to the surface of your skin. You are mine. Your hair in my fingers. You are all mine.

I don’t want you to look at me when I drag you up onto the bed. I will pull you back up on your knees and shove your face and shoulders into the mattress. My hands hold your hips and pull you against me. You’re wet. A damp spot on my bulging jeans. I pull you against me, shoving myself between your thighs. Watching my pants grow wetter. Sticky. I want to slide my dick inside you, but this is too sweet. I lean back and pull you harder against me, rubbing your clit against the hard cock inside my jeans.

You reach back with your hands, trying to find me. I slap your fingers away and rub against your clit. I want your pussy hot, burning. I will pull my cock out and fuck you when I’m ready. I want you on the verge of tears. I want my cock inside you for only a minute before you come, squeezing me inside you, shaking.

When you’re ready, I will sit in my chair with you on the floor between my legs and watch you suck my wet cock. I will place your hands on my thighs and stroke your fingers lightly.

Sometime in the night, I’ll lie awake with you curled against me, your head on my chest, my arms around you. I’ll feel myself ache at the image of you crawling towards me ready to suck me off.