Today’s Bisexual Thoughts: 23 March 26 @ 1420

“Why is it so difficult?”

A forum member asked this question in a new (but probably redundant) posting. He listed some things that he thought could be a reason why no one is nibbling at his bait and I looked at those things and saw that the only real stumbling block was his inability to host.

Hosting has been a major problem over, um, say, the last twenty-five years or so. In reality, it’s probably always been a problem for some guys; it’s not enough to want to have sex with a guy – you have to be able to be in a place that, preferably, is safe and comfortable for one and all to do the nasty to each other.

So, the history lesson (you knew it was gonna show up, didn’t you?). In my past and those early, heady days, finding a guy was stupidly easy since damned near all the guys in my neighborhood were down with it. With the exception of our one resident gay guy, we were all versatile because we had a “code:” If I do it to you, you have to do it to me. And it worked. As far as being able to find a place, shit, we had so many places we could go to that our biggest problem was picking a place that was close to wherever we happened to be.

This doesn’t include sleepovers and where you and your host could wind up sharing a bed and, well, yeah, when the lights go out, it was go time! In my neighborhood there were places where outside sex could be done, including going down to the creek and its wooded environs – skinny dippy on a hot summer’s day usually lent itself to boys having sex with each other.

It wasn’t until adulthood showed up that finding a guy and a place to do it started to be problematic but, then again, there were plenty of no-tell-motels at the outskirts of the city that were dirt cheap, anonymous, and took cash; the only problem now was transportation but if you had a car, it would be on. Guys were being very specific about what they would and wouldn’t do and I know of the many times I’d have a good ‘deal’ going on and right up to the moment where something he wanted to do – or didn’t want to do – would wind up killing the deal.

It was a pain in the ass (and not the good one) to not be able to make the deal with a guy but you understood that this was part of the whole “have sex with a guy game,” to put it like that. If you wanted guys to bed you, you had to make it easy for them to do it and this was easy for me because, in today’s terms, I could either top or bottom and it didn’t matter to me but with the one exception: If you didn’t suck dick, we weren’t going to make a deal.

I had to stick this in because I got tired of being hit on by guys who wanted me to do all of the work and the only thing they had to do was nut in my mouth or my ass. What made them think that I didn’t want my dick sucked? With this ‘clause’ in place, a lot of deals got broken but many more got made because there was a slew of, um, white guys who’d do almost anything to get some Black dick and, for me, not all that unlike my younger days.

Guys started to get really picky, oh, I’d say, around 1996. The number of men, both bi and gay, looking for men to have sex with was burgeoning and like I’d never seen before. The problem was that they had their preferences and so many guys demanded and insisted that their preferences take priority over yours and, okay, what kind of fucked up bullshit is this? Personally, I had an easier time getting pussy than I did getting dick but one of the things I – and other guys – had to learn was to be patient. Don’t give up. The online stuff had gotten seriously messy and even petty to a degree but there was always that odd chance that you could run into a guy and, oh, maybe a half-hour later, wind up in a bed with him or in the back seat of someone’s car or, yeah, the local no-tell joint.

Then… stranger danger. If you’re afraid of a guy you don’t know like you’d know the back of your hand, chances are very good that you’re not going to be getting any dick. Then… the arrogant, pushy motherfuckers who (a) wanted you to drop whatever you were doing to be of service to them (b) would sometimes ask for money or (c) wanted to know if you had a job, home, and car and, okay, what the fuck is this bullshit?

It had been bad enough that when HIV showed up in the 1980s, the number of M2M encounters damned near dropped to zero and I think that gay men took more of a hit since it had been reported that one should avoid IV drug users and/or men who were homosexual. As a bi guy living in a neighborhood with other closeted bi guys, this didn’t affect me all that much and our group tended to stay nice and clean in that respect and any guy who didn’t got kicked to the curb and more so when women were being known to kill a boyfriend who gave them the clap.

No joke. In the here and now, guys are so risk-adverse that it isn’t funny. You don’t want to risk getting an STI? The answer is… condoms. Duh. And, um, with guys being guys, the only time you really needed them was if anal sex was on the table and even the vaunted CDC still says that the chances of you getting an STI via oral sex is pretty slim.

To me, guys were starting to act like… women. No offense to women. I’d gotten with this one guy who insisted on condoms for everything, and I was okay with it even though I disliked sucking on a condom instead of an uncovered dick. The third time we got together, he said that we didn’t need condoms now and it very much reminded me of the times when I got with women who demanded condoms and then, after the third time having sex, nah, we don’t need ’em. Or the women who had me put one on and then ripped it off of me and we continued to have sex.

I was negotiating with a guy who told me that we wouldn’t have sex until after the fourth date. Okay, hold up a moment – you just told me that you’ve been dying to suck some cock and, quoting you, “The sooner, the better!” – but now you’re saying nothing’s going to happen until after the fourth date? My ‘problem’ here is… I don’t date guys. I was made to understand that dating is just an interview to determine suitability for a relationship of some kind. The deal was broken and it was a shame because, at least “on paper,” this guy looked very good to me.

But, okay, as the saying goes, there are still plenty of fish in the sea. Getting rejected for sex is part and parcel of the whole M2M thing and, well, just as much as it is in the M2F thing. This one guy was throwing stuff my way that made me interrupt him to ask, “Are you planning to have my babies or something? I just want to suck your dick!” Another guy kicked me to the curb because – get this – my dick was a half-inch shorter than what he preferred. I was dumbfounded and wanted to know why that made a difference and all he said was, “It’s my preference.”

What I was finding out was that guys who stuck to their preferences… weren’t getting any dick. I remember having this conversation with the guy I’ve been mentoring for a few years now and him asking me how I managed to get all the dick I was getting, and I told him, “That’s easy – I make it easy for guys to have sex with me.” I had pointed out to him the trait of being flexible and adaptable and even being able to improvise on the fly instead of saying, “This is what I prefer and I’m not changing anything about it.”

Because from what I could discern, guys who did this – who fail to adapt and adjust – were the ones bitching and moaning about not being able to find a guy they could have sex with. Why is it so difficult?

Because we’ve made it that way. My protege often finds it hard to believe when I tell him that it never used to be this hard to get into a guy’s underwear. But that was then… and this is 2026 and a continuation of a… trend in this part of the dynamic where guys are, essentially, looking for a boyfriend and being under the impression that this will make and keep them safe from STIs. They want emotional content over physical content, and I remember writing a blog a few years ago now asking whether or not it was my imagination or were guys starting to behave like women.

It’s so difficult because we’ve made it difficult.

Today’s Bisexual Thoughts: 22 March 26 @ 1413

I’ve said that once a guy gives having sex with another guy a try, it can be an eye-opening, life-changing experience. My first experience was and I’ve talked to thousands of other guys who have said that their first time was all that and then some, including the many guys I personally gave their first experience.

For some guys, however, their first experience with this forbidden form of sex was more like, meh – they’ve jerked off and it was more exciting. It still stings a bit to know that I’ve failed to give some guys that mind-blowing first-time experience… but I’ve had a lot of them come back and tell me that the second time was way better than the first and whether it was with me or with someone else.

And I had wanted to know why. Now, back in the day, we didn’t have social media and other forms of communication to put it out there that, ya mon, if you’ve been thinking about doing the deed, you should man up and do it and for those of you who are of a mind not to, you don’t know what you’re missing. Instead, if and when talking to a guy who could on the verge of his first same-sex experience, I know that I had to “sell” it and in a way that, should things go well, he’s not going to regret… while kind of contradicting myself by saying, “But you could wind up regretting it.”

In my teens, I had learned that there are some guys who shouldn’t even think about this kind of sex. They don’t have the right mindset for it, can’t wrap their heads around some basics like, oh, yeah, it’s still sex, and other impediments that, upon further review, showed that, hmm, yeah, my man, it might be better if you don’t do this.

I learned that there’s a “danger” in overselling it, setting an expectation that may not be achieved and, indeed, to the question of why some guys have a horrible first time but a glorious second time, I saw that there was a lot of… shit that could crop up that would make having that first experience a great idea… with a not-so-great outcome and result.

I learned that why the first time was such a letdown for a guy involved so many things and some of them that you wouldn’t think would ruin such a moment for a guy like, um, the wrong time of day. The wrong setting. The weather. Whatever the two guys were doing before this came up. A major mood-killer called expectation where a guy gets it into his head that the experience is to be like this and it turned out to be less than what he expected and now he’s having his ass kicked by a great deal of regret. A guy I knew told me that his first experience got ruined by… a laugh.

One guy asked me why his first time with his best friend went sideways but the second time was all that and a bag of chips and… my brain locked up and more so since, um, duh, I wasn’t there to see how it all went down but even after he let me in on the details, it seemed to me that they did the right things at the wrong time and in the wrong place… but the second time was 100% right.

I’d talked to guys whose first time wasn’t worth shit but their second time with a different guy was all that and then some and did I know why the first time wasn’t all it was chalked up to be? I did… and I sure as hell didn’t. Even I knew – and found out the hard way – that there are some guys you shouldn’t have sex with and unless your instincts are screaming at you to not go to bed with this guy, you usually find out that you shouldn’t have done it with him… after it’s all over and done with.

I was aware that there were just too many things – little things – that could show up to ruin a first time and that didn’t include whatever happened to be going through a guy’s mind at any point in this. I’d found that if you could leave your inhibitions outside, chances were good that you could have an amazing first time but the moment an inhibition showed up, yeah, things could go from amazing to depressing regret in an eyeblink. Hell, even I had to think about the many times I’m doing it with a guy and wondering why I thought it was a good idea – and my first time was way, way, way behind me.

I learned to never guarantee that a guy’s first time would be the greatest thing since he learned about sex with girls. As a “provider,” I knew that all I could do was the best I knew how to do but I also knew that if the other guy wasn’t receptive – and I’m not talking about him doing something that he was totally against doing – my best efforts wouldn’t mean shit and what should have been an amazing time in his life was… less than that.

My fault. His fault. No one’s fault. Shit happens or, really, shit doesn’t happen. Why? Makes my head want to hurt thinking about all of the possibilities that could turn something into the worst decision a guy could make. I learned that one way to avoid a disastrous first time was to be open and honest about what this kind of sex was about, what it could be like, and how it can all go south in a hurry. Heard some horror stories? They’re probably true but, importantly, just because someone else had a horror story does not mean that you’re going to have one – and if I’m to be the guy you’re having your first time with, there’s some onus on my part to make sure that you don’t have a horror story about your first time.

“If, at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again…” as the saying goes or, my favorite that came from Bill Cosby and before he became public enemy #2, “You just keep running that play until you get it right!” I would sometimes find myself being a guy’s second experience after hearing how his first time was… less than stellar. All too easy (most of the time) to point out the things that when “wrong” but if you dwell on this, your next time isn’t going to be all that great, either, because you’ll always think about how that first time was all fucked up.

“Why should I have sex with you?” one guy asked. “Especially after I told you how fucked up my first time was?”

“Because I’m not the guy you had your first time with,” I said. “I never did like being blamed for something that I didn’t do but if I don’t understand anything else, it’s that I’m not the guy who ruined this for you. Now, we can continue but if you feel that this is going to be a mistake because the first time was, we don’t have to do anything.”

He thought I was kidding and I assured him that I wasn’t because I knew how this could affect a guy and in some pretty ugly ways, so this was something that I took very seriously. He decided to go for it and when the dust cleared, he gave me quite a fright when he said, “You know, that wasn’t bad at all… but.”

“But what?” I blurted out, feeling pretty shitty because when it comes to this, I hate failing with a passion.

“But I think we need to do it again,” he said with a smile.

I breathed a great sigh of relief, and I felt that the second time was, indeed, better than the first but this was yet another learning experience for me because it’s one thing to have sex with a guy who has a lot of experience under his belt… and another thing when it’s a guy who either hasn’t taken the plunge or his first dip in the pool was, bluntly, totally fucked up. I understood that it put a lot of pressure on me not to fuck this up for them and, well, just do the best I know how to do since, duh, that’s all I can do.

I’ve told guys to forget all the bullshit they’ve heard about this. No, doing it with a guy will not instantly turn you into a gay dude. Yes, it’s an acquired taste and, yes, it does hurt going in the first time. What do I expect from you? Nothing other than to allow yourself to enjoy this because I’m going to do the best I can to see that you do enjoy it – and you won’t look at this as having been a mistake.

A guy tells me that he’s afraid to have his first experience because he doesn’t have a big cock… and I asked him, “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”‘

“A friend told me that I won’t be able to do this because I don’t have a big dick and I apologize for that,” he said.

I rolled my eyes so hard it made my head hurt. I sighed. Took a deep breath. Told him that what his friend told him was, frankly, bullshit. Showed him that the size of his cock didn’t matter since, um, yeah, boy, it worked the way it’s supposed to.

Twice. Explained to him that, sometimes, it’s not what you do but who you do it with. Sometimes, it’s when you do it or where you do it and, yeah, just as important, why you do it.

Because at the end of any day, if nothing else, it’s a nice way to have sex.

The Daily Prompt: 20 March 26

Daily writing prompt
What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?
View all responses

Back in the 1990s my youngest son had come home on vacation from the US Navy and was hyped to… show me his tattoos. I was mildly shocked but recovered because, well, he’s in the Navy and sailors have historically been known to get tattoos.

He said that I should get one. I told him that he must’ve hit his head on something. He laughed and I didn’t. A couple of days later, we all took off for a week at the beach. I think it was our third day there when the ladies – my wife, my poly wife, and my ‘new’ daughter-in-law took the kids and one of the cars and went… somewhere, leaving me and my son at odds.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

And for some reason my answer was, “Let’s go see if we can find a place to get a tattoo!” To this very day, I don’t understand why I said this since, after listening to him talk about how much some of his tats hurt and him saying that once I got one, I’d want more, well, nope, not trying to hear that but on this day we ran around the area before finding a tattoo parlor.

Where I got my first tattoo and he had added to the tattoo on his back that actually paid homage to me, which was flattering. Do tattoos hurt? Yes. The artist was doing the outline for my tat, and it felt like he was scraping the flesh from my bones, but I was also beginning to understand why my son said that it hurts so good. My first tattoo is the Chinese symbol for power. I survived it being put on my arm. I said that I’d never get another one.

Today, I have 15 tattoos. He was right: Once you get one, you’ll want another. The endorphin release from the tattoo gun hammering the ink into your skin is quite a subtle rush and the worse tattoo experience I had was getting twin dragons inked on my chest. I wanted to kill the artist but, of course, it wasn’t his fault and I thought that I could handle it. I couldn’t. Took a long break before letting him finish. Whew.

I had seven tats on the left side of my body and seven on the right. Tattoo #15 is in the middle of my chest and put there as a targeting guide for the radiation machine I had to deal with to get rid of the cancer that, technically, killed me twice when I presented in the ER coughing up gouts of blood. I understood the need for this tat – a small black dot – and I laughed when the nurse technician that put it on me said that I should be okay with it since I already had tattoos.

What #15 did was mess up my tattoo symmetry and now I need to get a 16th tattoo to recapture the symmetry, and the ‘logical’ place would be… on my back. Left, right, front, back. Makes sense. A back piece is not only a bit expensive but according to my son and a couple of other people I know who have a back piece, if I thought having my chest inked hurt like a bitch, getting a decent back piece will be worse.

I just have to decide on what I want on my back. To be honest, I miss the pain getting inked; it’s one of those pains that once you experience it, you won’t forget it but I found that when I’d go to get one or two tats, it was like I’d really forgotten what getting the outline felt like, let alone what it felt like to fill things in. Why, oh, why did I think this was a good idea?

Because it really does hurt so good.

Living With… Stuff: 07 March 26 Supplemental

“This looks like cancer…”

I had gone with my lady to her doctor’s appointment and used that time to ask the nurse practitioner what was going on with my neck swelling. She takes a look at me, and her eyes go wide for a moment before she got to poking and prodding my neck before saying that (1) we needed a CT scan of the area and (2) I need to see an ENT doctor.

I thought that I had some kind of infection because, while eating potato chips, I had felt a sharp pain in my throat and I thought that, fuck, I had stabbed my right tonsil with the sharp edge of a potato chip and, yeah, when I swallowed it, my throat hurt but after a while, it had stopped hurting and I noticed the swelling beginning a couple of days later. I was concerned but kinda not because while I had my appointment to see the same CNP as my lady, I knew I could ask her what’s going on with my neck and throat.

I got the scan and, a short time later, saw the ENT doc who looked at the scan and said those four words: “This looks like cancer!” I get out of the exam chair to look at what he’s looking at and I see what he’s talking about but he’s now talking about taking a biopsy that will go to the lab. He injects my neck with lidocaine and uses five needles and syringes to do the biopsy and once that was done, the plan was to see him in a week.

“I was right – you have cancer.”

I was hoping that I didn’t but, yeah, when he first said that it looked like cancer, I silently agreed that, yeah, that looked like a cancerous mass in my neck but had opted to wait for the biopsy results. I honestly don’t remember what he said after he’d taken the biopsy – I just know he had said something that my mind chose not to pay attention to because I was hoping that the result came back as something benign… but I didn’t really believe that.

“…you have cancer.” Three words that no one wants to hear. I remember my mom telling me how she felt when the doctor told her that she had breast cancer, and she had said that she had had a moment to cry… then went to the racetrack after her appointment and won a lot of money. You read and/or hear of people being told those three words and, basically, just losing their shit and depending upon the kind of cancer they’ve now been diagnosed with. From breaking down and crying to utter disbelief. Now it was my turn to hear those words and… okay, when do we deal with this and how are we gonna deal with it.

The “highlight” of that visit was the ENT telling me that I should put off my trip to the DR that I had planned way before the cancer diagnosis and, welp, I wasn’t doing that and told him that unless he was going to refund me the $13,000 I put out for this trip, I was going and I’d be back at the end of the month and, from there, we can start to deal with the cancer.

I’d met with the team assigned to me; got a scope shoved into my nose and down my throat; almost got into an argument with my radiation oncologist because I’m asking him questions and he’s basically ignoring me or telling me that we’re not talking about that – and I’m a few seconds from telling him where to go and how to get there and that I’d be happy to show him the way. But I got a grip on myself; now was not the time to let any emotional reactions get in the way of my understanding what this was and what was needed to deal with it.

They tell me that my cancer is curable, and my RO said that they would cure it and pretty much guaranteed it. I let the team know where I was going and when I’d be back so we could get to work. I get #15. I meet the girls who will be my radiation techs who introduce me to the Infinity radiation machine and tell me how long they think each treatment will be.

Then the shit hit the fan. Absolutely the worst day of my life. Y’all already know about it.

What got me writing about it again was checking on my Facebook stuff and seeing an ad that had, in big yellow block letters, “You have cancer.” Those three scary-as-fuck words got me thinking about the moment when I heard them. I thought about my best friend, who died a couple of years ago from liver cancer and I had a thought that he hadn’t taken the news all that well. I don’t know how my older sister reacted to being told that she had breast cancer and by the time the hospital discovered that she was suffering from multiple myeloma and not congested heart failure, she was already in the process of dying.

I remember the day I talked to my mother and she told me that she had some kind of blood cancer that was incurable – but she’d be on a medication that would mitigate the symptoms. As she told me what they told her, she was as cool as the other side of the pillow. She had gone through some shit that didn’t have anything to do with this new fibromyeloma blood cancer she had: Back surgery. An emergency repair of her upper aorta because it was leaking and causing her issues that we all thought were related to the blood cancer. I knew the operation to repair her upper aorta could very well kill her on the table because few people survive the surgery and it seems so fucked up to be surrounded by some damned good surgeons and wind up dying.

I knew that if she didn’t have the surgery, she could die in an instant… and the same thing could happen if she did have it. She wasn’t worried about it. She was, in fact, raising hell with an emergency surgery prep team as they were swarming all over her and sticking IVs in her while hooking her up to various other machines. She wasn’t worried. I was. Great relief to hear that they first successfully stopped her heart; even more relief to hear that they succeeded in restarting her heart and that she was now off of bypass. We saw her for a moment and, boy, was she cranky! But she survived a surgery that some her age usually dies from.

I didn’t get a chance to tell her that I had cancer. She died a couple of weeks before I found out. I hadn’t freaked out when I got the “bad news.” You know the rest. I think my mom would have been proud at how I accepted the bad news. Probably would have scolded me for what I said to the ENT doc when he very strongly suggested that I cancel my vacation plans so I could start on curing my cancer but, hey, she might have agreed with me.

You. Have. Cancer. They don’t have commercials about head and neck cancer. As far as I know, there are no drugs with funny-sounding names that fights head and neck cancer.

Today’s Bisexual Thoughts: 16 March 26 @ 1332

“I still don’t understand why you have to do that.”

I felt the frown fix on my face before I thought about frowning; I felt a sigh building up in my chest and I took a moment to debate whether I wanted to let it out or not.

“We’ve talked about this before,” I said. “I told you that I was going to meet this guy and see what might hop off and if we were good to go, I’d be back in about an hour.”

As it turned out, I was back in about a half an hour because we 69’d, he came like someone was murdering him and… he went right to sleep. Which kinda pissed me off but not so much because I knew that when I got home, my poly wife would be waiting for me and having sex with her was a must. I’d already learned that if/when I went out to have sex with someone else, I’d better have something for my wife and now, it was I’d better have more than “something” for her and our poly wife.

The good thing for me was that my wife was at work; the good or bad thing was that my poly wife was at home waiting for me and, to be honest, I was looking forward to having sex with her and, to be even more honest, I always looked forward to it after that first time we had sex. But I knew there were two things going on with her. The first was, whew, she loved to fuck. Anytime. Anywhere. She once told me, “I can’t get enough of you!” The second was a test to see if I could ‘bring the noise’ to her and like I normally did and I knew that if I couldn’t, my ass was going to be grass and even more so I was looking at having sex with the both of them once I got back from sucking dick.

Talk about performance pressure. It wasn’t like her opening statement, issued to me after I came in, wrapped her up in a deep kiss, and sat down to take my Nikes off, wasn’t valid because there had been plenty of times in my life when I’d asked myself the question of why I have to suck cock and the answer always came back as, “Because I love doing it; I’ve always done it.”

“Do you want to do it down here or in the bed?” I asked.

“Bed,” she said and was up the stairs so fast that I could only shake my head. I remember asking her that one fine day and she said that she wanted to do it while the washer was in a spin cycle. Anytime. Anywhere. Any way that could come to mind. By the time I get to the bedroom, she’s already naked and lying on the bed with a salacious grin on her face and her arms and legs open, waiting for me to climb into her embrace.

I had learned how to push her buttons, and I eased into her embrace and started pushing her buttons, feeling her body temperature rise enough to make me start sweating; I loved the way her clit would pulse in my mouth every time she came – and she could cum multiple times – and I’d eat her until she let me know that she was ready for me to fuck her by asking me, “Are you ready?”

Sometimes I was. Sometimes I wasn’t done eating her pussy. I wasn’t quite ready so I lowered my head to fix mouth on her pussy until I felt her whole body – including her clitty – was shaking and without further ado, I speared her with my boner and, damn, I very much loved watching myself go into her, the darkness of my skin contrasting with the pale whiteness of hers and I went deep into her and ‘usual’ she got that look on her face that I couldn’t get enough of seeing.

I fucked her. Multiple positions and because she hadn’t believed that I had read the Kama Sutra and, besides, I knew I could do anything to her that I wanted to. Anything. An hour and a half later, we’re both on the bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, my spent erection still inside of her and I’m thinking about staying there and working up another erection and, welp, that sounded like a good idea and this would be the first time I “double fucked” her so I did. I fucked her. Pulled out and ate that pussy like a starving man. Back to fucking her. More eating her. Sucking her nipples and putting hickies on her neck, something she not only liked but made her cum.

I cum deep inside her again and I feel like I’d been hit with a baseball bat. Her hair, which was dyed red to go with her very green eyes, was plastered to her head and, I swear, having sex with her was hot and I meant that literally because I’d been sweating since I turned her thermostat up to high.

“I need a shower,” she said as I withdrew. “Come shower with me.”

I managed to fuck her in the shower. We didn’t get clean but there was nothing new about that, either, but we did the best we could with the soap and my dick in her from behind. We got done and out before the water got cold and I was waiting for her to flounce her nice ass back to the bed so we could do it all again and… I was relieved when she started putting her clothes on and said, “That’s just the beginning.”

I knew she was right about that. As I sat at my computer to check my emails she asked, “Can you tell me again why you have to let guys suck you off?”

This time, the sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it.

“I don’t have to let guys suck me off. If they want to, I’m not going to say no about it but, like I’ve told you quite a few times, I don’t do it so a guy can suck me off: I do it so I can suck them off,” I said, feeling another sigh building up and begging to be released.

I spent the next twenty minutes telling her, for the umpteenth time, why I suck cock; I reminded her again that I was a cocksucker before I even knew she existed… or my wife did. Reminded her how old I was when I started having sex and, well, damn, baby – I’m bisexual. I’ve always been like this since my first experience with cock.

I can feel myself getting frustrated. Not only am I repeating myself but answering this question is one of the questions that I do not like answering because it’s not easy to explain when you get into the details – and whoever asked wants to know the details and won’t settle for “Because I can…” – and once I’ve talked myself damned near hoarse, they say something like, “I don’t get it…”

I can understand why they don’t get it. I understood why my poly wife didn’t and I was sure that my bisexuality confused her because I could go suck cock with a guy and come home and do my best to wear her ass out and my wife, too, if she was home. I remember the first time we had this conversation and I had asked her, “Why do you suck dick?”

“Because I like to do it,” she said instantly.

“You just answered your own question,” I said, feeling smugly satisfied that I had answered her question to her satisfaction.

“I still don’t get it,” she said and if I could have slammed my head into a wall, I would have.

You would think that because I’ve had this discussion with a lot of people, I’d be used to their reactions. I could understand their confusion and especially when they’d utter, “You don’t look like the type!” and a sentiment that I had to learn not to lose my shit over. I had figured out that “the type” meant “gay” and, okay, they’re confused because in their minds, only gay men suck cock and I’ve already told them, with emphasis, that I’m not gay – I’m bisexual.

I finish reexplaining myself to her. She says that she understands but I can see that she still doesn’t. I strip her down right there on the sofa in the family room. Eating her pussy that still tastes like the both of us (and the soap we used earlier). She goes from normal body temp to fever hot. She tugs at me to move so she can suck my dick as I eat her, and I hover over her until she pulls me down and into her mouth.

I don’t miss the fact that she’s putting… more effort into sucking me and like she tends to do every time we have this conversation. I have failed to get her to understand that this isn’t about the way she sucks me (or my wife); it’s not about being sucked – it’s about me doing the sucking and the swallowing. I feel that whole body shudder that tells me that she’s cum again and I want her to do it one more time before I take her.

17 March 26

Shit, I forgot about this.

So, after getting her to cum one more time – and her asking me if I was ready and I was after I gave her my dick to suck – I ravaged her and while I seriously doubted I’d be able to flood her vault with cum, yeah, it sure felt good to be inside of her, to see the looks on her face when I did something her pussy liked and when I bumped her cervix. I don’t think I really “came” but I felt my dick flutter inside of her and felt that rush of orgasmic release and she wasn’t complaining.

But. We hit the shower again. No sex this time. She asks, “Wasn’t that better than sucking some dude’s dick?”

“Of course, it was,” I said as I called myself washing her B-cup breasts. “But it’s like I told you before, honey – when I want to suck a dick, you don’t have one. Make no mistake – I love eating you and I’ve proven that I can happily eat you for hours and several times a day. But I learned a long time ago that when I’m craving dick, no amount of pussy is going to make that craving go away… until I have some dude in my mouth and he’s cumming in it.”

She’s not happy and I got that but when you demand the truth at all times, well, there’s still a reason why I tell people not to ask me questions that they don’t want to hear the answers to… and why I suck dick is one of those questions that I’d learned not to like because (a) it’s not that easy to put into words when getting into the details and (b) I loathe taking all that time to explain this thing about myself, only to have them (c) continue to not understand or, worst, (d) take this thing about me and making it all about them – what they don’t like, what they wouldn’t do, so on and all that shit.

Almost forgot about (e): Assuming that I’m in denial of really being gay. My poly wife, thankfully, never said this to me but I’d had so many people saying that (f) I don’t look like the type or (g) asking me if I’m sure that I understand who I am as a person and (h) don’t I know that homosexuality is a sin? Yes, I do know it. I’m not a homosexual – I can have sex like I’m one, though.

My poly wife is in the kitchen fixing dinner; my wife comes home and I take her straight to bed to give her a nice welcoming home. She says, however, “You don’t look happy about something. What’s going on?”

I tell her that a certain green-eyed vixen still doesn’t understand why I suck cock. My wife rolls her eyes and sighs and I say, “Yeah. That again.” My wife didn’t have to ask me if I fucked her because, well, it’s a given but she did say, “The next time she asks you about that, ask her… why she eats pussy.”

It took her a month to bring the matter up again. In that time, I’d had several gay dudes ask me why I bother being with one woman, let alone two, when I could make any guy very happy. I had to explain to one guy why I ate pussy and it’s hard to explain this to someone who, by their own admission, never ate pussy, let alone had sex with a woman.

I had gone to meet with a guy who, for his second time sucking dick, he wanted to fulfil his fantasy of sucking a Black guy’s cock. At the time I… wasn’t in much of a mind to get with guys who only saw me as a means to the end of a fantasy, but I’d gotten over it and this guy was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof – or the same cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The highlight of the day wasn’t sucking him off twice and it only took a total of four minutes to make him cum twice; it wasn’t the hilariously funny look on his face when got his first look at my dick – which is no monster but, yeah, brother got some bone and it wasn’t the even more hilarious look on his face when I came in his mouth – another fantasy of his was to swallow some cum. No, the highlight was his idea of pre-sex small talk and… asking me why I sucked cock and especially if I lived with two women who loved to fuck.

I went all the way back to the beginning to tell him that I first sucked a dick when I was nine and I hadn’t stopped sucking them since then. Sure, I knew that I didn’t have to do it… but I also didn’t have to not do it, either – and I loved doing it and then I demonstrated for him how much I loved to suck dick. Fantasy fulfilled for him and now it was back home to the poly wife who’d get home in an hour.

Before we hit the bed for an hour and a half of hot, sweaty sex, she asks me if I went to see the guy I told her and my wife about and I said that I had and, if nothing else, the guy has a memory he’s not likely to forget any time soon. She asked why I had to and I remembered what my wife had said and asked her, “So why do you eat pussy now?”

She flushed a deep red. When my wife first did her, well, she was reluctant to go down on my wife to return the favor but, then again, she kinda didn’t have to with me there but I’d gone on a business trip and called home to let them know I was okay and my wife said, “She did it and it was so good!” I was gone for about a week and that whole time I was gone they were eating each other.

Not surprising, she declined to answer me. Instead, she deflected, saying the question was about me and not her but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. I told her that if she did it once, it’s not that big of a deal but I knew what the two of them were doing while I was gone – and that they had been into it before they showed up at the airport to pick me up.

“It’s okay to say that you do it because you finally tried it and you like it,” I said. “That’s what I usually tell people when they ask me why I’m a cocksucker even though I’m not gay.”

We had sex. Hot, sweaty, no holds barred sex. She never did answer my question but for me, the question was rhetorical… because I know why I eat pussy and I knew why my wife ate pussy, too.

Today’s Bisexual Thoughts: 08 March 26 @ 1147

I can remember a time when being bisexual was a joke because, given our social and moral outlook on sexuality, people were either straight or they were gay and there was nothing in between. It was said that if you were bisexual, you were on your way to being gay and there was no sense in denying your “ascension” from heterosexual to homosexual.

I can remember a time where I spent a lot of time telling those who insisted that I was really gay that I am not gay. I would get to hear a lot of sexuality bullshit about being bisexual, sometimes from straight people but mostly from gay guys and some who had a problem with me being bisexual – but didn’t have a problem having sex with me. From the ones who were of a mind that they weren’t a fan of a bisexual man, I would hear all kinds of shit; I would sometimes have a gay dude ranting and raving at me to admit that I’m really gay and repeating the bullshit that no one in their right mind would want to have both.

And their explanation for me – and like I needed them to explain my bisexuality to me – was that I was on my way to being gay. Just admit it. But, as my parents had taught me, I’m not admitting to anything that doesn’t have anything to do with me. As I’m growing into adulthood, I’m still hearing the same sexuality misconceptions and other bullshit that I had started hearing way back in the mid-1960s – and saw that bisexuality was being equated with homosexuality and I would be miffed at the many people who didn’t seem to understand that bisexual and homosexual were two different things – but that persistent bullshit that said if you act like you’re gay, then you must be gay.

Having to listen to this crap from girls/women who, when I’d tell them that I was bi, would immediately assume that I had sex with guys because I was into men which really meant that I had to be gay because, inside this… limited mindset, only gay men had sex with men. Some women didn’t mind; a lot did and to this very day, I don’t pretend to understand the problem these women had with bisexual men outside of the misperception that we were really gay.

I’ve spent decades explaining – or trying to explain – that almost 95% of the bullshit you hear in opposition to bisexuality has been around before I was born and all we’ve been doing is repeating and rehashing it – and it is about homosexuality. Indeed, I would see that some folks would hear “bisexual” and automatically think “homosexual” and start spouting anti-homosexual rhetoric… to someone who isn’t homosexual and, um, excuse me but what part of “I’m bisexual” didn’t you understand? I remember telling this one guy who was spouting all the tired-assed anti-homosexual bullshit, “Do you not understand that I love women?”

And, ah, apparently, he didn’t. Now, one of the perceptions about gay men was that they hated women and they definitely hated sex with women… and even if they’d never had sex with a woman. It was confusing because there were a lot of gay men who were trying to be more woman than the real thing and… I would find out that there were some gay dudes I knew who would sneak around to have sex with women and making me correct my own perceptions and making me understand that telling a naysayer that I love women didn’t have all of the weight I’d once thought it had since, duh, gay men are men… and some gay men like pussy. Call them a 4 or 5 on the Kinsey scale but do not dare to call them bisexual because as far as they were concerned, they were still very much gay, thank you very much, honey.

I was learning that being bisexual alone was “bad enough” as it was but the anti-homosexual rhetoric being tacked on wasn’t helping and when it was “officially” said that bisexuality was real, it seemed to me that all the hatred and angst that was once solely the “property” of gay men had now been transferred to bisexual men and with some new stuff added to make our vilification complete.

Before “biphobia” was coined, there was (and still is) homophobia and the rhetoric was vicious and about as ugly as anything you could hear and, little old literal-minded me, learned to ignore this bullshit because I knew they were talking about homosexual men and… I’m not a homosexual man. The downside, of course, was that people didn’t want to be bothered with the seriously glaring difference; if I’m having sex with a man, then I must be a homosexual.

One of the problems I had to address when talking to a new guy about going both ways or his desire to have sex with a guy that came out of nowhere was all of the anti-homosexual rhetoric that was older than my great-great-grandparents and who know how long it has really been around? Guys would fear a sexual act with another guy because if they did, they would instantly turn into one of the much-hated homosexuals. That persistent misconception that to have sex with a guy or, gasp, to have romantic feelings for a guy means that you’re really homosexual would terrify and traumatize new guys and while I could give guys the truth about this shit along with the suggestion that they don’t give it any weight because if they did, it would fuck with them and prevent them from doing what they know they want and need to do.

Public perception has stopped many a man from realizing this bisexuality. The fear of being homosexual still exists in 2026 and so does all of the rhetoric and anti-homosexual bullshit that’s been heaped upon bisexuals these days… and you would think that by now, we would know and be better. We have made progress but not enough to dispel the stigma and to banish all the anti-homosexual crap but we still live in a society that has a lot of angst toward anyone who isn’t heterosexual.

On the forum, a question came up asking guys who are or have found their sexual desires shifting towards men and when this landed on them. One of the commenters keeps citing all of the negative shit that’s been assigned to bisexuals and especially married bisexuals and while there’s no debating the fact that what he’s saying is true, if there was a member of the forum who was, indeed, finding that their sexual desires were now including men (and how the fuck did that happen?), this guy’s comments aren’t helping things as he spouts all of the bullshit rhetoric and citing all of the negatives. I’ve said to him that by citing all of the bullshit and negatives, um, what does this have to do with a guy waking up one day and finding himself craving an erection… that belongs to another guy?

This guy is gay, by the way. He got… badly traumatized by the anti-homosexual rhetoric and… he can’t seem to stop bringing all the negative shit that, at least in my own opinion, would go a long way to make sure that the guy who wants to find out what it’s like to throw it down with a guy… never gets to find out. He’s not “helping” and I tell him this and he acknowledges that, yeah, this shit ain’t gonna help a new guy in his quest for cock… but he keeps putting it out there.

The bullshit exists. As far as I can tell, it has always existed since homosexuality was declared to be a mortal sin. I know that back when I was growing up, I was being told to hate homosexuals even though this wasn’t my parents’ stance but, yeah, being gay was a sin and I was to not associate with anyone who was gay… except one of my best friends was, as it was said, “gay as a three-dollar bill” but everyone tolerated him and us kids would do our best to protect and defend him against the “homo hating” bullies that were everywhere.

The bullshit isn’t going anywhere and the proof of that is that it’s still around in 2026. When asked how I deal with the rhetoric and biphobia – and a new phobia that makes me shake my head because, fuck, homophobia was bad enough and now we have biphobia – my answer is, “I don’t give it any weight. I’m aware of it but that doesn’t mean that I have to pay strict attention to it because no one gets to tell me that I can’t be bisexual and if they don’t like it, they can kiss my sweaty Black ass.”

Yes, I am bisexual. No, I am not gay and without offense to those who are gay, I wouldn’t want to be gay, and I like where I am in this. Is all the shit being said against bisexuals true? The sad part is that some of it is… and the majority of it actually doesn’t have anything to do with bisexuality because it’s still aimed at homosexuals… and homosexuals are not bisexuals even if you pay attention to what homo and bi mean in this context.

One of the things I had realized early on was that as long as there was one person who hated homosexuals, the hatred, angst, and prejudice against anyone who wasn’t straight would continue to exist. I had realized that there was nothing I could do about this and people were going to believe whatever they wanted to in this. However – and just the same – this hateful rhetoric couldn’t fuck with me as long as I didn’t pay attention to it and give it power over me. Again, I know about it. I got better and more important things to be concerned about other than this tired-assed anti-homo/bisexual bullshit.

You don’t help new bisexual guys by beating them over the head with shit that will wind up fucking with them. You tell them the truth that, yep, our society is anti-homosexuality all the way and while we’ve made some progress in the direction of acceptance, don’t hold your breath on this one but, instead, work on figuring out how you want to be bisexual and how you can be. Know that the rhetoric exists; do not assume that the horror stories that you’ve heard will happen to you. Do not buy into the premise that in order to have sex with a guy, you have to be in some kind of relationship with him; this “stinks” of the moral imperative that the only right, legal, and moral sex is relationship sex.

You can be romantic with a guy if that’s how you’re feeling but if you’re not feeling this, it doesn’t mean that you can’t have sex with a guy. Don’t let stranger danger keep you rooted in place; do not believe that casual sex is fatally dangerous and like a lot of bi guys believe – and that belief is keeping them sitting on the bench and in abject fear of jumping into the pool. Is it true that you can catch something bad? Yes. Is it a guarantee that you will? No.

The problem with this is that the perception will be believed over the truth. I happen to know and am familiar with the peculiar feeling that when I had sex with a guy, it felt like everyone who laid eyes on me knows that I got laid and it was with another dude. But, ahem, how could they know that unless I told them or the person I had sex with did the telling? A huge crowd of people I didn’t know had no way of finding out that I just spent the last two hours sucking dick with a guy until neither of us could get it up.

My family and friends can only find out if I – or someone else – tells them. Yeah, some of them might correctly and accurately know that, ah, I’m not as straight as I appear to be and I don’t look like the type – and they’re right because I don’t look like the type… because the “type” is gay and I am not gay… but I can have sex like I am. When negotiating with guys for sex, so many of them were/are terrified of being outed; terrified of their family and friends finding out; and I’ve asked them, “How are they going to find out unless you tell them? I’m not going to tell them because I don’t know them.”

And even in the case where I did know their family and friends, I wasn’t going to tell… because it was none of their business. But it’s shit like this that prevents guys who feel the pull of bisexuality to not be bisexual.

Fuck. A tremendously huge sigh. There’s this thing that says if you’re not going to be part of the solution, don’t be part of the problem and it’s difficult to be part of the solution when you stand to be beaten about the head with anti-homo-bisexual rhetoric and the misconceptions that I learned about when I became bisexual and that have existed way before I – or anyone in my family – was born. Because the bible says that God said it was a sin and such sinners should be put to death. I used to give myself headaches trying to make sense of this because, okay, the bible says what it says although I failed to understand how or why God would tell someone about this so they could write about it and even despite the fact that homosexuality is a mortal sin (and still punishable by death in some countries), it didn’t and still doesn’t change the fact that homosexuality is very much alive and well.

So is bisexuality. Given this, there’s no reason to give the bullshit any weight and power over you because if you do, finding out what it’s like is going to be harder than it already is.

The Daily Prompt: 08 March 26

I am named after my father. Not Junior but the second (II). I don’t exactly remember anymore the moment I learned that I was named after him but I hated my name.

As I write this, I don’t even remember why I hated my name. I had wanted my name to be anything other than what it was. Being around my elders who thought it right and proper to be named after him but then, a few years later, I found out that when my mother was pregnant with me, they had been hoping for a girl first and had already picked out a name for her!

My sister, who was born second, loved to give me grief because had I been born a girl, I would have gotten her name. Sisters. A brother’s Kryptonite. That gave me even more angst about my name and more so when (1) my father kept calling me Junior (gag me with a huge spoon) and when I was really old enough to tell people my name, like when I got my Social Security card when I turned 13, even though I’d shown them my birth certificate – which has Jr. scratched out and II put in its place – my first Social Security card had Jr. on it and I raised quite a bit of hell telling them that this isn’t my name. They’d gave me a new card with my correct name on it, and I think this is about the time when I stopped disliking my name.

My first day of high school, I had to check in with the office to get my initial schedule before seeing my guidance counselor, who’d help me fill out the rest of it. I told the secretary my full name and she says, “I can’t find your name in here!” I wanted to go back behind the counter and find it myself, but a lightbulb appeared over my head, and I had said to her, “If you’re looking for ‘Jr.’, you won’t find it: I’m the second – Roman numeral two.”

She found it in two seconds. Face blushed red as she said, “I just assumed you were a junior.”

“I am not,” I said, feeling quite miffed but I’d gotten over it as I made my way to my guidance counselor. I… had a serious crush on her because she was beautiful, I loved the sound of her voice; when she shook my hand I think I almost creamed my underwear. And she got my name right and even told me what my middle name meant: “Strong as a bear.”

I got my driver’s license and despite having had to show them my birth certificate and other documents with my name on it, they put Jr. at the end and I pitched a small bitch and even though I showed the woman that she’d gotten my legal name wrong, she just rolled her eyes and said, “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a junior. Next!”

I took me years to get my correct legal name on my license. I didn’t have this problem when I enlisted in the Air Force; my recruiter saw the correction on my birth certificate and said, “I see your parents decided that you weren’t a junior! I’m named after my father, too, and I’m not a junior but my parents always call me that! I can’t stand being called Junior!”

“I can’t either but only my father calls me that,” I said morosely. I was required to sign all paperwork with my legal name and as it appears on my birth certificate and given all the stuff I had to sign and the length of my full name, I’d gotten a cramp in my hand from writing it so much. I had a stray thought that I didn’t like my name again, but it passed.

What’s in a name? I know I used to tell people, “I’m named after my father but I’m not my father…” and more so when, one night, I’m walking home from my girlfriend’s house and the police stopped me, asked me where I was going and where I was coming from, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my license and stood waiting as they checked. One officer gets out of the car and pulls his cuffs out and tells me, “There’s a warrant for your arrest!”

“What?” The question exploded out of my mouth because, as far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything for anyone to put an arrest warrant out on me. The office cuffs me and sits me in the back of the car and starts telling me some information and asking me to repeat my name and birthdate, which I do. Both officers look at each other perplexed and, in a moment of desperate inspiration, I knew why they had that look on their face.

“If your information has my birthdate as – and I gave them my father’s birthdate – do I look like I’m that old?” I asked. They get on the radio and gets someone to repeat the birthdate on the warrant and, sure enough, it’s my father’s birthday. I get taken out of the, uncuffed, and sent on my way but the one officer said, “This is one of those moments where being named after your father isn’t a good thing. Oh, by the way – do you know where we can find him?”

I knew exactly where he was… and I wasn’t going to rat him out, but this little problem would crop up often enough to make me want to legally change my name… but this was my name, not his; he’s the first one, I’m the second (and only one) who bears that name and a name that I worked hard to bring “honor and glory” to. Not to his name but to mine. And a personal reminder that if I was going to make it in this world, I had to, indeed, be as strong as a bear…

Living With… Stuff: 07 March 26

Healthwise, I guess I’m okay but that’s not what has been messing with my head here of late. I was just in the kitchen and grabbing something to snack on when I was looking at the refrigerator and saw the magnetic clip we have our upcoming appointments/lab work request hanging when I see the one coming up in April with my nephrologist that has my name, birthdate and it says, “70 years of age.”

And I thought, “Who are they talking about?” Anyone who is 70 and older are probably reading this and having a good laugh at my expense but when I turned 50, eh, it was just another day. When I turned 60, I honestly don’t remember what I may have done that day other than what I do every day. I turned 68 while in the Dominican Republic and it was a very thoughtful day with a birthday cake and presents that reminded me of my late mother and having me deeper in thought about having cancer and having to jump into getting rid of it when I get back home.

The day “The Shit Hit the Fan.” Y’all know what happened from my point of view and, a year later, I’m 69… and having a laughing good time because my head is all in the gutter about 69. I went to one appointment, and the nurse asked me how old I was and I said that I was 69 and did so trying not to laugh – and I could see in her face that she knew why I was trying not to laugh. The Shit Hit the Fan left me with a lot of shit I had to deal with on top of the shit I was already dealing with having the stroke and finding out that my kidneys look like footballs in my abdomen and in a Stage 3 (Moderate) stage of failure.

Daily chemo and radiation and with tattoo #15 smack dab in the upper middle of my chest and is a constant reminder every time I’m washing up and looking in the mirror that, yeah, all that shit around this fucking cancer really did happen but if that wasn’t enough to fuck with my head, I… turn 70. Writing “Living With… Stuff” isn’t just about the physical shit I have to deal with and how I wound up being stuck with; it’s also about the things that tend to mess with me when I least expect them to, oh, like going to the kitchen for a snack and being reminded that I’m 70.

My mother died twenty days before I turned 68 and I remember sitting and waiting for her to call and give me the bizness about being old but, of course, that call never came and never will again. Sometimes I find myself sitting and wondering about how much she’d be laughing at me turning 70; while dealing with the aftermath of shit hitting the fan, I would wonder what she would have said to me were I able to tell her that I have cancer; what she would have said when the shit hit the fan and I came out on the other side.

She would have told me that God is good and that, obviously, He wasn’t finished with me yet. She would have called to wish me a happy birthday when I turned 70 then asked me how I was feeling about it… and me not being able to say much other than it good to be able to turn 70… then getting ready for her to give me da bizness about being old.

I look in the mirror and… there’s that old guy staring back at me. I take off my T-shirt so I can wash under my arms, and my eyes first go to #15, then to the stoma that remains from where my feeding tube was, then finally to the stoma on my throat left over from the tracheostomy. I realize that I still feel traumatized from The Day the Shit Hit the Fan; it sits at the back of my mind like it’s a placeholder or something. It’s not really fucking with me but I know it’s there just the same and I can ignore it… most of the time.

I’m laughing to myself as I remember something from my yearly CAT scan regarding my repaired AAA: Gynecomastia was seen on the left side of my chest means, essentially, that I’m grown man-titties on that side… but not on the right? Aging and a hormone imbalance can cause this and I wondered – and as I was almost giggling to myself about having man boobs – if chemotherapy or maybe even radiation could’ve played into this but, then again, it just is what it is. The old guy in the mirror has a tat he really didn’t want but had to have and… man boobs. Because the old guy in the mirror is 70.

And I’m having a bit of a problem adjusting to him. The guy in the mirror is 70; the guy looking at the mirror… doesn’t believe that. I think my mind is stuck at being 35 or so but I’m not thinking like I’m 70 but, yeah, whew, the joints popping and cracking and I turned to look at something and tweaked my back on the left side a little bit – enough to be reminded that I am, indeed, 70

I don’t want anyone to worry because mentally, I’m fine – I just had to get this out of my head before I forgot it… because I am 70.

The Daily Prompt: 06 March 26

Daily writing prompt
What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
View all responses

This is easy. I hate being asked why I’m bisexual. The explanation is kind of simple: I’ve spent large portions of my life answering this question only to have my inquisitors not understand the answer.

The answer is simple. I got introduced to sex with guys and found it very much to my liking and it went well with having sex with girls, too. While “pick a side and stay on it” was very much the mantra of those who had issues with human sexuality, I found myself to be on the side that most people seemed to think was insane – the middle of the road.

Do I like guys like gay guys do? No, I don’t… and trying to compare my bisexuality to homosexuality is, well, does that make any sense? And do you not know that they’re two very different things? No? Okay, let me explain it to you…

After a while, you get sick and tired of being asked this question and then trying to answer it for people who believe that people are either straight or gay and there is nothing in the middle. Okay, um, if there isn’t, how do you explain me? I’m not all that straight and I’m definitely not gay but, honestly, I do enjoy having sex like I’m gay… because it’s sex.

You get tired of people telling you that you need Jesus when you answer this question. I got to the point where and when someone would ask me if I was bisexual and I’d tell them that, yes, I am (and have been since 1964) and as for why? Because I like both. And no: I am not in denial of being really gay. Do I ask you why you’re straight?

Stop asking me questions you don’t want to hear the answers to…

KDaddy’s General Observations: 05 March 26

I was looking through my stats the other day and noticed that my most read post is… “Asking for a Bro-Job.”

Honestly, I was surprised! I’ve written well over 3,000 posts and the one I wrote about the bro-job is leading the pack. I normally don’t look at my stats but I had seen where one of my post had been read and I clicked on the link, thinking that I’d see the post (because I didn’t remember what it was really about) but instead of going to the post, it brought up the stats so, oh, what the hell, since I’m here, let’s take a look.

On the other hand, I wasn’t that surprised at the #1 post of all time since there’s a lot of interest in guys blowing each other and especially if both guys are straight. I can remember opening my Dashboard and seeing that “Asking for a Bro-Job” kept showing up in Top Searches or that it had been read a number of times, and I mean it showed up every day for months. Then it would vanish, only to show up later on.

I’d see this ‘trend’, smile, shake my head, and go on to do whatever I was going to do. At the same time on the forums, guys were asking how they could ask their bro if they could suck his cock or, gasp, would he give the bro-job to, you know, help a brother out. I remember having read an article [somewhere] that talked about straight guys who suck cock and the question of whether or not they’re really – and still – straight or… are they gay or headed that way. One of the things I learned is that two guys sucking each other off isn’t necessarily a sexuality thing, but it could just ‘simply’ be a sex thing and I had thought, at the time, that I only knew two guys who did not believe in oral sex and especially having their dick sucked.

I remember writing that I’ve given out a lot of bro-jobs and I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of them but as bisexual man, eh, it’s not all that unusual that I’d want to suck a guy off or kick back so a guy could suck me off but, yeah, sure, I’ve had straight guys ask for the bro-job and after clumsily hinting at it and I’ve had them suck my dick like they’ve been doing it just as long as I’d been doing it… and they maintained that they were straight and definitely not bi or gay.

Some say the straight guy who sucks cock is in denial of, at the very least, being bisexual. I used to maintain that if you do it once, nah, no one would say that you’re bi but if you keep doing it – and it doesn’t matter when you do – yeah, you could very well be bisexual and it didn’t make sense to me why a straight guy would participate in some cocksucking and keep insisting that he’s straight… unless he’s doing it just because a blowjob is… just sex.

Hmm. In related cocksucking posts and discussions over the years, I’ve maintained that you don’t have to be into the guy in order to want to have sex with him – you just gotta want to and when I thought about this and thought about the fact that a blowjob is, at the root of things, a sexual act. Even I had to recall the times I got into a bro-job situation with a known straight guy and I’m happily sucking him and he starts tugging on me to move… so he can suck my dick and, okay, he said that he wasn’t into sucking dick but he’s doing me like a pro! But he’s straight. A blowjob is oral sex even if there are people who don’t believe that it’s sex.

How do you ask your friend if he’d be interested in sucking cock with you? You find a way to ask him. What do you do if your bro asks if he can suck your cock? Well, I know that I’d let him suck my dick because I love having my dick sucked and one good turn deserves another, doesn’t it? I had to admit to myself that my bisexuality had me biased about cocksucking so I had to take a step back and look at cocksucking for what it is and… it’s just sex and, um, fuck, can straight guys suck cock and accept an offer to be sucked? Sure, they can and they do.

Because at end of any day, it’s just sex. You don’t have to be bi or gay to suck cock – you just have to want to. To get into a bro-job situation, you have to be brave and confident enough to ask your bro and you have to be brave, confident in your sexuality, and in need of release to accept a bro-job from your bro. It just tickles me that “Asking for a Bro-job” is the most read post that I’ve written.