Puppy time. Me as PupCole on the right
The guy on the left is about 3 seconds away from being pounced on and licked. I sense that pup wants to wrestle and play!
Tag: adorable
We nuzzle, intoxicated by the warmth of eachother’s cheeks. We kiss. We’re on a public street, a little sidewalk cafe, but it feels like we’re the only ones in Paris, like the world revolves around us. My fingers are so intertwined with his own that I cannot even pull my hand away to pick up my glass. So I keep grasping, and kiss him again.
He’s wearing this cologne – just a dab – made of flowers grown specifically in France. He’s so French, so painfully French, and so fashionable in turquoise and leather slippers. I feel worthless and uninteresting in a grey suit, another American businessman bumbling through Paris trying to make a name for himself. I know I only have value to my company because no one else wanted to get on that plane for this three week assignment.
Yet, I am not angry that I got pushed into this trip. It’s been the best three weeks of my life. My head is still full of images and scenes from yesterday when I spent the night.
“Please don’t go back,” he begs, his voice full of so much hope and pain. I was so shocked that he would say those words to me. What does a Parisian boy need with an American lover? Aren’t we on a lower rung, in the ladder of accomplishment? Isn’t it usually the other way around, the boring American pining for a romantic European heartthrob? We kissed more, our ice melting in our glasses.
When I dodn’t answer, his voice grows tight with need. “Please…stay here. I cannot put you on that plane to Washington DC. I cannot, now that I know you exist.”
“Jean Luc…” I breath, weakened by his accent which was heavy during his confession. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” he whimpers, looking oh-so vulnerable. “You would crash with me. We’ll get some place bigger. Some place with a better view. Your French is getting better every day. You said your company wants to extend your visit right? Offering you a job here right? For gods sake, please, take it, or my heart is going to break.”
I think for a moment about what this all means. It is not a deep, philosophical event. I had already weighed these options in the shower this morning, because I suspected I would reach that state of lunacy by lunch. I had been right. It would mean packing everything up in my apartment and sending it overseas. It meant not seeing my family as often, but they would likely visit. It meant starting over. New cafes. New barber. New doctor, new optometrist. It meant breakfasts with fresh pastries and tiny coffees. It meant learning all the dirty French words first. It meant holidays around Europe and trips to the country-side where we would spend most of our time screwing in lavender fields, no doubt. It meant a life with Jean-Luc. I had known him for three weeks. He rescued me after I got lost after taking the wrong train, and he’d been by my side ever sense.
“Oui,” I say with a smile. “Yes.”
Jean-Luc gasps. “You really mean it?”
“Well, I have to talk to my office and tell them I accept their offer to extend my temporary assignment into a permanent post. Then, there’s visa issues to work out.”
He kisses me hard and squeezes my hand so hard I fear it might break. “We’ll work them out!”
“Jean Luc, just remember – I’ll have to go back to DC to pack. I have to give 30 days at my apartment. What if you fall out of love with me then? What if, after a week of not having me here, that you come back to reality and our chemistry is gone?”
“That will not happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I am going to come back to DC with you.”
Now it is my turn to gasp. “Can you?”
“I have time off work, and I can telecommute for a bit. I want to see your American life before I steal you away.”
I gawk at him, my heart throbbing. It is true, what people say about the French being romantics.
“Yes,” I repeat. “A million times, yes.”
I am a lunatic. Maybe that is the American way, to confuse passion with irrationality. Maybe so, but right now, I am so happy I can’t even speak for fear of crying. Because it is the right answer. I am moving to Paris. I will be his.
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Text is fictional. From photographer Braden Summers’ All Love is Equal Project.
Happy Halloween Tumblr đ *wags* #sexirobin
Why were you not in Los Angeles last night??
“Awww lookit the puppy. What a beautiful baby. Is it a blue mix?
I nod.
"Hi there,” he coos. I watch as Zach takes off his glasses and gives the pup a little scritch. My eyes wander over his suit tailored to his body. Blue looks fantastic on him; he could almost be a fashion model posing with a prop dog. The two of them are far too beautiful for my shabby living room.
“So you finally got a real dog huh?” Zach asks.
“Well…”
“He’ll be a good companion for Smokey huh? Say, where is your pup boy anyway?”
“You’re looking at him.”
Zach blinks. “What…?”
“Look at the name tag.”
Zach does. “It says Smokey. Wait.” He looks at me, then at the dog. “What?”
“My pup boy liked being a dog so much, that I woke up one morning and discovered he had turned into a real, live pup.”
Zach is staring at me sideways now. “Not sure if you’re joking.”
“I assure you I’m not. I’ll prove it. Try to get him to do a trick. Something complicated.”
Zach thinks about this a minute. He goes through the basics – “shake”, “bark”, “roll over”. He then makes a gun with his fingers and says “bang!”. Smokey rolls on his back and puts his paws in the air, head lolling on the ground.
I laugh. “Good boy Smokey!” Smokey gets to his feet and comes over to me for a belly rub.
“There’s no way you could have trained a pup to do all of that in such a short time.” Zach says hesitantly.
I shrug. “As I said, my pup boy turned into a pup. Unbelievable as it is, that’s what happened.”
My friend looks at the puppy, silent.
Then, as if right on cue, my pup boy saunters into the room. He’s just woke up from a nap and was wondering where everyone was and who took his collar off while he was out.
“Hey!” Zach cries.
I burst out laughing. “Busted! You totally believe it!”
“I did not!”
“You absolutely did!” I fall back into a chair, clutching my sides. “God your face…Jesus Zach, that was fantastic!”
Smokey the pup boy tilts his head in confusion. “Roo?”
The real pup, whom I actually named Greybeard, goes to sniff him. Within minutes, they’re playing. I watch them, still chuckling. Zach looks sullen and miffed.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“No, it really wasn’t, but the opportunity presented itself. I’m sorry. You do look bloody good in that suit you know.”
“Well,” Zach smirks, “I expect all you’ll get out of is a good look, because you are never gonna undress me out of it.”
I groan. “Aw, Zach, that was just harmless fun, why are you being hard to get? You know you came over here to get laid.”
“I did,” he admitted, ‘But you have two pups that need your attention.“
"They can amuse themselves as you see – hey, Smokey, watch out for the coffee table! Good boy.”
Zach folds his arms. “It’s gonna cost you an expensive dinner. THEN, I’ll think about coming back home with you.”
“Alright, alright. I can handle being owned by three boys.”
He grins. “That’s more like it.”
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Text is fictional. Couldn’t find the model but the clothier is Patrick Johnson Tailors.
Everyone wants to have someones arms wrapped around them when they fall asleep at night.Â
You hear the cries first. It pierces your rest like a sharp piece of glass. With great difficulty, you pull yourself away from the warm embrace of sleep. The baby is still crying. Your lover stirs under you, but you speak up first. âNo, Iâll go.â
“But itsh my turn,” he slurs, mostly sleep still.
“Go back to sleep,” I say firmly. He worked a long shift today.
He doesnât need another second to reconsider this and immediately dozes back off. You sigh and extract yourself from your comfort spot – latched onto his back like a koala. You sigh again as you get out of bed and your skin prickles in the cool air. You find your way into a bathrobe and stumble down the hallway like a zombie.
The baby is red faced and flailing. You smile when he stops crying to look at you with big blue eyes. Heâs really cute, even when heâs waking you up in the middle of the night. Those cheeks! Those dimples! The tiny fingers! You transport the infant to the changing table and with practiced motions, whisk away the soiled diaper, clean the infant, and fix a new diaper in place. During the day you use cloth, but at night, you use disposable ones. Thank god, you think, yet again congratulating yourself on that idea.
The baby is still fussy, so you amble to the kitchen with the kid latched on your shoulder. With your eyes mostly closed, you wash your hands. Then, you prepare a bottle, test it on your wrist, and let the child nurse pressed up against your bare chest. You nod off but snap to attention when you remember what youâre doing. A long yawn follows. The baby burps in a timely fashion and is put back to bed; despite your fatigue you tuck him in carefully and make sure he is comfortable. You linger over his crib until he falls asleep.
Itâs only then are you free to return to the paradise that is your own warm bed, complete with the thermal body of your beloved Sam. You slip out of the bathrobe and dive in, hurrying to be attached to him again.
Sam stirs. âHey, eârythin ok?â
“Yeah, the Gooberâs fine.”
He smiles and chuffs through his nose. âI love that youâre such a good father to our baby. Its sexy,â he says. Or you think he says, as it all comes out as one long, slurred word.
You pause a moment, wondering if you heard that correctly. He said âourâ. He hasnât said that before now. It was always âhisâ baby, or when Sam was speaking, âmyâ baby. Technically, it wasnât even his.
For a while, you two and Sam had an open relationship after years of waffling between on and off monogamy. Sam made the mistake of having one drunken night with a ex, only to wake up sober and discover sheâd gotten six times more crazier since heâd left.
Not long after, Sam found out she was pregnant. They were gonna make it work. She had gotten her fix of attention during the nine months of pregnancy, but was over the whole motherhood thing an hour after a rather uncomfortable delivery. When she found out Sam was bisexual, and his lover had been a man, she said the baby boy was âtaintedâ and planned to leave town. Since Sam had used a condom, he had gotten a paternity test. The baby wasnât his. Sam went over to her house to confront her the night she was leaving and they had gotten in a huge fight. She was going to be leaving town with some deadbeat that had blond hair suspiciously like the baby boy. Sam took a hair he found on the sofa, the baby, and left. The DNA in the hair matched the infantâs profile.
Sam knew he was not legally obligated to care for the infant, but to do so was a great miscarriage of justice. Turning that sweet, perfect baby over to a drug-dipping deadbeat with Aryan facial tattoos and no GED was a textbook recipe for trauma. Sam kept the baby as his own, and it brought his relationship with you to a new place. A closer, more intimate place where you were now a family instead of just a couple.
Then Sam had proposed. You said yes. The wedding was in a few weeks, and you could barely wait.
You snuggle up to your beau, infatuated with him and lovesick. The magnitude of passion you feel toward him and that small helpless baby in the other room overwhelms you sometimes. Youâre tired, and part of you just wants to cry with bliss. Sam presses back against you.
He keeps pressing. Youâre surprised heâs still awake. Your groin begins to stir as his round little butt keeps brushing against your silk boxers, right over where your cock has nested for the night. You grunt.
“Sam⌔ you say.
“Mnnng⌔ he replies, still rubbing. You reach over and down and feel for his cock. Itâs hard and jutting straight forward. Not hard to miss. Sam makes a content noise when you play with it.
Youâre not quite sure if you are dreaming all of this, but you have to be, because thereâs no way you can stay awake. Yet, you find yourself reaching backwards for the nightstand drawer. In the dark, you fumble, and find a condom and lube. You tear it open with your teeth and roll it on; you open the lube one handed and drip it everywhere. You slick up your own cock, then toss the closed lube bottle on the floor.
“Hold still,” you whisper. Sam stills. You put a leg over his hips and position the blunt tip of our cock against him. In one motion, youâre in him, and Sam moans. He hasnât gotten laid properly in two weeks. Youâre in him, and heâs magnificent. Sam undulates against you and you make love to him gently. You kiss his shoulder and reach again for his impressive cock. The pace accelerates from zero to sixty in three seconds. You work your hips quickly; you both tense, and then itâs over. Sam cums into your hand; you fill the condom. It takes a tremendous effort to move again. You wipe your hand on a tissue and rip off the condom. You just leave it open in the trashcan, thereâs no energy left in you to tie it.
Sam is asleep again, smiling now. You can tell, his breathing has changed. A feeling of comfort settles over you, of paternal belonging and satisfaction in your roll as a man of the house. Youâve taken care of your offspring. Youâve pleased your man. All is good in your house and domain.
The night is now yours. You cling to Sam, and fall back asleep.
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Text is fictional.
“I can’t sleep,” he said, messing with his toes. “I dozed off but I had this bad dream and now I can’t get back to sleep.”
I exhaled through my nose and sit down on the edge of the bed. I awoke due to his cries, which echoed through-out the entire house.
“I’m really sorry to disappoint you,” he added in that soft, delicate tone of his, sweet as treacle and fragile as the skin on top of cocoa.
“It’s quite alright, Caleb. I expected there to be a period of adjustment.”
He looked down and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t quite believe me. After a moment, he spoke again. “Everything is different here. The bed is higher, the night sounds are strange, the sheets smell different.” He sniffed. “I miss home.”
“Oh sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you homesick?”
“Yes,” he replied, big crocodile tears sliding down his pale cheeks. “I want to sleep in my old room again. I’m so far from home!”
“Caleb…” I scooted across the bed and opened my arms. He crawled to me, sitting half in my lap, legs all over the bed. I enfolded him in my arms as he cries into my bathrobe. I rocked him, soothing him.
“I know it’s scary. But you have to be brave.”
“I don’t want to be brave!”
“I’m sure in the next couple of days you will learn a lot about my house, you’ll adjust, and discover Yellow Ridge is not a terrible place to live and I’m not a terrible person to live with.”
He sniffled again. “I’m not going to be a good husband to anyone.”
“Oh that’s not true, that’s not true. Shhh… relax. Breathe now.”
I continued to rock him, feeling more that I was rocking a little boy than the young man who was betrothed to me. It was, on paper, a good match. My family blood line is one of the upper seven or so distinct names, a historical name of wide influence in society and business. Caleb was from a lesser family line. Heterosexual marriage between blood lines is not encouraged amongst our people due to blood mixing. The only way for a family to gain a higher standing is to be lucky enough to have a gay son or daughter to offer to an upper family for their own homosexual son or daughter to marry. From the perspective of Caleb’s parents, he was a golden child. They were eager to abide by even the most conservative traditions. They had insisted Caleb be sent here to be my houseboy until the wedding, when he turned 18.
Even calling it a wedding was a broad term – it was more of a political ceremony. I had heard about wedded couples that each kept their own lovers; I however was a traditionalist, and hoped my bride and I would be true to each-other and monogamous.
I began to suspect that Caleb wasn’t going to be ready at 18 though. His parents had mollycoddled him and babied him. Freshly 16, he was still very much a sheltered child. I glanced down at the bundle in my arms. It was difficult to imagine that in two years, I was expected to consummate that marriage. Our five year difference suddenly felt wide as a chasm. His parents had likely taught him nothing about sex. I wondered if Caleb ever played with himself at all before his chastity device was affixed. He was still probably adjusting to that too. I pondered if it would be better to have it removed and let him explore.
More than anything, I felt pity for my bride. Thrust into a strange world, into strange arms, at a time when his body and its hormones were transforming in the most awkward ways. I also felt a bit of anger and disgust that the temple elders had clearly not sensed Caleb was a vulnerable creature – if I had been a man of lesser morals, I could have violated Caleb terribly. I made a note to call the Temple Counsel in the morning to file a complaint.
I would not send him back though. It would not benefit Caleb to go back into the womb at his age. As he got older, this behavior would be more difficult to correct. He was going to be a man soon. There were going to be expectations of him. I hoped keeping house and receiving home schooled lessons would keep his mind occupied. I kissed the top of his head and tried to remove Caleb but he’d worked his fingers into my bathrobe.
“Are you going to send me back?” he whispered.
I wondered if the boy could read minds. “No,” I said firmly, “You need to fledge from the nest. Every duckling and songbird falls a little when learning to fly. You’ll get used to things. You’ll find happiness in your work. Once you turn old enough, I will teach you the most wondrous pleasure your body is capable of. Are you feeling pain in your device?”
I felt the heat of his cheeks through my clothes. “No,” he says. “It’s snug, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Ok, let me know if it does.”
He nodded.
“Will you try to sleep now?”
Caleb eyed the bed warily. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
I thought. “Just this time, duckling”
He seemed satisfied with that. I cleaned his face, made him blow his nose, and have a sip of water. I then tucked him in lovingly and then spooned up next to him, me on top of the covers. Caleb had exhausted himself and was asleep within minutes. I lingered a moment, watching his eyes move under his eyelids, marveling at how long his lashes were. His face still possessed some of its babyfat, especially in the cheeks. He was going to be stunning all grown up.
I just had to make sure he would grow up. I was sure once he got a taste of his new found freedom he would thrive. Tomorrow would be a most interesting day.
“Good night, duckling,” I murmured, as I turned off the light and went back to my room.
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Text is fictional. This is model Graeme Metz photographed by Cecilie Harris for Boys by Girls magazine issue 6, titled âThe Truth About Boysâ. The T-Shirt by American Apparel and Underwear by Calvin Klein. This caption is not a projection or assumption of Graeme’s personality or sexuality.
Got in a fight with the neighborâs dog. Nothing serious but he likes the attention!
I was doing various Tumblr searches involving ‘boys fighting’ and this adorable thing came up. It’s technically cock, so I’m reblogging it. PSA time – keep your cocks out of the when having fights with pups. You don’t want them to get injured now, cause then your mom has to towel it and scold you for letting it get out.
God, this rooster is adorable. It looks so smug.
The beach is supposed to be relaxing. No noises, no distractions. Nothing to do except swim and bask in the sun, which we were doing now after having gorged on a big lunch. We rested next to eachother, sharing my enormous towel, listening to the waves lap at the shore. Sometimes a gull would careen overhead, cawing. Perfect calm. There weren’t even that many children out here on a weekday.
I wasn’t relaxed. I couldn’t stop thinking about how close we were out here on this vast beach with plenty of room. A foot maybe. Less, possibly. I was thinking of the way my sister gave me a suspicious look when I told her I was going to the beach with David. “One of your guy dates huh?”
“What do you mean by that?” I said accusingly.
“You just spend a lot of time with him, that’s all.”
Yeah, that was true. Every time I wanted to go somewhere, David was the first person I called. Or he called me. We were bros. Perhaps not just bros… my time with David had helped me realize something about myself though. I wondered how many people “knew” and was waiting for me to find out about myself. I wondered if David knew or had guessed.
“Hey um. David?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something personal?”
David turned his head toward me. I could see his deep green eyes staring curiously at me through the brown-pink glass of his sunglasses lenses. “What’s up bro?”
The knot in my stomach was so tight I almost couldn’t find the courage to get the words out. “David I …I’m gay,” I said softly. “I wanted to tell you first.”
David’s jaw fell slack. He kind of stared at me, digesting this, as I held my breath. I could not handle rejection and felt rising anxiety as I waited to find out if I was going lose my best friend.
“You are?” he said after a moment. “You’re gay?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Girls never did it for me. I just had to sit and think about it for a while…it was um. Obvious.”
“Oh,” David said, turning his face up to the sun again. My heart began to ache, and I feared it was about to be broken. I never took my eyes off of him. I watched his chest rise and fall, his breathing a bit rapid.
Minutes passed.
“David?” I said, my voice barely a squeak. “Please say something.”
David exhaled slowly. “Sorry I just…needed to think. You’re gay. Ok that’s… that’s fine. It’s good.”
“That’s good?” I repeated, unsure if there was sand in my ears or something.
“Yeah,” he said with that casual little smile of his. “That’s very good.”
“Ok,” I said, dizzy with relief. “Good.”
A moment later, I felt David’s hand bump against mine. I wasn’t sure was he was doing until he worked his fingers between mine and squeezed. I squeezed back, letting him tether me. I felt like a huge weight had lifted off of me. Without his grip, I might have just floated away.
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Text is fictional. Apparently today is Coming Out Day or something, so I wanted to do something appropriate.
I’m the kind of guy who still believe that a kiss can fix everythingâŚ.
There was my pride, and there was him. I could have walked away, using the pieces of my bruised ego to build a wall around me to block logic out. I could have convinced myself I was right. But I wasn’t. And I knew it. Admitting you fucked up, that you over-reacted is one thing. Telling him that is another. Is that what television had taught me, that it’s not masculine to admit you’re wrong? and when a man is wrong, aren’t they supposed to just charm their way out of it?
Caspian would have seen right through that through. He would have not been amused at being brushed off. There are a lot of guys that want to date Caspian… but Caspian likes me. The First Argument in a relationship is the benchmark between celebrating monthly anniversaries and annual ones. If I skirted this, it wouldn’t be long before Caspian brushed me off. I needed to apologize, no matter how much it stung if I wanted to keep my man.
I texted him and said I wanted to meet up. He didn’t respond, and I started to panic. Then, an hour later, “Hey sorry, my phone died. I’m around. Come over.”
I drove over there, nervous. I parked the car and got out. He was waiting on the walk up to the house.
“What’s up?” he asked, casual and cool. I sighed. It would be easier to walk away from this fuck up if I wasn’t so smitten with him.
“I … I….”
Caspian looked at me, hopeful. His gaze still held a bit of pain from the stinging words I threw at him. I leaned forward and dared to kiss him. Caspian didn’t pull back. He just stared at me in surprise.
“What was that for?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “I’m sorry Caspian.” I dropped my gaze to the ground. “I fucked up, I took things out of context, and said some really hurtful things… I was having a bad day and just blew up. I feel really awful, god. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Caspian tilts my chin up his fingers. “Hey… it’s alright.”
“It is?”
“Yes. I’m really happy that you came back. When I told you to ‘get out’, I was pretty terrified that you wouldn’t ever come back. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“No no I totally deserved it.”
“Yelling doesn’t have a place in relationships. You only should yell right before you cum,” Caspian says with a teasing smile.
I melt as the relief flows through me. God, he’s handsome. I put my arms around his neck. “I see. Does this mean we’re still… you know. Together?”
Caspian tilts his head and kisses me back. “I hope so. Mmn. I missed kissing you.”
“You can do it again if you like,” I say eagerly, giddy he’s taken me back. “I owe you anyway.”
Caspian nuzzles me. “Let’s go inside. We got time to make up for.”
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Text is fictional.