“Heeey what are you doing?”
“Not much ..studying,” he giggles.
“Studying whaaat?” I nuzzle his cheek a little.
His cheeks dimple as he smiles, “Maath…”
“Well that looks confusing. Hey what are you writing…I’m …not…weari…. Mickie! You are so naughty!”
He whispered back to me, “Your cheeks are hot."
Tag: boyfriends
“I can’t stop wanting to kiss you.”
“Then don’t.”
haah face stroke
Got you under my speeeeeeeell…now you want to kiiiiiiiss me…
Fun fact – this photo is from 2010, but it is the same couple from the boyfriend/cat photo that a lot of you loved. They’re still together 🙂
Working in the welfare office in Louisville, I met a family in dire straights. The Father and two children were American citizens, but the rest were ineligible. I approved them for the full amount. If I roasted in hell, it wouldn’t be for this. After I transferred to another department, the Richards kept up with me. The Father told me, “We will never forget your kindness.” Since then, they had opened a successful up-scale Southern Restaurant. I was never presented a check when I went.
The family had great hopes for Eric, who at 19 was the oldest of 6. He showed great promise as a cellist. I had heard him play; he had natural talent and the drive to perfect it.
Mrs. Richards phoned me just before Christmas. The family was going to Canada, but Eric had obligations. “Can he stay with you? It’s OK if he drinks, but I don’t want him around hoodlums or loose women.” I promised I’d look after him. She seemed relieved.”Thanks, Mr. Dosch.”
Eric practiced his cello, went to his Christmas concerts. He was so handsome I looked at anything else to keep from staring. On the morning of Christmas Eve, he asked if we could have some special punch. “What do you need? I have plenty of liquor but can go pick the rest up from Kroger’s—they’re open until 7.” I fixed hors’doevres: brie and sharp cheddar, smoked oysters and sausage balls, along with some sweets I’d bought at a gourmet shop. We nibbled and drank the punch he’d made.
It was delicious but deadly. It tasted like fruit juice, but had brandy and rum in it, and you couldn’t taste the alcohol. We were flying after a couple of small cups. “You’re a good friend, Karl—the kind I can trust completely.” He was standing very close and put his hand on the top button of my shirt, then undid it. He quickly started undoing the rest of them.
He was irresistible. I have a fetish for dark hair and eyes. I pulled his sweater up and he raised his arms; I pulled it off. As he finished unbuttoning my shirt, I was unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. I knelt and took his shoes and socks off while he undid my cuffs. I stood up and he started kissing my chest and neck. I leaned down and put my mouth on his, my tongue slipping in while my pants dropped to the floor. Eric sighed: “Beautiful and blond—you’re perfect.” The expression in his eyes was unmistakably. Being 10 years older, I had to know he wanted me.
We lay naked on the rug and kissed. He touched hot spots on my body. He stroked and licked my armpits, pinched my nipples, and ran his hands down my stomach and up my thighs. His nice sized uncut cock was hard from touching me. I was hard from his attentions, even though he hadn’t laid a finger on my dick. I could feel calluses on his fingers from playing. He raised my cock to his mouth, sucking heartily. He said, “Mmmm,” when I started to leak. I had him on his back, straddling his head with my knees. We both started sucking, making muffled sounds of uncontrolled sensation. I pressed my tongue to his ass and licked. I poked with my finger. I tapped on his hole, rubbed it with my thumb. He sucked harder.
When I stopped, he stayed on his back, spreading his legs. He raised them in the air into a wide “V.” I got a condom and some lube and knelt between his legs, I rubbed his ass and my sheathed cock with the lube, sliding into his tight hole gently. I took his ankles in my hands. I entered the rest of the way slowly, until my pubic hair was brushing his hole. I stopped, moaned,”Relax.”
I started fucking gently, picking up speed as his reactions showed it was feeling good. Eric gasped,”Fuck me however you want.” I began to use my ass and thigh muscles to penetrate him quickly, then slowly, drawing all the way out, plunging in fast. He scratched my back with his nails, stroked my ass. I was sweating, and after several minutes, I looked into my eyes. He was about to blow. It went all over his stomach and chest. I put my mouth to his torso and licked up every drop before I started fucking again. Eric begged,”Let me taste you.”
Holding on by a frayed thread, I kept at it as long as I could. I pulled out and ripped off the condom, straddling his chest. He gulped down my cum while he stroked and pulled on my balls. I kissed him to taste our mingled semen. We fell asleep holding each other.
Eric ended up at Julliard. When he was in town, we made up for lost time.
Four years later, we were lying in bed. He looked at me happily and said, his voice low, “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”
I was elated.”I loved you even before that Christmas.”
In a confidential tone, he said,”I think Mother set us up that Christmas. My parents have known I was gay since I was six. I could have stayed with aunt Sophie.” I was shocked. “She never forgot what you did for us. I heard her telling Father that you’d be a good man for me.” She was right. 15 years later, we flew to California and got married.
Lovely and sexy.
Too sweet! I wonder if he makes his husband wear the uniform in bed…
Edit: More pics at the source! The link is in printer mode so you don’t have to click a million times through a gallery.
If I stand here and look studly while appearing to analyze the surf, no one should notice I’m checking out Koshi’s ass…man, he looks so good in that wetsuit. I have never seen a Japanese boy with an ass like that. Ooo wipe out in the barrel. Well he’s not a fantastic surfer but he tries. A for effort. I better, ya know, give him some tips or something. Man, I’d love to give him the tip of my cock… ok, walk slowly. Be casual. Don’t swagger. I hope I don’t come off as a big, dumb jock. Christ, now all I can think about is breaking him in half on a beach towel. Yum. Yeah John, that’s real bright; walk over there with your dick sticking up, that’s how Americans say hello. Calm down. Be cool. Don’t swagger. Smile.
—
Ppfftt peh peh! I am gonna be eating sand for a week after this. Ugh please don’t tell me John saw that wipe-out. Aw crap, he totally did and now he’s watching me drag my soggy ass out of the water. God, he must think I’m such a shitty surfer. I’m never gonna be able to impress him. Don’t look at him! Look cool. Look pensive….wait what does pensive look like? Do something! Check your board! Don’t look at John and whatever you do don’t look at his package. Oh lord he’s coming over here. Please don’t come over here, I don’t know what to do with you big Americans in your tiny shorts and all that dark hair. Please god, tell me boners don’t show in wetsuits. Kore wa dame da yo! Aw jeez, that smile is gonna kill me.
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Model is Nick Ayler. This post is fictional.
Marcel paused to catch his breath, clinging to the windowsill for support. I still remember the striking ferocity of the desire that welled up in me, demanding I capture his moment of his rest on film. I snatched my camera off my nightstand and shot the picture before he was even aware it was happening. I used my Holga 120S with the broken flash hotshoe, so without that glorious light pouring into through the window, the picture would have been trash. A lucky accident. Marcel gave me a little smile as I advanced the film, then I pushed his wheelchair out of the way and helped him to the bed.
I became his physical therapist almost two years ago after his old one went on maternity leave and didn’t come back. I was obsessed with his presence and in love with his Grecian face and stoic, quiet resolve steeped in pain. I used to fret a great deal over how the public would see us together, me pushing him down the sidewalk or helping him get things off the shelves at the grocery store as his motor functions began to slide. I was terrified Marcel would one day accuse me of fetishizing him, of me making him my pet project to validate my own narcissism and worth as a human being.
Marcel never complained, not even after I started taking him home with me after therapy and our professional relationship dissolved. He was happy to be with me, away from his childhood home and mollycoddling parents. They never were able to see Marcel anything else than a helpless child. Charcot Marie-Tooth Disease is not a life ruining thing, but Marcel was schooled at home K through 12 and was not allowed to move out or even hold a job. Truth be told, I should have considered if he was using me to escape from their cage but hell I would have been ok with it if he was because then maybe we’d both be guilty of something.
After I took this photo, Marcel drank some water and then we made love. He liked when I was inside of him, came inside him. Marcel wasn’t a fan of labels. I wasn’t gay, he wasn’t gay, it was just sex. We could lie spooning for hours, sometimes talking softly, sometimes listening to music or NPR. Once in a while I’d read to him. After our fornication, we decided to just ordered in Chinese food together. We ate, made love again, and drifted off nude and sated.
I awoke on a gorgeous Sunday morning to discover Marcel dead in my arms. He had an intracerebral brain hemorrhage brain in his sleep. I later spoke to the doctor that performed the autopsy and she said it was an extremely rare event. She asked if Marcel complained of headaches on our last night together. I told her in a soft, shaking voice how he was always in pain. His daily medications would have dulled the warning symptoms. She put her hand on my shoulder and she was sorry. I was sorry too. We were all sorry. It was not fair.
I printed out this photo and displayed it during his funeral. Marcel’s mother screamed at me for perverting and killing her son. I yelled at her for smothering and infantilizing him. Marcel’s father stepped in and separated us. He considered the picture for a long, deep moment then said, “This is the son I always imagined I had. He looked like me when I was his age. Tell me… was he happy? with you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then that’s good.” He nodded.
After the services, I caught him taking the photo and putting it in his car. I never said a word. I had the negative at home and a print propped up on my nightstand. When I got home, the negative went in a box with the stained sheets wrapped in plastic and I never opened it again.
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The model is Kevin Baker; the photographer is Gregory Vaughan.
This is a work of fiction.
Dear Mom and Dad,
This is what happiness looks like. Sorry you were so miserable in your own lives that you couldn’t allow me a chance at my own. I went out and found it anyway. I miss you, and will miss you even more this holiday season since you won’t allow me to come back home unless I have a woman on my arm. Oh by the way, we’ll still be using the family recipe for the stuffing, I’m sure it’ll be a hit with our friends.
Happy Holidays,
Your son, his boyfriend, and our spoiled cat
Hi readers! Just a quick FYI about my post – this is a fictional caption. I take sexy or cute gay pics on Tumblr, reblog them, and add stories or notes cause I love to write. There’s a disclaimer about this in my About page. This isn’t my boyfriend and I’m actually allergic to cats. Sorry for any confusion. I have gained a ton of followers as a result of this reblog and I do not want to gain your readership under false pretenses. Happy Holidays.
PS: There are still lots of young gay men, women, and transgendered persons not welcomed home because of who they are. Please consider reaching out or donating to your local LGBT charity or support group this holiday season.
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PLEASE STOP LIKING AND REBLOGGING THIS AND DELETE IT FROM YOUR TUMBLR. THANK YOU.
I stand in the door, motionless as snow, quiet as a mouse. The dance instructor sees me, but she does not motion for me to enter. A cluster of co-ed dancers are draped over the bars, floors, and mats in the corner. No one dares break the silence, the heavy mood of intense concentration and furious passion as Felipe runs through his solo again for the 200th time. He is close to perfection, becoming one with the choreography, close to being intimate with it as a lover. It however, isn’t. I am.
Felipe and I began dating two months ago; I was smitten, a laundromat crush. However, he is handsome as he is terrible at keeping secrets. He was vague about his job, his late hours. We could never return to his apartment after a date. I broke Felipe’s trust and privacy by following him after he left my apartment this morning. I had to know where he was going. Things were going well, and I did not want to invest my adoration in a man that would not trust me.
I had braced myself for what I might find – maybe he was returning home to a wife and kids. Maybe he sold drugs. Perhaps he worked at an abortion clinic. Maybe he cleaned up after dead bodies or worked in a morgue. Maybe he euthanized unwanted pets. Maybe he was ashamed to be a dishwasher, or a telemarketer, or a car salesman. Lo and behold, my secretive boyfriend was …a ballet dancer. Talk about anti-climactic. A rush of relief pushed aside worry, allowing romantic intrigue to blossom in its place.
I couldn’t just stand in front of the building, leave, and not see him dance. So, I snuck upstairs and accidentally witnessed one of the most beautiful displays of human movement I’d ever seen. My heart thudded in my chest. If Felipe could manipulate his limbs and muscles in such a way, no doubt in bed our acts would be a performance, not sex.
Any second now the bubble of Felipe’s concentration will burst and he’ll notice me filling the doorway to this dance studio. I should move; I should leave. I can’t. It might make a sound. Catch-22.



















