Tag: love

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

allbecauseoftheboys:

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.

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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.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

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

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Edit: Just an FYI, this is fictional! These boys are Ariel and Pablo, and they share a Tumblr account at elyel.

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by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

youthfuldominance:

Patiently waiting for his Sir to come home. Not simply because the boy is horny, but because he adores his Sir and misses him. Submission need not be highly sexual. It is a devotion to another. It can be a form of love.  

Henry has his own spots around the house, his pillow in the living room, his futon next to Sir’s bed, his customary spot under the table, but this one is his favorite. The view isn’t much, just the porch railings and some buildings outside but it’s the sounds that matter. Here is the only spot where he can hear Sir’s bicycle as it comes down the alley to the garage. There are a lot of bikes in Amsterdam but over months Henry learned to distinguish the sound of tires and brakes and pick his Sir out of them all. The anticipation is the best part, both the waiting for the right sound with his head tilted and the long seconds between Sir putting his bike away in the mudroom and coming up the stairs. Henry will bound to the door, wiggling and turning in impatient circles.

All those hours apart have left the sub missing his Sir and so eager to see him again. The house is clean, rugs beaten, dinner prep is done, the plants are watered, there’s fresh sheets on the bed and so many other little things. Henry just wants to feel a heavy hand on his head and those short nails scratching his scalp behind his ear and be told what a good boy he is.

When Sir comes through the door he presses himself up against his slacks and nuzzles his crotch murmuring a “Welcome home Sir”, oblivious to his cock dripping all over his shoe. The new jockstrap helps with the leaking, but only so much when he gets excited. Henry is kept locked so often, he often forgets about it until he’s forced to lick the mess off his Sir’s Oxfords. He often hopes his Sir will give him an opportunity to pleasure him but Sir says a horny boy is an obedient one. Henry understands, but he hasn’t been exercised yet today and is full of energy and cum and joy that his Master is home so he’s a bit hard to control. Luckily, Sir always knows what to do.

“I’m home boy, hello. Woah, hello!” he caresses his sub’s head, “Down boy. Down. Good boy. Now, go to the bedroom and get on the bed position 2. You can lick my shoes clean later, I’m horny as hell!” he commanded as he loosened his tie.
“Yes sir!” Henry is gone in a flash.

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I watch the Prince from the nest of down comforters and pillows, covering my mouth for absolute silence. He’s discussing something serious with the Master of the House, frowning and nodding as the older woman explains whatever it is. They’re speaking in Joeben, the official language here, but I’ve been specifically banned from learning it to keep me obedient and restricted to my linguistic bubble. Who would teach a whore anyway? I’m to remain quiet, out of the way, and available when ever he desires me. The Prince speaks four total tongues, so we speak Utaian in bed and nothing else. I know a few Joeben words, but am not conversational.There are other girls in the harem I can talk to, one of the cooks, and the horse farrier, really although his accent is heavy.

They all think I’m super lucky that I get to play with the Prince’s cock but they don’t know how hard it is to experience chasmal unrequited love day in and day out. I am a thing to my darling Prince, a toy, a hole, but he is dear and precious to me. I would die for him. He could parade me around town naked if he held the other end of the rope around my neck. I know when I get older and looser, he’ll tire of me, but as the Prince’s bed companion, I will likely be delegated to his personal servant instead of being sold. Especially so, since I am branded with a tiny royal crest on my pectoral. Still…that’s my prayer, so I can guarantee I’ll be by his side forever. My eyes roam over his tanned body, blue black hair asymmetrically disheveled, white slacks clinging to his ass, the way his long fingers pluck at his ascot when he concentrates. A slave’s wish isn’t worth the air it rests on, though, but if there is any god up in the Heavens may he have mercy on my pitiful soul.

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[Sequel to this.]

The later the time, the dumber I feel. Rush hour ended hours ago, and he did not return to his condo. Then came the reverie period, when people take in dinner or a film, and yet he did not return. My feet hurt from standing and my ass hurts from sitting…but not from the sex we had last night. He was careful with me. The memories of it cause my cheeks to flush. “Fuck” or “penetrate” seems a bit inaccurate… devour, he devoured me. He pushed off my clothes like layers of an onion, cupped my ass in one hand and tangled his fingers in my hair with the other. He moved his lips down my chest, to my nipples, to my….

I shake the fog out of head. If someone sees me standing here with an erection and a dazed look, they’ll call the cops. Looking back on the experience now, it was uncharacteristic of myself to be so brazen and let myself be taken home by a stranger like a common whore. I only had one hard cider! He just caught me off guard that’s all, an immaculately dressed businessman in a low-class bar populated with other backpackers and students. I might have a thing for a man in a suit.

This morning we overslept. Between showers, cooking breakfast, and the minute we had to eat bacon, eggs, and stale pastries there was no time to talk. I wished we had that morning to ourselves to laze in bed and drink espresso. It was a one night stand though, pure and simple. I didn’t even get his last name.

I hope no one asks me why I’ve been waiting here, because it’s all based on something utterly unsubstantial – a look. Cosimo had ordered me a taxi and put me in it, but his grip on my hand was crushing and his perplexed facial expression told me he was struggling with decisions. When the taxi pulled away, I turned around in my seat and watched him fade out the rear window panel. Cosimo’s face had firmed into one of lament.

I have nothing else to do in this world except wait here. Why hasn’t he come back? Maybe this is an apartment he keeps for having affairs, although I did not see a ring. There is no way on earth he’s working, it’s past midnight. I yawn. My stomach grumbles. This is foolish. At this rate, the hostels will likely be full and I’ll have to spend a pretty penny on a hotel. I can’t sleep out here, the dropping temperatures aren’t ideal for my violin. I adjust my scarf and chew on a clove cigarette. In the two months I’ve spent in Europe, I’ve remained single, chaste, and dedicated to finding my love of music again after my disastrous affair with stress, drugs, and the Sydney Orchestra. I’ve completely deviated my mission and wasted a whole day in Florence.

After a few moments of contemplating leaving, I sense that someone is watching me and I snap my head to the front. There he is. Standing there, across the street. His expression is completely blank. A moment of panic sets in when I realize I hadn’t thought about what would happen when he did come home. The distinction between romantic pursual and stalking is a thin, pale line. I bite my lip and try to appear sheepish, harmless. Foolish.

I watch Cosimo float across the cobbled street like he’s walking across water. He doesn’t say anything at first. I feel the pressure to give an explanation. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know I was thinking-”

“You were here the entire time.” His Italian flavored English makes my nerves dance.
“…What?” I put the cigarette back into my pocket.
Cosimo’s eyes dampen. “Goddamn is God playing some sort of joke on me? I spent hours looking all over the city for you… the hostels, the bars, the train stations, and you were here the entire fucking time. Waiting.”
I work my jaw but nothing comes out.
“How long have you been standing here?”
A glance at my watch. “Six hours or so.”
He cries out in frustration and throws his hands up in surrender. “Six hours‽ I could have just left work and come here! Why are you here anyway?”
I’m still not sure how to react. “Well…I just… I saw you in the taxi, when it pulled away. It looked like you wanted me to stay.”
Cosimo strokes my hair with a leather gloved hand, twisting his fingers into my locks. He sets down his briefcase and kisses me properly, one hand on my ass. There is no one to see us at this hour. It’s soft and real and wonderful and arouses me a great deal. When we part, he’s smiling.
“Come upstairs. You’ll catch a cold out here.”
“Cosimo…?”
“Yes?”
I bite my lip. “Are you going to make me leave in the morning?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”

I never did. That was in 1993. I briefly returned to Australia to situate my visa and send my belongings to Italy. Shortly after I returned, I found work as a violin teacher in an international school. When my Italian improved, I joined a small local string orchestra too. Cosimo and I eventually moved into a small house together outside of Florence and fostered two children we plan to keep. They sometimes ask how I met their father. There’s no way to explain how you know that a man you’ve met once is the love of your life. It’s just a feeling…a feeling, and a look.

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 I returned from war with a mild form of PTSD. During the day, I was fine as long as there weren’t any loud noises. I couldn’t drive anymore because every time I saw trash on the road I had an anxiety attack, but bicycling was safe and harmless. Night was the hardest though. I’d have vivid awful dreams in where I couldn’t move and had to watch people die, or had pertinent information that could save lives but it wouldn’t come out of my mouth. I would thrash horribly and wake up shouting, often dumped on the floor in a tangle of sheets.

While combing the internet for treatment for night terrors, I discovered the benefits of pressure. Thundervests for dogs to calm them during storms. Squeeze chutes to relax cattle during herding. Mothers swaddle newborns to duplicate the cramped womb. You can’t really burrito yourself in at night. Someone has to do it for you. By the time I concluded my research, I had only slept about 25 hours that week and was desperate to not wake up either on the floor or vomiting into the toilet.

I discovered a networking site called Recon and made a profile. I messaged a few guys in my area, but most declined my request. One said I was into bondage for the wrong reasons. Another said I would hurt myself if I thrashed around in rope restraint at night. The sixth person I messaged offered me a glimmer of hope. His name was Mick, and he said he had a straight jacket I could wear, which might duplicate the experience. Mick lived an hour away by car so I took the train. We talked over coffee. I think he pitied me.

When it was time for bed, he took me up to his guest room and showed me where I’d be sleeping. I balked at the idea of wearing what was obviously an adult diaper but he basically said it was that or wet the bed if I had to go. At this point, I was so desperate to get a good nights rest that I just gave in, self respect be damned. He was a patient man, and explained step by step what he was doing as he tied my straps. To my shock, the more immobile I became the more my cock began to stiffen. I hadn’t been able to rouse it since I returned from the Middle East. I was a bit relieved Mick couldn’t see it as I was on my stomach and in so much padding.

By the time, the ankle cuffs were in place, my cock was throbbing but I said nothing. Mick left me with a water bottle that I could open with my teeth, a baby monitor in case I needed help, and that was it. Darkness. Hard or not, I was asleep within minutes.

I slept for 10 hours and dreamed of nothing. I woke up feeling so alert and bright I wondered if the water had been drugged. The diaper was wet though, which was humiliating in itself as I couldn’t do anything about it. I called for my Mick over the communication device and he came in to undo my straps.

“How’d you sleep last night?” he asked.
All I could say was, “I slept. I actually slept.”

When I took off the diaper in the bathroom, I realized that it wasn’t urine in the padding but semen… lots of it.

I never told my therapist about my alternative sleeping methods, but coupled with those sessions I began to heal. Mick and I fell in love and we moved in together. Every night, he’d tie me up tight with the padding in place, only now he’d kiss me on the head before rolling over and turning off the lights.

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His mom has gone to the store to pick up some extra things for dinner; his father could be home any minute. I’m over at his house, meeting my boyfriend’s parents over a three day weekend. We’re both in college and in love in the most stupid ways, and oh yeah did I mention we’re both horny as rabbits? The second her car pulled away, I push against him and we crash into the closed piano, kissing furiously.

Ours shirt go flying so we’re body to body, me grinding my erection against his thigh. He groans and reaches back to squeeze my ass hard, and when I say hard I mean he’s a pitcher on our college’s softball team. I gasp and jump up onto the balls of my feet and he snickers, nipping at my lip. I cup his neck and stroke his beard with my thumb as we fence with our tongues. Right when I’m distracted with his firm boner against my groin, he guides a wide hand down the inside of my jeans – I never wear underwear – and he then slides a finger right into my ass. I squeal at the intrusion and inhale a sharply, my cheeks flush pink as I sense a wet spot in my jeans.

“You bastard!” I hiss.
He grins at me and pushes it in deeper, “You know my dad could be home any minute… wanna go fuck on my childhood bed? I have Batman bed sheets.”
“Oh baby, you make me so wet. Batman bed sheets? Let me pinch the tip of my cock shut, the cum is just leaking out!”
He throws his head back in laughter. “This is why I love you.”
I smile. “I love you too. Now fuck me or I’m going to greet your dad hard as a rock.”

By the time we hear the garage door open, we’re struggling to rebutton our pants and waft the bedroom free of that sex smell. We catch each-other’s sheepish gaze across the room, and in that moment, I suddenly know that I’m gonna marry him one day.

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Here’s another beautiful video, this one of Jason and Tony’s wedding, the first gay marriage ceremony held the Plaza Hotel in New York City. I’m sure I’ve posted this before but I can’t seem to find it. Either way, it’s worth a second viewing. The first time I saw it I cried. I think because their kids were involved with it. Must be fantastic to grow up with that kind of love in the house.

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Found this on Vimeo – it’s a highlight reel of Patrick and Scott’s wedding from 2011, two years before gay marriage was legalized in Minnesota. Watching this made my heart swell, especially when they were dressing each-other. Even though I sometimes write about couples in love, nothing I write will ever be as sweet as the real thing.

(Source: https://player.vimeo.com/)