Preacher Man Has VD



“Preacher Man” is a married minister of a large, nearby congregation who I fuck sometimes. His sexual urges are insatiable. He can go for hours.

And he travels a great deal, using his time away from home to take on all comers. Sometimes I wonder whether he practices safe sex with a condom on at all times. On Wednesday I discovered apparently not.

He sent a text message on my phone, urging me to call him immediately. No one was around so I did.

“I just got some bad news from the doctor,” he said. “He took a blood test and found out I have syphilis. I didn’t even know I had it.”

I stayed calm. I had had sex with him about two weeks before but wore a condom. Still, he had sucked my dick very briefly. Syphilis can be transmitted through oral sex.

“Okay, I’ll go to my doctor tomorrow and get checked out,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

I didn’t worry that I might have given the disease to my wife. We agreed to separate months ago and have not had sex since then. We are friendly and cordial and keep the house running but as I have written before our marriage is on the way out. I am grateful I don’t have to tell her I gave her something nasty.

The next day I went to see “Dr. Freeland.” He has been my doctor for years and I am open to him about my sexual habits. Freeland, who I think just separated from his wife, is sympathetic.He advises me on how to stay safe and doesn’t hesitate to give me tests if I need them.

So I told him about the syphilis incident with a sex partner and he drew blood to take the test. I have small veins and giving blood can be torture. But he is so good at it I barely feel the needle pinch into my arm.

“The test should be back by Friday,” he says.

He examines me. “I don’t think you have it. You would have known by now,” he said. “But remember, keep that dick wrapped up.”

I know he will call me if I have the disease and prescribe antibiotics over the phone. Otherwise I won’t hear from him. Two days have passed and no phone call so I know I am clear.

Being down-low and getting sex can be fun but this incident brought home the risks. If a minister can expose you to a venereal disease anybody can.

In the four or five days since Preacher Man called I haven’t wanted to have sex at all. I’m turning them down right and left.

This has cooled me down, which is a good thing. It’s God telling me it’s time to get my life in order and do the right thing for once.

Friendly Skies



A lot of down-low men hook up while they are away on business travel. In fact, I think many of these men take such jobs so they will have an excuse to be away from the wife and kids.

Earlier this week I had such a hookup. I met “Calvin” online while I was working from home. He had flown into a nearby airport for a business meeting and had some time on his hands. Would I mind coming over and fucking the hell out of him?

When I arrived at his room and hour and a half later he welcomed me in and told me to sit down and be comfortable because he had to make some phone calls. He handed me the remote control to the flat screen TV and invited me watch whatever I wanted.

Calvin is a small-built, brown-skinned black guy. I doubt he is taller than five feet seven or so. Handsome, very masculine and all-business. He was hot to imagine he could be in a boardroom meeting early in the day and getting banged by a man in his hotel room just hours later.

Calvin got on the phone with a woman. He said she was just a friend. But I could tell he was lying. He had a wedding band with diamonds on his left hand. And the woman kept calling back, nagging him about how to go online to make a doctor’s appointment and quizzing him about whether this or that bill was paid.

So I knew it was his wife. Only wives did shit like that, rarely girlfriends.

After he got off the phone the fucking commenced. Calvin was what I call a “power bottom” — a male who likes to take dick but is not passive in the act. He was like a director making his own private porno movie.

We did some foreplay for awhile and then he was ready to put my long dick in his plump, bubble-shaped ass.

“Ooooh, you don’t know how good that dick feels,” he moaned after I managed to fit it in him. “Fuck me harder.”

I pounded him into the bed missionary style, his legs splayed to allow me to dig in deeper. I have never seen a guy enjoy getting fucked so much before. Goose pimples erupted all over Calvin’s chest, his eyeballs rolled back in his head and his eyelids flickered like he was in a trance. I could literally feel his ass muscles trembling around my dick.

“Fuck me in the mirror now,” he commanded me. So we got up and walked to the foyer of his hotel room, stood in front of a mirror hanging on the wall and kept going, fucking standing up with me behind him. I lifted his right leg so he could see the reflection of my dick snaking into him.

“Damn, look at that — that’s hot,” Calvin said.

Then we moved back to the bed and I fucked him on the edge with his face down on the mattress. To get more leverage I braced my feet against the wall behind the bed and use my legs to push my dick into his ass, which by now was wet and loose.

“Where do you want to cum on me,” he asked. “You can come on my face, wherever you want.”

So I made him kneel on the floor between the two queen-sized beds in his room and jerked off while he nibbled my thighs and lapped his tongue on my balls. I soon busted a load of hot creamy nutt all over his shoulders.

He showed his appreciation by cumming just moments later, jerking off his small, curved penis.

Calvin said he would be back in town in a few weeks. Maybe we will hook up again.

Wonder Woman Drawers: Or What I Don’t Like About Gay Dudes



Okay, I’m on a gay hookup Web site today while I’m working, checking out the sights. And there is this guy wearing drawers that look like Wonder Woman’s costume — he could have stitched them pantaloons from the American flag.

His flat, pancake ass faced the camera and he leaned over so viewers could get a better look at that hot mess. I couldn’t resist joning.

“Where did you get the Wonder Woman drawers?,” I emailed him jokingly.

He didn’t get the drift.

“Ooh, do you like them,” he emailed back a few minutes later. “What are you doing? You want to meet?”

Okay, I play in the gay and straight world so I can talk about both sides. This guy demonstrated one of the things I hate about gay black guys. Some have egos so big they don’t know they are looking like fools. He really thought he looked hot wearing those girly bloomers.

True, gay men have to have egos. If you grow up with kids teasing you and Aunt Bunny mumbling you will burn in Hell for loving dick, you have to develop a hard outer shell — an ego of steel to deflect the bullets. But some gay men think they are cute and they are…NOT.

Check out the names some pick for their online profiles. “RedNSexxy”…”KuteBoi”… “TopsDeLite.” Come the fuck on. If you have to call YOURSELF sexy and cute you aren’t. Here are some more things about gay people I don’t like.

— MATERIALISM: A lot of gay black men are into what you wear, what you drive and how your house is decorated. This is shallow but understandable. Many gay men will live alone or with just a partner for most of their lives. So they tend to put a lot more into what they have. Plus they have more disposable income to buy toys. See how many flat screens you can buy with three kids. But this materialism can go overboard…every few months I read about some gay black man dressing like a woman and shoplifting in some high end, designer store. Is jail time worth Gucci?

— LYING: All men lie but Gay men lie for no fucking reason. They lie about their dick size, their butt size, their age, their relationship status, their HIV status. A rule of thumb is don’t believe shit a gay man says to you. I can understand the lying to some extent. To be gay in this nation you still have to keep your life under wraps and glide around the truth to be accepted in some social circles. But when you lie so much you can’t separate truth from fiction there is a problem.

— TIMING: Many gay black men I know have no sense of time or respect for your time. “Oh, you want to hook up with me…yeah come over,” they will say. Then five minutes later. “Oh, but I got to go get my hair cut first so I can look good for you.” Oh puleeze…I’m coming for sex, not a fashion show, I’ll say. Then I’ll tell them to forget it. Many gay people don’t have a sense of time because they only have to worry about themselves. Married men with kids know otherwise.

— MASCULINITY: Ask any gay black men if they are masculine and they will answer, “Yes!” Let them get a little dick and ask them again. I fucked this dude a few weeks back. While we were setting up the rendezvous his voice was a deep, low growl. He spoke in monosyllables. “Yeah man. Sure. Roll over here.” Soon as I pushed that dick up in him and made him squirt the nutt he got girly. “Oh, baby…you SO CRAZZZYY!,” he cooed at me. Masculinity is prized in the black community I guess, which is why so many gay black men fake it. But when a guy does a personality change like that it can be disconcerting.

— CRAZY: A lot of black gay men are crazy. Some have severe intimacy problems. Others willingly do unsafe sex practices they know could ruin their health and put them in their graves prematurely. Some will cut your throat if you try to leave them. I understand why. We live in a society that still does not value black people like it should or gay people. In fact, black folks can be some of the biggest haters of ourselves and our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters. So some gays develop severe self-hatred.

Well, these are just my opinions. Love them or leave them

Why My Marriage is Failing



It’s time to write some of the hardest parts of my blog. The parts about my marriage and what went wrong. Or at least my side of things.

I’m sorry I have hurt my wife. She is really a sweet, intelligent person and I still believe she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. When she was younger her hair was black and silky as a raven’s wing. And her skin, to me, looked and tasted like coffee with milk and sugar. Cafe au lait.

Unfortunately, we are opposites. Extrovert. Introvert. Talker. Non talker.

When you are young and in love the differences are cute. Yes, opposites do attract. But over time, after you have kids, and bills, and mortgages, and sick pets, and fractious in-laws the differences can start driving you apart. That is what happened to us.

I was a poor kid you married a girl from the other side of the tracks. My single mother could barely keep the lights on and the car repossession man from the front door. My wife’s mother was a stay-at-home mom who had dinner waiting on her when she came home from school. And a vacation home on the Vineyard to laze away her summer days.

My wife never had to worry about money or exert herself too much. There was always someone to look after her. “You have trouble with the boss at your summer job honey? You don’t have to work. Quit that job. Just stay home and go to the beach with me.”

So when I married her I kept doing the same thing.

I gave up a promising job in another state and moved back to our home city because her parents said her career was more important. I taught her to cook better, I washed clothes, I made sure we had one of the best looking yards in the neighborhood, I made sure to pitch in and help as much as I could with the kids, I was far more active than her in the church she chose. I was the leader in decorating the house and paid the bills and handled the finances because she didn’t like the hassle.

I arranged 90 percent of our social events because she had few friends and had difficulty making them. In fact, my friends and family called her uppity and aloof…”seditty.” But I was devoted to her and ignored them.

Then one day she quit her job and became an at-home Mom for three years because she said she really didn’t like her career — she had only majored in that subject in college because her father had wanted her to. So I gritted my teeth and worked harder at my job and kept paying the bills. But deep down I was getting resentful and feeling used.

And it seemed like when I had crises in my life she would come into the picture only after I had done most the work to get the problem resolved or would just be there. I just never felt like I had a partner. I wanted a “Gangsta Bitch,” the type of black woman who would be fighter in my corner and watch my back.

Shit, I had to fight for her. My wife never fought for herself and our kids soon learned to play with her emotions to get what they wanted. I remember having to call her hairdresser and cussing him out when she came home with her hair fucked up. Instead of speaking up about the bad service she just walked out of the hairdresser with her head wet after paying him $200 for the privilege. After I told him off she went back the next day and he did it right. I had threatened to come down and tear his head off if he didn’t.

But she was a grown woman. Why did I have to do that for her? I had seen my aunts and my mom back off grown men twice their size so I knew women could manage their lives and stand up for themselves as well as or better than men.

So down-low sex, which had just been a curiosity, became my escape valve. I could go to a dude, sit back and unzip my fly, pull out the dick, and let him suck the frustrations and boredom I faced out of my marriage right out of me.

My wife have been in therapy and all our issues — my sexuality and her introvert nature — are out on the table.

But I am so frustrated with her it is hard to be patient while she learns to be more assertive and develop self confidence she never learned from her parents. Plus, I discovered she is co-dependent and a raving passive aggressive. What the fuck is that, I wondered? Then I googled and found out what those terms mean and why she had me so frustrated in our marriage.

On the flip side our therapist tells me I am using down-low sex to escape the reality of marriage. Kind of like the way a drug addict uses crack.

But now I’m wonder whether this alternative, down-low reality I’ve created for myself is really me. Maybe I would be more happy dealing with a man than a woman.

Immanuel the Escort?



Look dammit. Times are hard. Bush retired to the ranch and left us fucked economically with no lube.

So I was talking to a buddy of mine today, “Baron.” We have never sexed but Baron is the total package. Dark, smooth skin and tight body. Handsome boy-next-door face. Sharp as a ginzo knife and freaky as shit.

“Hey Immanuel, I used to escort to earn extra money when times are tight,” he said. “We should talk about launching an escort business on the side.”

I’m sitting in a coffee shop working on my laptop when Baron calls to tell me this. I go outside to take the call. If the other patrons overhear me talking about dicking some ass for pay they might choke on their cafe lattes.

“Umm, that sounds interesting,” I say. “But where would i get the time? Plus I’m middle aged…who would want me?”

Baron, who claims he is in his mid 30s, runs it down to me. I look almost a decade younger than I am, keep my body tight, and have a nice, hard dick that can hit it, he explains.

No joking, I fucked five guys in the past 24 hours at two freak parties. “Imagine if you charged each of those guys $50,” Baron says.

Fifty dollars, I think. I wouldn’t be that cheap.

Baron wants to do lunch to talk about the logistics and legality of escorting in our area. He wants to recruit some attractive guys to put in our stable.

Look, I’m sexually adventurous but this may be going too far. But come on. I hve peed on dudes, slapped them around during sex, and tickled their armpits because they asked me. For free. So why not charge for it?

So I plan to have more conversations with Baron because I like talking.

Hey, and if any my blog readers are escorts hit me up. I want to hear your story.

A Threesome Minus One Equals…



I threesomed with a gay couple named “Sonny”and “Antoine” about two years ago. It was a weird scene.

Antoine sat on the sofa, watching a Sunday afternoon football game, pretending I wasn’t on the floor on a mat in front of him, letting his boy slurp my dick. Antoine had specifically ordered me not to touch him or try to get him to participate in any way.

But when I glanced up Antoine had his long dick out of his sweatpants, masturbating furiously but still staring straight ahead at the football game. Then I broke the rule of his odd sex game. I ordered Sonny up and told him to suck Antoine’s dick so I could watch. Why should Antoine get to enjoy a show and I couldn’t?

From that day on Sonny would hit me up online but I never got an invitation back. I think Antoine was angered that I took control of the situation and ordered his bottom boy around.

But today I was online and Sonny hit me up under a new profile different from the one he runs jointly with with Antoine on a gay sex hookup site.

“Where is your boy?” I asked.

“He’s at work,” Sonny said. “Come over, but don’t tell anybody you did. And if you threesome with us again, don’t mention that you came over by yourself.”

Okay. I got it. Sonny was tired of being controlled by Antoine and for one day was going to get some independent dick. Some dick that didn’t have to be approved by Antoine.

I drove over and Sonny answered the door. He is a tall, dark-skinned brother with a high ass and a lean body. He is not very handsome but he is gracious and has a serene air about him. A blanket was spread on the living room floor. Hidden under one corner was a bottle of lube and three condoms.

I have to admit I was excited. It was like stealing a juicy red apple out of your neighbor’s garden. I was determined to fuck Antoine’s boy and make him moan better than Antoine could. And nobody would know but me and Sonny (and of course you blog readers).

We stripped and stood in the middle of the floor, caressing each other. I nibbled Sonny’s neck and then moved down and tongued his nipples, circling my tongue around his dark aureoles. I could feel him melting in my arms. Goose pimples popped up on his chest and arms. “Yeah, you’re feeling it,” I thought.

Then I pushed him on the floor and started nibbling and licking him from his balls down to his asshole and back, switching the rhythm of my flicking tongue. Fast, slow, fast, slow.

Then we 69ed and sucked each other off for awhile. Sonny can suck some dick. He held my long black dick in his hands and slowly moving his tongue up and down the shaft, his tongue slowly massaging it.

When we fucked I went hard. We started missionary style. I pulled his legs straight up in the air, holding his ankles in my hands, and sliced my dick in and out of his narrow tight ass. I pumped so hard Sonny’s head hit the television cabinet in front of us. But he didn’t seem to mind. He was in the zone, his face a mixture of pain and pleasure. He bit his lips and moved his head from side to side.

“Oh Immanuel, oh Immanuel,” he moaned softly. Sonny has a big dick like mine and he stroked it while I fucked him. The precum leaking from his dick made his stomach slick and shiny.

We ended with him sitting astride me, pumping up and down on my dick like a pogo stick. “I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum,” Sonny finally said. And he did in thick milky lumps that spattered all over my stomach.

Despite his passion I could tell he was nervous. He was washing clothes and when the machine cycled it made a sound like a door lock turning. Sonny stopped pumping on my dick and nervously glanced at the door like Antoine was about to walk in. He had a look like a deer caught in the headlights.

I didn’t cum but I didn’t care. The pleasure I gave him gave me pleasure. I’m not one to judge his relationship. Maybe Antoine is overbearing, even abusive. Gay relationships can be just as fucked up or just as healthy as straight ones.

I’m just glad I was able to give Sonny some secret pleasure, a brief escape.