In Celebration of Fucking and The Freedom to Explore All of Who We Are

Discerning Daddy

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Layne whispers in my ear, his cock buried deep inside me.

We are lying in my bed, there are candles burning, scented sage and lavender.

I am on my stomach. Layne is on top of me, the full weight of him pinning me to the bed. An arm is wrapped under my neck, pulling me up slightly.

“All of this,” he says, his cock pushing deeper into me, grounding me, filling me until there is nothing left, “is mine.”

He begins to fuck me harder, his arm tightening around my neck: reminding me of what he has just told me: that I belong to him.

My cock is so hard it hurts, but I won’t cum until he does. I won’t allow myself release until I know he is totally satisfied.

I have allowed myself to explore my sexuality: to be the dominant top, the dirty fisting piss daddy, the lover, group sex, gang bangs, public sex, I have been a master and an alpha, brutal and kind, all in the relentless pursuit of the edges of who I was.

But it is here, in my bed, pinned underneath the man I love, his cock pounding into me, that I find my real frontiers: the edges of experience that had always seemed just out of reach.

No matter how scared I get, or jealous, or insecure, I know, that I am safe with him. Even when we are in the middle of some pointless fight that doesn’t seem to end, I am safe here.

It is that sense of safety that allows me to feel free to express my needs, and to be open when he expresses his.

Last weekend Layne and I went to Por Detroit, an afterhours party from Mexico City that takes place in a warehouse in Downtown LA.

We arrived at 1:30 in the morning. The music pulsed through the room, all around us people were dancing. The room burst into cheers as the DJ elevated us, pulled us along, pushing us to the edge and then pulling us back.

Layne slipped his hands down the back of my jeans, his fingers playing around my hole, tickling it, his teeth nibbling at my ear. My hand went straight for his cock. He was hard: he has the perfect dick, big and fat, the kind of dick I want inside me all the time.

“Look how hard you make me, baby,” he whispered in my ear. “That’s what you do to me.”

He led me through the crowd: drag queens and queer royalty, club kids and muscle bears and art fags, queer kids and gender-fluid, dancing and laughing, losing themselves: and I remember thinking: this is my world, my friends, my family: this is where we are safe. Parties like Por Detroit and Ostbahnhof, these worlds of music and dance on the fringes of the City, are where we, the freaks, beautiful and glorious, get to come to be who we really are, where we get to be loved and celebrated.

Layne lead me into the dark room. He took me in his arms, kissing me, pulling me into him, in the middle of that room: surrounded by people fucking and falling in love, sucking and exploring desires that only exist inside those moments: at night, in the darkness of a club where all of us come together to share our bodies and our fantasies and he pushed me to my knees, taking his dick out and my mind went blank, the only thing I knew in that moment was that cock, and how bad I needed it.

We moved toward the back of the room, where a tall muscular man in his 50’s dressed in a leather harness and leather jeans was getting his dick stroked by a sexy boy in a jock strap.

“Do you want to suck his dick, baby?” He asked me.

I dropped to my knees, sucking on the man’s dick. When I looked up, Layne was licking his nipples, rubbing him.

Standing up, Layne said to me, “How was it?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” I said.

I loved watching Layne suck that dude’s dick. I love how much my man loves to suck dick.

And I love that we get to be there, together, exploring all the sides of our sexuality, not limiting ourselves, and not limiting each other.

But here is the other truth: none of this is easy all the time. I can be a jealous cave man, full of fury and insecurity. And I am learning that I need to share these parts of who I am with Layne as well: that by sharing the whole truth of who I am, the ugly and the beautiful, the scared and the proud and the sadness and the joy, only then will we be truly open to each other.

Because, for me, that is the point: I don’t want either of us to limit the other. Not because we are afraid. I want my dude to grow and explore, not just sexually, but as a man, a human, an artist, and I want the same.

And I believe we can do that together. If we are honest with each other.

Someone recently asked me why I need to always write about sex, and in such a “pornographic way”.

I really thought about that: because sure, I want to turn you on, I want your dicks to get hard, I want you wet and I want to make you horny, and I want you to validate me, but I also want to say,

Whoever you are, you are okay. That we are all in this together. And sex is fun. And love is vast and beautiful and scary and that we, all of us, are full of such potential, if we allow ourselves to reach it. That we should be allowed to be our biggest, fullest selves.

I am lucky. I live in a city that is open and tolerant. I live in a world that allows me to explore the boundaries of my desires, that allows me to explore who I am as an artist and a man, as a top or a bottom, as a lover and a partner, as a fucking human being. Not everyone is as lucky as I am.

So I write. About who I am. About my adventures. My relationships. Sometimes I fuck it all up. Sometimes I participate in something really amazing.

But this is the bottom line: you are fucking beautiful. Whoever you are. You deserve the right to be the kind of human being you want to be.

And also, sex is fucking fun. We all need to lighten the fuck up. Go out, get laid, have fun, fall in love, fuck your whole life up and then recreate it all into something new and magnificent, because here’s the other thing: this ride is going to end. We might as well get everything out of it we can.

Hey, if you liked reading this, check out my book, Accidental Warlocks on Amazon. Your support allows me to keep writing.

Gorgeous Descent

Discerning Daddy

It is hard to describe the feeling of Magic. Like love, it feels like something concrete, something physical. It has the ability to ache and to create joy, to move along your body, ripping at your soul and nourishing you: Magic is akin to love, to desire: it is the stories we tell ourselves about our lives, about who we are and who we were, who we will be.

It is the creation of an existence, of a world, of a self, built from a darkness that is waiting to devour us.

Love, though, is the intricate and aching beauty buried deep inside everything we will ever lose.

A few years ago I met a boy named Joe. Joe was 25 years younger than me, 22 years old.

There is something I should tell you, something I can’t explain, but that feels somehow part of the fabric of magic and love, part of the fabric of the creation who of I am: ever since I was 18 I’ve been having the same dream. I have it every week. And every morning, I wake up from this dream with a sense of hope and love, and the pain of loss, of having lost something so beautiful and magnificent that for a few moments I lay in bed, stunned, not sure how I will make it through the day.

I always get up. I always make it through the day. But like some strange and golden treasure buried deep, I carry the longing for something that feels impossibly gone.

The dream goes like this:

I am riding a big wheel through a vast and endless field. The sky is dark, but a silver moon aflame in a burning white light hangs full and cold in the night sky. Ahead of me is a barn. Next to the barn is a lake surrounded by a forest of giant trees.

In the lake a giant mermaid jumps from the water and into the sky, hovering there before returning to the blackness of the water: her reflection etched into the moon, imprinted inside me.

I stop my big wheel next to the barn and I walk inside. There is a staircase.

This moment is always reflective, as if I can see into my own dream, into my self, into what is coming. I have a choice: to turn and walk away, or to continue up the stairs and to the beauty and pain that awaits me.

I never choose to walk away. But I always hold it for a moment, savoring the option, savoring the idea that if I did turn away I would never know him, never see him, never lose him.

At the top of the stairs is a large room. One of the walls is missing, looking out at the lake and the forest and the moon.

A boy, maybe 18 or 19, stands in the middle of the room. I can never remember exactly what he looks like, just that overwhelming feeling of love, of need, of longing: I just know he is the most beautiful human being I have ever seen in my life and that I love him with all that I am.

He has written the words, “He falls gently through the trees,” in black.

He turns to me. “I miss you so much,” he says, and it feels like the words are tearing into me, decimating and full of a searing heat. “I miss you so much and I love you.”

And he turns, every time, he always turns in the exact same way: he always turns away from me, and he walks to the missing wall, walking on air, into the night, above the lake, until he gets to the trees, where he hovers for a moment, before falling, before fading, before being gone.

I have no way of telling you what this dream means. The absoluteness of it. The totality. Just that in those few moments I am so in awe, so enthralled, so swallowed by life and love: that in those few moments I am given a glimpse of something ineffably full of wonder.

Joe worked as a barista at a coffee shop in Echo Park. But he was an artist. He didn’t want to be Banksy, he wanted to be Basquiat, he wanted to be Herring, he wanted to be something else: something new and old: something violent.

“I want to create that one thing that no one can turn away from, that one thing that will be so beautiful and so terrifying, so personal and intimate that you will never forget it.” He laughed. “There is no such thing, of course. The idea is the thing that is beautiful, once I make it it will be nothing. That’s the thing, right? You create the most beautiful piece of art in the world, pulled from some faraway place to show the world exactly who you are, and –”

“It never does.” I say.

“Yeah,” he said. His eyes were a golden haze, his hair dark and curly, his hands long, thin, nails perfectly cut to an almost painful precision, his body lean and tall: he was stunning.
“I’m always trying to find the words to say exactly what I mean,” I tell him. We are laying in my bed in the Silverlake Hills, LA burning bright outside my windows, he is sweating, his head on my chest, I can feel his heart beating against mine. “I am always trying to describe what it is I am feeling: who I am. I feel like all I’m ever doing is screaming: This is me! Me!”

“I want…” he hesitated, and then he laughed. He smelled of carnitas and weed and…himself. He smelled impossibly like Joe. “That’s it. I want. End of sentence.”

We kissed and he fucked me, him inside me, connected to him as he held me down and fucked himself deeper into me, grounding me. He always had this amazing way of grounding me.

I love that feeling of being pinned under someone, their weight heavy on my back, their cock deep inside me, the feeling, even if it’s just for a second: of being more than who I am: more than who we are.

He would kiss the back of my neck, his arms wrapping around me, his body shuddering, and whisper, “Baby, I’m going to cum. Fuck, baby, I’m going to cum!”

I would catch Joe looking at me, his eyes open as we kissed, or the few times we went to the gym together, or as I was standing: lost in my own world, I would turn and see him and he would smile: everything I’ve ever wanted was in that smile.

A few weeks before Jon died he came into my room. I was trying to write. He lay in my bed. We weren’t boyfriends anymore. So much of our lives had been destroyed by heroin and meth: the ravages of addiction. I lay down next to him, and I wrapped my arms around him.

“Baby,” he said.

I almost said to him, I’m not your baby anymore. Not because it was true. But because I was mad at him. Jon had been in a heroin relapse for months by then, he had stolen from me, lied to me, and I was angry.

But on that day, that one day, I didn’t push him away.

“Baby, did you know I love you?”

When Jon’s mother told me they had found his body, in the back of his car in a parking lot in Montebello, that Jon was dead: that Jon was now forever gone: I thought my whole world would fall apart. I thought the pain of that moment would be too hard to ever stand up from, to ever return from: I believed that my whole life would be forever defined by the incredible aching pain of that one second.

“Baby, did you know I love you?”

I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure I said anything. I think I just held him, wishing I could keep him safe, keep us safe: wishing I could protect him from what would eventually come.

The next time he came into my room and lay down in my bed I was mad at him. I told him to leave. I told him I didn’t want him in my room anymore. He looked at me. If I could erase that look, those words, from my life I would: if I could change the very moment I forgot who he was, who we were, I would.

“I understand,” he said, and he walked out.

What was I doing in that moment? What was so important? I was probably on Facebook, or watching Netflix: lost inside the insidious banalities of life.
I don’t have an ending for this. I don’t have some beautiful way to wrap it all up in hope and how amazing life is. I don’t know any of the answers.
I do know Jon loved me. And that I continue to love him. That I will love him forever. And I don’t know where Joe went, but I like to think he is working on that impossible painting: that forever beauty, even if it means he will fail. It would be an honorable failure.

Sometimes I think all we can do is fail in the most human and beautiful way possible. It is the tapestry of our failures that will elevate us: Magicians conjuring the impossible.

You can find my novel, Accidental Warlocks, at Amazon.com. I’d love if you checked it out. And thanks for being here. My witness.

Just Fucking Do IT….and Maybe a Gang Bang

Discerning Daddy

Before you go any further, this isn’t about sex. Well, there is a gang bang story in here. And it’s a really hot gang bang, like one of those 20-load weekend kind of deals, but that’s not what this piece is about. So if you don’t want to read something kind of corny, and full of inspirational moments, just jump ahead to the gang bang story and move on.

But for those of you who can handle the cheese…come on in…

When Noah told me he was moving back to Berlin, I was excited for him. He would be starting a new job and going back to the City he loved. But I was also afraid. Fear, it seems, is a corner stone to much of my life.

Fear is that constant voice in my head enumerating every possible tragic outcome, every flaw in my body and personality, all the failures of my past and the ones waiting for me in the future. I’ve read tons of self-help books and law of attraction and power of mind books that tell me I have to get control of my thoughts and my emotions, I have to be grateful and think only happy thoughts: that what I think and feel will determine the course of my life. I will either sink or swim based on my thoughts and feelings.

If this were true, then honestly, I would have drowned a long time ago. I’m not saying it’s all bullshit, because I don’t think it is. I am a big believer that we have the power to manifest almost anything into our lives, and that how we think about our lives does matter, but, in my opinion, the way we change our life is by directly confronting the things we are most afraid of and moving past them. Not hiding from them or denying them or pretending they don’t exist.

Here are some of the things my head has said to me, “Now that Noah is moving to Berlin and has a new job he will no longer need me. He will see me for who I really am, a failure, broke, struggling, fat, ugly, old, HIV Positive. I have nothing to bring to the table. Eventually he will meet a sexier, smarter, more successful man and move in with him and I will die alone.”

Because in my head, I will always die alone. Oh, and homeless. In my head, eventually, I am always homeless and dying alone.

Another fun game I like to play is what I call the Math = Dying alone and Homeless game. In this fun filled game I like to calculate how old Noah will be when I am 55 (36), and when I am 60 (41) and when I am 70 (51). This game is all about proving to myself why my relationship will never work. It is also disrespectful to Noah, assuming that once I’m too old he will no longer love me, that he is the kind of man who would just abandon me. Which I know isn’t true. Because the game isn’t about Noah at all. The game is all about me and my self-worth.

There are a million stories like this that we tell ourselves. I’m sure you have your own special fun games you like to play when you are lying in bed late at night unable to sleep.

And the truth is, maybe there were reasons to break up with Noah. To just walk away. To say, hey, you know what, I don’t want to risk it. He lives 6,000 miles away. He’s 19 years younger than me. He’s HIV Negative and I’m Poz. He’s going to be super fucking gorgeous when I’m 70 and old and on and on it goes…but I can change that story. Instead I could tell myself another truth: How amazing is it that my partner lives in Berlin and I get to go there every five weeks? How fucking awesome is it (and what kind of crazy stud am I) that I get this super sexy, hot, 31 year old dude who doesn’t give a fuck about my age, and is an educated adult about my HIV status? I mean…where exactly is the problem?

One of the ways, lately, that I’ve been dealing with my fearful mind, is going on long walks. When I’m in LA I love to walk the hills of Hollywood and Silverlake, stunned by the endless views and the strange beauty that makes up my home City. When I’m in Berlin I love to walk for hours through Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg, discovering a new world, learning this new City that is now also my home. I carry books with me so I can stop in cafés and read. It’s amazing how kind and open the world is when you just walk and allow yourself to be open to whatever or whoever might come your way.

The other way I deal with my fearful head is contrary action. My fear wants me to crawl into bed, or to get lost in a dark room, watching hours of Porn (I can literally get lost in an endless array of gang bang videos), or numbing myself with hours of Netflix. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with gang bang videos or Netflix, or going to bed. It’s just about making sure I don’t lose myself in those things.

Like right now. I literally just finished jerking off to some pretty intense BB Gang Bang porn. So now I’m writing. I’m trying to tell the truth. I’m trying to remind myself of who I am and where I want to be. Because in the end, I think Noah and I have a chance, even our 70/51 year old selves: but regardless of what happens with us, I’ll either have succeeded or I won’t have, and that is all up to me. And how I manage my fear.

That’s true of everything in our lives. We waste so much time being afraid. Hiding. Of not taking risks. Playing it safe. Sacrificing. And then one day it’s all over.

So here’s what I did: I got on that plane and I flew to Berlin, and I told Noah all the things that scared me, and he wrapped his arms around me and just held me (He’s definitely the quiet and strong type and I’m definitely…well, I’m not quiet at all) and reminded me how safe I really am. And I made friends. I found other Americans living in Berlin and I befriended them. I invited them to coffee. I made friends with some amazing Germans who loved showing me around their city.

And I just kept doing the opposite of what my head told me. I did the opposite of fear.

I’m not really sure of my point here (I’m really just trying to keep my guilt at bay for having spent 20 minutes watching that gang bang porn video…I might have to go back and re-watch it…it was good!), but I think maybe what I’m getting at is really simple: It’s ok to be afraid and it’s ok to fall down and to fail. Just don’t let those things define your life.

There’s always a reason not to get on that plane, or date that guy, or quit your job to follow your passion, or not to write that book: but as a guy who has been terrified while doing each and every one of those things in the face of all the fear, I can tell you: Life is way fucking better on the other side.

So go fucking do it. Whatever it is. And if you fail, fuck it. Do the next thing. Just keep doing it.

Sorry this wasn’t the sexiest blog…in that gang video there was this super hot…JK you will have to go find your own porn.

But it is the one I needed to hear today. So it’s the one you get.

I promise, I’ll write something super hot really soon!

Hey, and also, my new book, AccidentalWarlocks, is now available on Amazon. It would fucking amazing if you went and checked it out!