Whippoorwill

Penis erectus conscientium non habit.

And yet something else to consider…last year I had two boys in rotation. I got to know each of them pretty well over time, and talked to each of them about the other. Next thing I knew, one of them hired the other…which I found hot replaying in my mind (and hand). Later, one moved out of town and the other retired…and recommended a new provider to me…who is now my favorite regular. Hotter yet would be the four of us together!

In the 1970s I had two gay but married-to-women friends, who needed places to trick. i gave each of them keys to my place. Every once in a while I would come home and find two wine glasses in the sink. I was always happy to know one of them had gotten what he really needed. Eventually, I told them about each other, and my house became their secret trick pad. They eventually told their wives, got divorced, and were a couple until a couple of years ago when one of them died.

I tend to see providers on a repeating basis who tend to charge just on the high side per the local market, and expect and get what I consider top notch service. I do not tip because I feel that results in an expectation. Rather I give nice cash gifts on special occasions-birthdays, holidays, vacation trips, etc. I find this can help establish a get-give parity without tying it to a specific expectation.

I have had great conversations in DMs with other clients…resulting in some great provider encounters. I find that when I am happy to share helpful details, I get helpful reports in return. Is that not the purpose of DMs? Each to their own, but full disclosure works for me.

I very much enjoy getting to know young men, and learning about what their lives are today. It helps me try and stay relevant. Some young men also want to get “Dad advice “ from someone who’s been around the block. It can be fun and beneficial for both.

I grew up in the Cold War era, so Russian soldiers always held a kind of evil fascination…strong, powerful, butch…right in line with my S&M/leather fantasies. I saw my first Russian soldier when I was 20. I was driving into East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie. We had to get out of my red Triumph sports car while a soldier went through the interior, the trunk, under the hood…even passing a mirror under the car to see if someone was hiding in the undercarriage. Why someone would be hiding to get into, not out of, East Berlin, of course made no sense at all. But then nothing about war makes sense, does it. While he was getting his jollies looking for spies, I saw his officer’s military hat just sitting on the counter in the Checkpoint. I could have easily grabbed it, and he’d never known until I was gone and in the Eastern Sector. What a fantasy…maybe I couldn’t actually trick with a Russian soldier, but my roommate and I could fuck wearing his hat, maybe even cum all over it. As an indication of what terrible judgement a 20-year old can have, for a moment I actually considered snatching it. Prisoner sex fantasies getting fucked by the guards are hot, but the probable reality of Soviet prison quickly disabused me from pinching the cap. So we drove off into the East, bare-headed. It would be another 20 years before I had an encounter with another Soviet soldier, when I spent a month on a project in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. This was the traditional land of the Uzbeks, a Turkic Central Asian Stan where the men were swarthy and their visages showed the signs that Marco Polo, Ghengis, and Tamerlane had all spilled their seed. But I digress…this is a Soviet soldier story. The Uzbek boy stories will wait until another day. This was during Perestroika, when Uzbekistan was a part of the Soviet Union, but as it turned out, not for long. It was also late spring, when it was already blisteringly hot. Most afternoons my coworkers and I would go to a large city park, with a fine tea house located within. I mean a real tea house, a beautiful tourquise domed structure where they served exotic pastries and excellent teas and coffees for just pennies. Nearby there was a rushing mountain stream, where a whole variety of people would recreate…Russian families, with grandfathers looking like they were pregnant with a cow…in their tiny “speedo-like bathing suits; high school youth, fresh from the Young Pioneers Camp, oozing sex out of every pore; and Soviet soldiers from the local garrison in their unsexy boxers…until they emerged from the water leaving little to the imagination. Sitting under a sycamore tree taking in the sights became a lovely afternoon hobby. But the real thing was close by…a smoking hot t-room. On my first visit to the park I discovered I wasn’t the only guy up for a blow and go, if not more. When you entered, the stalls were along the back wall, the sinks on the left wall, and the urinals on the right wall. No “splash guards” here…every cock in the row in full view and easy grabbing distance. And this t-room was always busy…not just a bunch of loitering queens too good to play. Eating cum out of uncut Uzbek and Russian cock became an obsession. And then one day, a door to the end stall opened, and there was a Soviet sergeant, in full uniform, rubbing his crotch. Khaki pants, shirt, and jacket; red and gold epaulets, emblazoned with the Soviet star; tall; and of course wearing the requisite hat I had once so lusted after. And as I went down on my knees, my eyes fixed on the red star on his brass belt buckle…I was about to get cock, not just any cock, but Soviet military cock. Boy would I have a story for the boys at the Eagle back home. Sarge played the part well…after a long slurping session, he turned me around, tore my pants down, and fucked me mercilessly. After I eventually caught my breath, I pulled up my pants, and staggered out if the stall, my gut happily filled with the seeds of another generation of Young Pioneers. I should have asked for his hat.

I always use my real given and family names, cell phone number, and email. I find most (but not all) providers soon give their real name, age, and other details. I had one long term provider who had his diplomas/certificates hanging on the wall. It establishes a two way level of trust that I really like. I am not ashamed, you have no reason to be, we are both exposing our bodies and the most intimate details of our sex lives to each other, we are engaged in a business relationship involving mutual trust. It definitely increases the level of intimacy for me.

Who hasn’t had a fabulous hairdresser who was fabulous…until he wasn’t? Same with providers. I am a two-boy guy. If I try a provider who is fabulous, I repeat in a couple of weeks, introducing him into the rotation. They generally keep getting more and more fabulous until they don’t. Then I can do something different to try to reintroduce the spark that was there at first, or move on to the next hottie I have been wanting to try. My experience has been good…several years of good times before it goes stale. But isn’t that one of the virtues of our hobby? If I wanted to have forever I could have sex with my husband…but we are both too bored with that.

Public_Assistance’s advice is probably good advice. Each of us has to decide what our risk tolerance is. IMO, in the US, your chance of getting busted by Lilli Law is one in tens of millions. Are you a prominent politician of any stripe? Is it election season? Would your name be found in the gossip columns of newspapers around the world? Does your wife have a dick following you? Etc etc. If not, in fact there is little to worry about. I could walk down the street carrying a sign “I pay to take it in the ass” and no one would care, police or old ladies. I have made out like a bandit leaning against a tree in front of the KGB headquarters in the (former) USSR. I’ve participated in orgies in more than one moslem city in the Middle East. Whatever you decide for yourself is correct. Just don’t overly obsess to the degree you spoil your sexual adventures. You only live once and an adventure now and then will extend the quality and extent of your life. My 2 cents.

Not NYC but SF with a compact business district, where everything is a quick walk or at most ten minute taxi (or today Uber) ride away. That's no different than the time you'd take between appointments anyway. I should have been clearer...I was thinking of an hour-plus drive to Silicon Valley.

I was a professional consultant for many years, in a different industry. I charged: X $/hr in my office X $/hr PLUS travel time to an outside location calculated on the time spent traveling x 50% regular hourly cost OR X $/hr PLUS a travel fee that I set based on $$/mile. Either of those formulae eliminate the need to differentiate based on number of hours spent working. They were intended to result in the same cost; some people preferred the $$/mile which is most standard; others, the 50% charge. It's a simple business proposition. If I were spending time on behalf of a client (either working or traveling) it had to be compensated. Why would I travel to an outside location and not get paid for that time when I could be in the office working with someone else and getting paid? The fees were published in advance. Hiring a male provider is a different business and arrangements are perhaps a little looser, but the same principle applies.

When in London, I try to take a day in the natural splendor of Kew Gardens, depending on the season and what's in bloom. It's an easy Tube ride from the City, and "a day in the country," the largest botanic garden in the world at some 350 acres. That's abut 40% the size of Central Park in NYC, but here every square inch is a carefully curated biome, either on the ground or in a series of glass houses, some dating back 250 years. And of course, such landscapes take a small army of gardeners to keep them pristine. On one visit some years ago, I saw a particularly hunky gardener, and he eyed me at about the same time. He had a handsome face, longish wavy dark hair under a wool flat cap, and a solid body, as one would expect from someone who does physical work all day. After he knew he had my eye, he slowly meandered off, trowel in hand, periodically checking to be sure that I was in tow. He made his way to one of the public cottages (T-rooms) in the gardens. I gave him a minute, to not seem too obvious, and followed after him. There he was, standing at the urinal, trowel in one hand and an enormous erection in the other. And happily no one else was there. I saddled up next to him at the urinal, and reached over for a feel. Soon I was down on my knees slurping up his gorgeous uncut member (another bonus of traveling in Britain). It didn't take long before I got to swallow his sweet load. He buttoned up, and walked out, still holding the trowel (he never put it down!) Not a word spoken. In subsequent visits to Kew, I have looked for him, but can't even find the cottage where we did the deed, so I live with my sweet memory.

I have hired Travis Thailand for massage, and he described himself as a pole dancer. He also does/did porn as Travis Yukarin…if you google that you will find a lot online…performing in clubs, at parties/festivals etc. He was a lot of fun in the massages, very friendly and easy to talk with. If he’s a type you like, easy to contact on RentMasseur.

The bf and I brought a cute trick home from the bar, and did all the usuals at home, coating all in various bodily substances, lube, and whatever. In the morning, we said, fee free to take a shower. The reply was "Oh no. I am not going to put dirty clothes on after a shower. That's disgusting," Strange. Funny. Or maybe his bf wanted to smell the sex when he got home.

I hire mostly for erotic massage and have a small group of regulars I patronize. I arrive on time, neither early nor late, and leave within 15 minutes of the end of my appointment. I not only assume there may be a client before and after me, I hope there is...I want my boys to be busy and financially successful because I value them and want them to stay in the business. It doesn't make me feel like a widget at all. When I'm paying by time, it's the same whether it is my GP, my CPA, or my masseur/escort, I'm paying for their time and it's of no concern of mine what they are doing outside of that time.

I had a young fellow I used to see in Puerto Vallarta, and all he ever wanted to eat was pizza and coke. That's one of the clues I got that I should be going out with slightly older guys.

There was one young man who gave the best massage service I ever had...until he didn't. He just found another undertaking that captured his fancy more. He continued to do massage, but it became number two not number one priority for him, and the quality suffered. In his case, it was just being young and flaky. To be expected but not celebrated.

ah yes, the "standing ovation inflation" at every opera, concert, play, and dance performance...and provider reviews! Just another reason Company of Men is so valuable. From Google: "Standing ovation inflation" refers to the phenomenon where standing ovations, once reserved for truly outstanding performances, are now given more frequently, even for performances that are not particularly remarkable. This has led to the feeling that standing ovations are no longer meaningful and have become a ritualistic response rather than a genuine expression of appreciation. Reasons for the phenomenon: Peer pressure: Once a few people stand, others are pressured to follow, even if they don't feel strongly about the performance. Cultural shift: Some argue it's part of a wider trend of overpraising and a decline in critical discernment. Media attention: The length of standing ovations, particularly in film festivals, is often highlighted by media, which may incentivize longer ovations. Social norms: In some communities, like Broadway, it's become almost the expected norm to receive a standing ovation, regardless of the quality of the performance. Egotism: Some suggest that standing ovations can be a way for audience members to express their own appreciation and elevate themselves in the eyes of others. Consequences: Diminished meaning: When standing ovations are ubiquitous, they lose their power to signify exceptional appreciation. Reduced critical engagement: The expectation of a standing ovation may discourage audiences from engaging with performances on a deeper level. Negative impact on artists: Artists may feel pressured to perform to a higher standard to avoid the risk of not receiving a standing ovation, which can stifle creativity. Examples: Broadway: Many Broadway shows consistently receive standing ovations, even if the performance is not considered exceptional. Film festivals: The length of standing ovations at film festivals, particularly at Venice and Cannes, has been a topic of discussion, with some suggesting that the lengths have become excessive. Classical music: Some critics have also noted that standing ovations are increasingly common in classical music concerts, even for performances that are not particularly memorable. In essence, the "ovation inflation" phenomenon raises questions about the meaning and purpose of standing ovations, and whether they are still a meaningful expression of appreciation in a culture where they are so readily given.

Fantasy: Discovering Porn I attended a private high school in the southern suburbs of a midwest rustbelt city, although our family lived in the northern suburbs, as did my buddy, Frank. Frank wasn't conventionally good-looking...he had a large hook nose, for which he was sometimes mocked as cruel teenagers do. But we got along great. He also had a nicely developing muscley body, unlike me who still had my baby fat. And this was in the era when guys walked around the locker room naked, which had gang showers. I can still see his 18-year old's developing pecs. I so wanted to feel them. Frank was also hung...he had a cock that came straight horizontally out of his pubis, and then maybe three inches out, turned down 90 degrees, as if it were too heavy to continue to stand out. I really liked to look at his cock, a lot. And today I still get turned on by guys with big hook noses...ever since Frank, I associate a big hook nose with a big cock. Some people judge by a big adam's apple; others by big hands or big feet. Me, it's the nose. To make this daily school treck took a two bus rides, transferring in downtown (this was the early 1960s before the era when high school students had cars and drove to school). There was a large magazine emporium near the bus transfer point where we often would hang out in the afternoon between busses. In the spring of our senior year we each turned 18, which meant we could finally go into the "adults only" section of the magazine store. Being horny teenagers in need of some sex education, we went exploring the adults section in detail. Soon Frank came to me with a different kind of stroke book, one of those early magazines with exotically oiled up body builders in posing straps, perhaps Phyisque Pictorial or some other of the ilk. All quite tame by today's standards, with no overt sexual acts but screaming sexuality to a gay boy in training like me. "Look what I found. Do you suppose these are made for girls, or for queers?" he said. As I eagerly devoured the pictures with him I noticed Frank had a huge boner, as we called them. I will never forget the sight...he was wearing really ugly very baggy brown tweed wool pants (private school was a suit and tie affair) that showed off his monster cock beautifully. "I don't know" I said, "but it sure gave you a boner." Frank looked down at his manhood, and looked back up at me and smiled. We cobbled the money together for the magazine, and got the bus home. We sat in the rear bench seat of the bus, hidden from others by the seats ahead. We took the mag out of the paper bag, and raced from photo to photo looking at guys in exotic poses wearing only posing straps; tight jeans; a lace bikini; two guys in posing straps straps horsing around with interlocking bodies; and a sailor boy in various states of uniform or not. We were't five minutes down the road (it was a 45 minute bus ride) when Frank unzipped his pants, reached into the fly of his jockey shorts, and pulled out his monster. I thought I was going to cum in my dress pants in a second, so I followed suit, and pulled out my best friend. Frank spit in his hand, and started stroking. I had the presence of mind to pull my handkerchief out of my pants pocket. I came first, with a gusher in the handkerchief. I handed it to Frank, who added his load. Then unbelievably he took the handkerchief to his nose and took a good whiff. I still do that today...the smell of cum is an intoxicating drug for me. Frank took the magazine home the first night; fair enough, I had the handkerchief. We traded off the magazine every other night until it was dog-earned and pages sticking together with cum. But it would be a while before we hit the bed together...a story for a future time. The reality: Frank indeed came to me with the stroke book and said "Look what I found. Do you suppose these are made for girls, or for queers?" he said. I only dared to glance at a couple of photos. I also noticed Frank had a huge boner, as we called them. I will never forget the sight...he was wearing really ugly very baggy brown tweed wool pants (private school was a suit and tie affair) that showed off his monster cock beautifully. But I pretended not to notice, and said "I don't know, probably for girls." He wandered off and eventually we went to our bus, and talked about the day's schoolwork on our way home. The upshot: I've beat off scores of times remembering this and other times with Frank and fondly thinking of what might have been. We never overtly pursued anything with each other. Decades later, I did read in the matrimonial column of the local newspaper (remember matrimonial columns? remember newspapers?) that Frank married a woman in his mid-40s...a little late in life, perhaps? An internet search shows them living in a dreary prefab suburb in the Florida swamplands. No mention of children. But I still lust after guys with big noses.

I think twice in the past five years I have had a provider ask to reschedule...I assume it is because they got a better offer. I was fine to accommodate them ...it worked with my schedule, and I want them to make as much money as they can so they stay in the business. And it works both ways...I have asked to reschedule once or twice and they accommodated me.

Given the state of what's going on, it is leading me to hire more often, not less, for my mental health.

Fantasy: Benji Alejandro. Any city I travel to I want to see it from above, to understand its structure and overall image. Before GoogleEarth, one had to do this, by, literally, going to a high place and looking down. One city where there are many opportunities to do this is Florencia, Florence, that wonderful medieval/early renaissance City of Flowers located in Tuscany. Wonderful at least if you are not there in the height of summer when it is overrun with American tourists from Kansas on package bus tours. The obvious place to view Florence from is the Piazzale Michangelo, built for just this purpose. The problem with that is, it is built with tour bus parking, and you probably want to avoid it like the plague (which last hit Florence in the mid-14th c.). Better viewpoints are can be had from Santa Maria del Fiore. the cathedral of St Mary of the Flowers. There are two routes "up" here...one is to the top of the dome, that great structure, still the largest masonry vault in the world, that ushered in the Renaissance. And I certainly recommend ascent to the top, for any of us still able to, as the essentially 35 stories take you through the bowels of the construction of the dome, with views both into the church below and the city beyond. But I digress. This fantasy revolves about what happened when I last climbed to the top of the Campanile, the bell tower, of the cathedral. Not for the faint of heart, at some 25 stories tall, the stairs have risers higher than the width of the treads, as only the Europeans do. But when you reach the top, such magnificence. You look down on the medieval city of red clay tile roofs, and beyond to the agricultural countryside, unspoiled by 20th c. high rises. And happily, the tour bus crowd never makes it up here. I arrived on a beautiful May day, with blue cloudless sky forever, but early enough in the year to be an enjoyable 70 degrees. While several dozen people can fit on the narrow balcony that encircles the tower, there were perhaps only a dozen tourists rotating through at any one time. As I was intently studying the city from this viewpoint, I remained here for some amount of time, photographing and reflecting. I soon noticed a comely young man who also remained as others came and went. I don't know who made the first advance, but we soon were talking. I learned he was from Columbia, product of an American father who ran a large American factory there, and a Columbian mother. His name was Benjamin Alejandro ___________. long before Madonna made Alejandro a hot name to have. He went by Benji as a nod to his father, but he secretly preferred Alejandro and his hispanic side. He had just finished his freshman year in college, and his parents sent him on a European summer vacation. We talked about life in Columbia, life in California, his schooling (he was a Business major), his hopes and dreams, and so on. At some point, I asked if I could take his picture. This was in the days of big heavy 35mm through-the-lens reflex cameras, with no possibility of texting him the photo. (so why did he possibly think I wanted to take his picture?). He said "Yes, but let me take my shirt off". Holy shit. I had hit the jackpot. He removed his shirt, and I took a series of photos of him, his face, his torso, his profile. At some point, I said, "would you like to come back to my hotel?" In my fantasy, he immediately said yes. Our hard-ons were apparent as we climbed down the 500 stairs, and headed off to my hotel in a former Renaissance palace. We barely got to my room before we tore each others clothes off, and spent the rest of the day fucking our eyeballs out. The reality: Benji indeed did take his shirt off and pose seductively. But when I asked him to come back to my hotel, he said no. But why ever did he offer to take his shirt off? He surely knew my game and was cock-teasing me. He probably was on the verge of coming out...we've all been there...but wasn't quite ready to pull the trigger. We parted ways. I went back to my 3-star tourist hotel and jerked off until I was totally spent. The upshot: Every once in a while I summon up memories of Benji for a jerk off. I had kept his photos until a few years ago when I cleaned house in a Covid clearing out jag. But my hope for him is that he found himself and is now bedding down every night with the man of his dreams, and fucking each other silly.

I am sure we all have missed opportunities...or at least missed fantasies. I have scores, some of which I still beat off about. Let's hear yours. I will start off with the fantasy of what should have happened, and follow up with what really happened: Fantasy: Tony. When I was a sophomore in college, I was in a dorm with sophomores and freshman. In these ancient times, I was just starting to deal with the reality I was into guys not girls. Just starting to deal, I say, because I was jerking off to the fantasy of girls, but starting to have wet dreams about guys. In those days, I was also a Catholic, having been brought up as such, but not really having thought about it much. I was smart enough to "graduate" from a catholic high school to a secular college, but was still going to Sunday Mass on campus. Somehow, I got myself into the role of waking up the other Catholics on the floor for Sunday morning mass. So come spring, sophomore year, when we are all horny with morning wood ever day, I made my early morning Sunday rounds with the Catholic boys. Prime among these was Tony, a Long Island Italian boy, with an 18-year old's hairy Italian body to beat the band. His roommate was Joe, and equally hot anglo boy, with a reddish hairy body. I softly knocked on their door, and went in to wake up Tony for mass. I was wearing my boxer shorts (gleep). Tony was asleep in bed, totally naked, with a massive hard on, that I could fully see as he was only covered in a sheet. I woke him up, and told him it was time to go to mass. All the while, I was of course fixating on his gorgeous hard-on...big, curved, raring to go. In my fantasy, we talked about how horny we each were; how we needed to cum; how Tony invited me to get up on his bed and suck him off; and now while we were doing this, Joe woke up, got behind me, and started fucking me while I was sucking off Tony. Over the decades, I have beat off countless times thinking of me sucking off Tony whey Joe fucked me silly. It should have happened. It probably could have happened, The reality: I told Tony it was time to get up for Mass. We talked for a minute or so. He went back to sleep. Joe never work up. I left and went to mass. Boring. The upshot: I have been jerking off for decades since then, thinking about what could have been. What are your slutty missed opportunities?

A few years ago my bf and I were traveling around Spain...a country of gorgeous hot men and an efficient, well-run railway system. The rail plan is a hub and spoke system, which means you end up going though Madrid more often than you might like. Or, when traveling in Andalusia as we were, all trains go though Cordoba. This back-tracking wastes some time, but if you're a T-room fan like I am, hanging around in train stations can be fun. I have a great many memories of T-room encounters in train stations around the world. On this occasion, we were going from Sevilla to Granada, with a change in Cordoba. Like much of the Spanish RR system, Sevilla Santa Justa station is a beautiful new station, with a comfortable concourse and, you guessed it, a fine, clean men's room. I left my partner reading in the concourse, while I went to "look around." The T-room was very busy, with the row of urinals constantly being occupied and reoccupied. When I got to the urinal and whipped it out, a comely young Spaniard slipped into the urinal next to me at the same instant. We took one look at each other, and got the game right away. In a move that would make a ballet dancer proud, he turned around and slipped into a stall with me in his wake, no one the wiser in this very busy place. I almost couldn't believe it as we were sucking and jerking each other off, with probably twenty or thirty guys just beyond the partition. The deed being done, he silently indicated he would like a tip. I shook my head no, left, and went back to the bf. We had another quarter-hour before our train departed, and I had some concern my fleeting encounter would follow me and demand payment. He didn't...I guessed right that he was an amateur enjoying himself, and that a few Euros would just be icing on the cake. Anyway, I am sure I was not his first or last blow job of the day in the T-room of the martyred Saint Justa.