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By gmsmith (gmsmith@juno.com)

In baring my queer heart to the world, it is not my goal to either foster or hinder any particular life style. I am proud to be gay, a 40 year old fag who years ago escaped from a marriage to a lesbian, who bore me three -all children now estranged, for the shame of having a queer father. Those in the gay community should certainly be more approving of my life style than those of the straight and narrow minded homophobic population. But to all who may object to my professed, privately engaged in, sexual practices, ask yourself the question whether or not my addiction to cock sucking or my taking it up the back way ever harmed you, your particular relationship, or, for that matter, your marriage.
But for your prejudices, Harold and I could have been legally wed, rather than receiving only a blessing from a fellow gay pastor. You can call me a "queer," a "cocksucker," a "fag," a "queen," or worse, but I never call you names, such as "cunt fucker," "muff diver," "pussy lapper," etc. I then implore all of us to live and let live in peace. So be it. . . and on with the story of my life. While names and locales have been changed for obvious reasons, the guy you are reading about is me.
I never made a conscious decision to become what I am. This was God's choice and I am told that God is love. Remember that in this game of stud poker called life, I merely played the hand that I was dealt. Nothing more, nothing less. This is my first attempt at publication, and I confess to a lack of writing talent. Hopefully, my inadequacies in verbal expression will not prevent my feelings and truthful message from emerging.
While I have shown these written memories to a few close friends (with each of whom I have been sexually intimate on numerous occasions, and I know them to be completely trustworthy), for obvious reasons, both they and I must remain anonymous. Also, I want you to appreciate that you are reading actual events in my life, this is not a "story" made up for your titillation or just to stimulate your jacking off while you read it. Really, I've got better things to do with my time than to amuse strangers. If only make believe, my cock certainly would have been a robust uncut 10-incher, as in all of the fictitious stories that flood the Internet, rather than only a skimpy circumcised six-and-half-incher. But I've had as much fun with "Pinky" (everyone should have a name for his cock). I've given as much pleasure with it as you have with yours. Enthusiasm can sometimes make up for lack of size, particularly when the choice is between being tickled to death or bored to death.
If we perchance meet someday, perhaps I can elucidate and answer any of your questions. To keep the length of this lifelong confessional within reason, repetitious and insignificant happenings have been redacted out. Their inclusion in this revelation would not have changed the message. However, if my memory permits me to recall other important happenings, I may some day cause a revised version of this remembrance to be submitted for your approval, condemnation, or perhaps you just won't give a damn.
It is said that confession is good for the soul. If so, when you finish my revelation, I will then be as clean as the wind driven snow, ready for my God. I pray for the day when my priest confessor is able to give me absolution. But for his vows, he could well have been a fleshmate of mine.

What you read below is autobiographical. That is, while not only factual, i.e., true in each and every detail, it is, admittedly, an inadequate substitute for a daily diary. For lack of some of the forgotten details, I offer my abject apology. While the memory can play tricks, such as my now recalling nine-inch cocks as actually having been a mere seven inches. But I was never one to turn down any pre-cum oozing prick just because it didn't measure up to my size expectations, as long as it produced my favorite creamy cocktail. My definition of an attractive cock was one that was either being sucked or was one that was about to be sucked. Of course, the clipped and unclipped cocks require a somewhat different cock sucking technique, an always-pleasant challenge. I even accept the strange description of how sucking, licking, or lapping can be called "blowing," as if you were inflating a balloon. This, of course, is too painful even to contemplate. I certainly think that "suckoffs," rather than "blow jobs" is a better reference, but one must stick with the language of the street. So "suck-offs" in this narration will simply be described as "blow jobs".
In my years and years of giving blow jobs, you can take my word for it that a guy's balls and the quantity of his juice vary proportionately with both the size of his rod and how long it has been since his last orgasm. Eight hours sleep usually produces a goodly fresh batch, although seconds and thirds can produce surprising amounts of cum. Also, I've consistently found that shaved pubes are a real turn on, particularly around the asshole with its unique brush like fuzz, if you happen to be into licking the love bud. With me, I know a tender tonguing of my anus, all by itself, can still make me come perilously close to shooting my jism. This can be a great waste, unless you can catch most of it in your hand or on your partner's belly for later tongue clean ups.
While having been on the receiving end of a pulsating cock literally hundreds of times as the "suckor" (which is my very favorite activity, whether aside, on top, or on the bottom), I'm still partial to swishing it around, sharing, and swallowing my own cum whenever possible. As a result of their being regularly used as handles, my ears still can give my now balding head the look of a Grecian vase. Variety may be the spice of life, but my home-brewed ball juice, from my strict vegetarian and herbal diet, is still the fruitiest I've ever tasted. It has just a slightly salty, slightly tart flavor that some ecstatic recipients have actually found to be habit forming. I've had many cock suckers compliment me on the viscosity, smooth texture, and tartness of my cum and its direct and orgasmic method of delivery, with its initial blast and the repeated little squirts, only to let me sample it with a follow-up kiss and a Frenchlike dueling of tongues.
You may very well find these to be odd recollections from a former "straight," now, perhaps, a hyperactive gay man, who was over 30 years old when he sucked his first cock, who "survived" a 10-year marriage with a lesbian spouse, and who presumptively fathered three children. I say "presumptively," for fatherhood is, after all, only a legal presumption, while motherhood is a biological fact. While I indeed had my pecker in her pussy and shot off my balls, I may also have had help. Someone may have had it in for me! True "homos" generally can't get it up with a pussy, the reverse is not true for lesbians, who fake their orgasms, can become pregnant, and actually can give a passable blow job. I say "passable," for it is my conviction, and actual experience through the years proves it to me, that only a man can truly appreciate either giving or receiving a blow job. Lesbians, of course, also claim that they are the only ones that can properly eat pussy.
I guess this means that, at a former point in my life, I progressed -or degenerated I suppose, if you choose --from a heterosexual, to a bisexual, to a homosexual -in the language of the street, from a straight to a queer or a fag, today a hip swaggering queen, if you must. Although, whenever the situation presents, I still can and do get it up and shoot it off, thank you. I have never been particularly interested in labels and presently have no interest whatsoever in cunts, either to ogle them at the beach or to fuck or to lap them. If you require a tag for me, just take your pick. I can live with it. As a "teener" in a local Boy Scout troop, we had our campsite contests to see who had the longest pecker, with a game of dueling pricks, I had experienced numerous group jack-offs around the camp fires. No one ever seemed interested or brave enough to touch another's tool, and there was certainly no tasting of that icky, gooey stuff that shot all over, making a horrendous sticky mess, which you tried to shake off your fingers like buggers from picking your nose.
Once while busily engaged in the five-finger cock massage group activity, the scout leader surprised us, much to our chagrin and embarrassment. We all went immediately limp and hastened to put it away and zipped up. Instead of letting us off, Mr. Grant (not his real name) told us that our punishment was that we had to strip naked in front of him, harden them up again, and run them off while he watched! He stayed right there until the last bare-assed kid had emptied his tiny balls. He even helped some of the limp ones, cupping their balls and massaging their little cocks. Then we had to promise never to do that again, a promise broken at the first opportunity. We were then marched stark naked in front of the remaining troop. They all whistled, catcalled, and jeered, but they were also nothing but fucking little jack offs who just hadn't been caught yet. We'd find a way to get back at them.
High school and gym class with its open showers was a source of embarrassment to me, for you see the head of my clipped cock, like a ripe plum, was so much larger than that of any of the other guys. I could never lather it up without the stem popping up to attention. Then they would stare, point, and giggle. Oh, how I would have traded that monster cock head for another couple of inches on the stem and larger balls.
Aside from this problem, the big head on my only six and a half inch penis (which, regrettably, never got any longer) would not have been any drawback, if the "word" hadn't gotten around to the others in the class. After a considerable amount of begging during recess, to win a good sized bet or to take a dare, I would haul out the rod and display it, much to their oohs and aahs.
By hindsight only, I don't think that I have ever seen an attractive cunt, while almost all cocks, balls, and love holes to me have been objects for my rapt attention. The cunt of my later-to-become wife looked more like an omelet. I have never since been able to enjoy this French egg dish without recalling her ugly pussy. Lathering and shaving her vaginal mound only made the problem worse.
Aside from the fireside jack offs, I had never had any sexual associations with either gender. Our group jack-off sessions and my frequent private hand milking sessions just seemed to be a temporary substitute for and a prelude to girl fucking. We also told many lies about our female conquests and the times we supposedly had been sucked off by a date. To my recollection, there were no admitted homos in the group, although we had some doubts about the scout leader, who would occasionally keep one of us boys (never me) in his tent over night. Years later I learned that his wife had divorced him and that he had been arrested for sucking off a number of his charges. Newspaper accounts described these incidents -no matter how pleasant to the recipient -as "molestations."
If my remembrances ended here, you would have wasted your time just getting this far. Pretty dull, yes. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, there is more. I hope that you can navigate its wiles without the necessity of jerking off or molesting your roomy against his will. Just keep both hands out of your pocket and on the table and read on. I'll get it up for you later.
As you may have guessed, high school was dullsville. I had never been propositioned by either sex, and I had never even had the opportunity to play stink finger with a girl, a coward's way to taste the flavor of pussy second hand and to enjoy its fishy aroma, which gives credence to the old saying, "when you can smell it, you have it half licked." I don't even recall having a hand inside of either a bra or panties. I was damned glad to graduate from high school and get on to college, which was my first experience of living away from my parents and my brothers and sisters. I trust that you are not too surprised or disappointed when I can truthfully say that I never had sex with any of my family, or anyone else for that matter. My only sex was peter pulling, jerking off, sometimes two or three times a day. I had discovered that by lying on my back in bed, with a pillow under my head and my feet touching the head board behind, I could shoot jism right into my mouth, with some of my cum hitting either my nose or chin. This was sometimes messy, but always tasty, and I never wasted a drop of the cream. It also kept mom from finding the dried hard spots on my sheets.
My college dorm roommate could not conceal his homosexuality, although my stolid "straightness" kept him at a safe distance in the upper bunk while he was whacking his jock. Although he many times strutted around the room, naked and with an erection blooming, his trolling of the bait never aroused my interest. He always spent too much time in the bathroom, but he never locked the door, many times leaving it ajar, perhaps hoping that I would take the obvious hint and come in. Many times I would come into the room needing to piss, only to find him on the throne milking his meat. He never missed a beat, and I'd have to stand on my tip toes and pee in the high sink. While he was jerking off, he couldn't keep from staring at my pissing cock. The dormitory was filled to capacity, and my request for a change of roommate was turned down.
At this time I had just met my wife-to-be and lost my virginity after weeks of begging, sucking her tits, kissing the cheeks of her ass, and lapping her pussy, but I never could get around to her bung, which she wouldn't even let me touch with my little finger. 69ing wasn't too bad when I was the upper or so-called superior position going down on her quivering juicy twat, but when she got her cookies while spread eagled atop my face sucking my cock, I thought I was going to suffocate, if not drown, in her gushing cunt juices. Yes, friends, girls cum too, but not the manly creamy stuff.
It was not until we got a prescription for birth control pills that I was able to fuck her without a rubber and load her ugly twat with my cream, but even then only after a lengthy foreplay of begging and dining at the "Y" with her hands firmly at the back of my head. I was getting calluses on my tongue. If there had been a device such as a snorkel for pussy eaters, I swear she would have made me wear it.
She was an apparently self-taught, but at least a half-way decent cock sucker; but the bitch wouldn't let me come in her mouth. When I sucked my freshly ejaculated delicious cum off of her breasts or out of her cunt, she had the audacity to call me a "fucking pervert," which were her actual words. After I had lapped up my juice, she wouldn't let me kiss her for fear that she might get some jism in her mouth. This really pissed me off, because I thought that my cock juice was exquisite, and I didn't want it wasted by getting it soaked up in a towel or a Kleenex and discarded. I never could convince her that swallowing cum couldn't make her pregnant! Only later did I learn that she and her former lesbian roommate were still frequently meeting sub rosa and 69ing each other's brains out.
With her deviancy and my, to then, lack of appetite for cock, you'll say it was unusual for me to marry and spawn all of those children. Latent cock suckers don't often do that. But we were living in a small midwestern town, with no queers daring to come out of the closet. Instead of "outing," they all left for the west coast, where they would have numerous opportunities for a normal life. Also, without attracting undue attention, she was able to continue longstanding relationships with her other lesbian girl friends. I found that society doesn't attach the same significance to women hugging and kissing each other in public. However, if I had ever French kissed one of my male sperm donors in public, we both would certainly have been tarred and feathered. Such is life in a small midwestern city, where beating up a queer on Saturday night is considered a public service.
At the exchange of marital vows, never to stray, etc., till yee die, I attempted to be true even to my lesbian wife, who had lost nearly 100% of her former, apparently feigned, interest in my cock, which she would only occasionally fuck, and had entirely given up sucking on it. This infrequent release of tensions proved to be too difficult for this mere mortal with balls, which required frequent emptying. With her numerous women friends in our small town it would have been too risky for me to have fucked around with any of them.
While pouring out my grief and the burning pain in my testicles to a friend at work, he said that he was very sympathetic with my problem and would do anything he could to help me out with my case of bursting nuts. I knew him to be unmarried, but I thought him to be straight, as he frequently bragged about how much ass he was getting on a regular basis -only later did I discover that it was really male ass he was getting! My thoughts went back to my boy scout leader who had gotten into trouble with some of the boys in our troop, and I wondered just what would be involved if I let my new found friend "help me out," as he had volunteered to do.
He invited me on a tent-camping over night for a fishing weekend. We actually had our waders, fishing poles, bait, etc., which, as it turned out, never got wet. I don't even remember if we were near any body of water, just that we were in some god-awful wooded area, miles from other human beings. After we arrived, the tent was pitched, the sleeping bag unrolled -to my surprise, there was only one double bag which we would be sharing sans pajamas in the nude. When the cooking equipment was made ready, Harold (not his real name) turned out to be an excellent cook, and we enjoyed tender steaks and the works. Our beers were iced and ready and there was even a gin martini or two before dinner. Much to my surprise, after dinner, Harold produced some weed and we passed it back and forth for a pleasant little buzz.
Conversation was tentative, mainly about the weather, the state of the economy, and the Cub's chances for a pennant -nil, of course. Then Harold casually mentioned that it had been a long time since he had gotten his balls off. We shared that this was a mutual need, but I saw no ready way to solve the problem. Harkening back to my Boy Scout days, we would both simply have hauled out our meat and jacked off. I told Harold of my years ago practice, but he said that he had a much better idea.
It was then that he told me that he was a homosexual, but that I was not to worry as there was nothing that I would have to do for him other than to relax and enjoy what he would do for me; and that it would be a lot more satisfying if we could at least play with each other's cocks. At the time, I thought the only thing we were going to do was to masturbate each other -a grown-up Boy Scout sort of game, but at the next higher level. The thought of drinking each other's cum would have caused me to scamper back to the relative safety of the city and my wife's ugly omeletshaped twat. I had no reason to anticipate how many higher levels of sexual activity Harold and I would engage in that very night and how it would steer me on the right course -for the rest of my life.
Harold had brought with him several glossy homosexual man-to-man naked and explicit sexual pictorial magazines that we went through, page by page, pose by pose, with Harold's animated graphic description of what the men were doing -for each other, to each other, and with each other. I had never seen such a photographic collection of nude men, all with huge erections and many with their cocks in the mouths or up the assholes of others. My rod was noticeably stimulated and Harold's package was putting a great strain on his slacks with a large wet spot soaking through. Harold told me that he had actually been offered a chance to model for this type of publication and to act in male porno movies, but that he was afraid that some of the people in town would recognize him. This was probably a small risk, as our town didn't even have an XXX type of movie theater, and porno magazine racks were illegal. This was in a day before you could rent such movies on video cassette. Where is the ACLU and freedom of expression when you really need them?
The weather being comfortable and flying insects not a problem, Harold suggested that we get out of our clothes for our little sex game around the camp fire. Since high school in the open showers, I'd never been in the buff with another man, and I let Harold be the first to bare his equipment, which was spectacular indeed. Only when he stood au natural with his gorgeous penis straight out in front like a flag pole did I join him as the second nudist. Almost like a casual hand shake greeting of straight male friends, we each wrapped our hands around the other's cock and cuddled his balls. This was my first touching of another's pecker. Little did I suspect that his cock would actually shoot off in my mouth that very evening, and that I would end up licking it, sucking it, and asking for more of its ball juice.
As Harold with his admitted homosexuality was the one of us experienced in man-to-man love, I took my clue from him, mimicking mirror-like his every move, wondering what would take place next. Harold suggested that we lie down on the spread blanket. With his hand still on my cock, I was in seventh heaven and thought that I might cum too soon. I didn't want it to be over that quickly.
Harold proceeded to kiss and suck my nipples and lick and suck my belly button. Whee, this was definitely more than a Boy Scout game now, but, surprisingly, I didn't mind and my Pinky was oozing pre-cum. It reminded me of some of the male models in the magazines we had just been gazing at. Harold started kissing my neck and cheeks, sucked my ear lobes, and before I knew it he was kissing me on the mouth, with his tongue swishing around and our cocks rubbing together. My tongue welcomed his and before I knew it I was reciprocating, swishing my tongue around in his mouth. I could never have guessed that kissing another man could be so exciting.
Needless to say, my cock was now at least an inch longer than it had ever been before and was dripping on Harold's belly. Pretending to pout, Harold asked me to clean up the droplets with my tongue, a taste of my own pre-cum. Harold then turned me over with my ass up. He parted my cheeks and said that my buns were the sexiest he had ever seen, as he started to kiss each cheek, even licking deep down in the valley where the sun don't shine. I was doing my best not to cum as he licked my virginal butt hole, but he said to hold off and promised that the best was yet to cum.
He swiftly moved his tonguing to my balls, taking each one separately into his mouth, then both of them at the same time. My cock dripping became more profuse, and he proceeded to lick off the head, he said "for the sake of neatness." Except for the beers and the double martinis, which slowed me down, I would have shot my load long before this. But it was simply too much to hold back when he suddenly deep throated my log all the way to my balls. I was so far down his throat, with my nuts resting on his chin, that he probably didn't even get to taste my cream, for it must have gone straight into his stomach. When he kissed me this time, however, I detected the taste and aroma of my very own juice, which was to become a lifelong addiction.
I don't really know if one who loves cum can be considered an addict, as in the case of a dope fiend, but all I can say is that in my later life when I bloomed into being an active member of the gay community I never once -that may bear repetition -I never once turned down the chance to give someone a blow job and swallow their tangy cream, always good to the last dribble, sometimes followed with a salted soda cracker! In my high school days after jacking off into my own mouth, I'd sometimes chase my cum with a 7-Up, causing my burps to become deliciously aromatic.
To this time, Harold had been the only active one of us, but his teaching by way of example wasn't lost on me, and one good turn certainly deserved another. Although dripping tasty pre-cum, Harold had successfully held back his load. As a tenderfoot cock sucker, I wasn't able to take much of his rod into my mouth. Each time I tried I gagged. Harold told me that he would teach me how to do it right, but that, if I was careful not to scratch his cock with my teeth, I was doing just fine for a beginner. I found that enthusiasm can make up, at least partially, for lack of experience. Mostly, I was just licking his piss hole, sucking the head of his prick, and enjoying his oozing pre-cum.
He asked me to take it out of my mouth and to lick around his balls. For the first time, I noticed that Herald was smooth and perfectly shaven from his belly button down including his cock, balls, and bung. This made his asshole smooth to my probing tongue and his balls easy to slurp in between my lips, although I wasn't able to get both of them in my mouth at the same time as Harold had done with my balls. When nestled deliciously down in his crotch it wasn't much of a trip to lap around his bung just as he had pleasured me. This caused his smoothly shaved cheeks to pinch and he playfully trapped my nose in his crack. I wish now that I had a picture showing the back of my head trapped in the crack of his ass while sticking the tip of my tongue into his smooth hairless butt hole. While my memory of this first man-to-man experience may not be totally accurate, I'd swear that my tongue was at least a good half-inch inside his hairless bung, maybe more. Who will ever really know? But in later years I became much more adapt at tongue and cock fucking assholes.
This was, obviously, doing great things for Harold, who tapped me on the top of my head and told me it was now cock sucking time, and that he was going to shoot off a load in my mouth. He knew, of course, that this was my first time of going down on a prick and that he hadn't unloaded for the past two or three days. He warned me that his load would be huge, but that I should try to swallow as much of it as I was able to. He said that if I drooled, he would gladly lick me clean.
It was then that I pulled my tongue out of his asshole, had him sit up with his back supported by a nearby tree, and I crawled toward his upright giant meat. I'd only recently had it in my mouth and knew I couldn't take very much of it, this my first cock sucking time. But I managed to tongue back his foreskin and unclipped head and about four inches of his cock into my mouth before gagging. I then backed off about an inch of cock and started going up and down on it in short strokes. In later years I learned that this is only a rank beginner's way of pleasuring a cock; but Harold, to say the least, was both most patient with a neophyte, and was he ever ready to gush! You bet he was ready, and my sucking hastened the cum harvest of my first giving of a blow job.
When his balls tightened up, he gave no more than a 10-second warning of the cumming explosion, and a veritable blast it was. I wish I could have caught it in a measuring cup or a large shot glass, for it must have set some sort of a record. But my only choice was to suck the head of his joint and swallow as much as I could, spurt after spurt, after spurt, after dribble. Would it ever stop? He was right about the quantity, as it dripped on my chin and down my chest to my belly button. True to his word, he thoroughly tongued me clean of his cum, I licked his cock clean of cum, and we French kissed to share the treasure trove.
While he was shooting cream in my mouth I was busy enough trying to gulp it down and couldn't detect any particular viscosity, texture, or flavor. But when the tornado blast subsided and I could swish it around a little, I became a lifelong fan of the liquid cock blast, known in polite mixed company as semen, a clinical word depriving it of any pleasure and thought to be good only for the impregnation of a cunt. In my later life, next to my own ejaculate, Harold's cream proved to be the very best in terms of its being smooth and intriguing to the taste, with the smooth consistency, but not the relatively dull flavor of honey or of a heavy maple syrup. I learned to be grateful that Harold was a non-smoker, as cigarette smokers' cum is less in quantity, thinner, and has a distinct, slightly less tasteful flavor. But fortunately, so far at least, cigarette smokers' jism hasn't been linked to cancer, such as is the case with second-hand smoke.
Although it seemed an eternity for my initiation into the gay life, the evening was still young and too early to turn in to our double sleeping bag for naked cuddling. Now a newly initiated cock sucker, I continued lovingly to caress Harold's balls, tickle his bung, and play with his recumbent semi-rigid member. With neither his encouragement nor his reluctance, for we weren't talking much, I proceeded ever so slowly, sucking him off again. As he was only partially rigid at the time, I had the exquisite experience of having his pecker coming to full bloom alive while in my mouth. Being only a half hour or so after his gigantic first load, I was able to swallow his now lesser but still generous spurting of cream, which I then returned part of to my new-found lover by mouth-to-mouth French kissing. We blew each once again before turning in for the night, and we crowned it off with two 69's the next morning before breakfast, never wasting a drop of cum, and with Harold finger fucking my asshole. Although very tight and a little painful, he actually managed to insert two fingers up to the middle joint. It was then, for the first time, that I realized that while getting sucked off was delightful, I far more enjoyed being the one doing the sucking and swallowing of the jism.