Nah. He’d put the jock on because—well, because he was a jock, right? I mean, he didn’t play anymore, but he had, he used to, and so wearing it was a habit, something he’d just never given up. This little piece of bro-hood that he kept with him, even as he’d grown and changed and moved on. That’s what it was.
It wasn’t at all a function of his new identity, the one he felt like he was still trying out sometimes, like a new pair of kicks or a new pair of sweats or, yeah, like a new jockstrap. It wasn’t that it framed his ass just so, wasn’t that it divided his body up, managing to emphasize both the rear he’d been starting to work so hard on (“It’s motherfuckin’ squats, man,” he’d said with a laugh when he got his first whistle at his new gym) and the dick he kept coiled in the pouch, the dick that (it turned out) liked locker rooms, athleticism, and bros just as much as he did. It wasn’t that he wore one so that then he could feel the fabric of his shorts sliding over his skin all day like a caress, wasn’t so that he could caress it himself, just run a hand along a cheek nonchalantly, you know, touching it, the same way other guys constantly and unconsciously scratched their nuts.
And it certainly—definitely, definitively—wasn’t that it made him feel so, so sexy.

Nah. He’d put the jock on because—well, because he was a jock, right? I mean, he didn’t play anymore, but he had, he used to, and so wearing it was a habit, something he’d just never given up. This little piece of bro-hood that he kept with him, even as he’d grown and changed and moved on. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t at all a function of his new identity, the one he felt like he was still trying out sometimes, like a new pair of kicks or a new pair of sweats or, yeah, like a new jockstrap. It wasn’t that it framed his ass just so, wasn’t that it divided his body up, managing to emphasize both the rear he’d been starting to work so hard on (“It’s motherfuckin’ squats, man,” he’d said with a laugh when he got his first whistle at his new gym) and the dick he kept coiled in the pouch, the dick that (it turned out) liked locker rooms, athleticism, and bros just as much as he did. It wasn’t that he wore one so that then he could feel the fabric of his shorts sliding over his skin all day like a caress, wasn’t so that he could caress it himself, just run a hand along a cheek nonchalantly, you know, touching it, the same way other guys constantly and unconsciously scratched their nuts.

And it certainly—definitely, definitively—wasn’t that it made him feel so, so sexy.

(via frat-in-fl)

That moment when you’re bringing your laptop somewhere to make a presentation, and you have to remind yourself not to forget to give it the once over with a damp towel first before you leave.

asker

donnieargento11 asked: I don't know if I've said this before, but you've got a great blog.

Thanks—I have to say, I’m a big fan of yours, too!

asker

Anonymous asked: Neil Gaiman does the New Year's thing. Pls give us smut and horror on Halloween!

Just because you asked so twicely!

It’s decided, then. I already have some thoughts, but people should feel free to send appropriate pictures and story ideas my way.

You know, I actually tried doing a Halloween themed thing two years ago. I posted a picture and a prompt encouraging other people to caption it. Nothing much came of it—I had, I think, fifty followers at the time—but maybe it’s worth revisiting?

asker

Anonymous asked: Please give us an annual Halloween scary-sex story. Pretty please.

Just because you asked so nicely!

asker

Anonymous asked: How exactly does a person jack off to fiction? Just words? Print and punctuation? And nothing else? Is there some great secret, or do I just have the most decrepit, pathetic imagination for a hundred miles in each direction?

That’s exactly how, in fact—I see that double-lobed precaroline g, and I just want to get seriffed into next week.

I kid, I kid. Print and punctuation, in and of themselves, no more get me off than individual pixels would arouse someone who’s into more visual porn—just like those pixels, it’s only when they’re brought together to form an image that they’re hot. And don’t get me wrong: I’m a visual guy, too. Yeah, I jerk off reading stories, and I jerk off reading stories with pictures, but I also just jerk off looking at just pictures or videos. Who doesn’t? And just as I have certain quirky textual fetishes (in compiling my recent intoxication caption list, for example, I discovered I’d written not one, nor two, but three captions about being drugged by an ex), there are certain visual things that get me going, visual cues that connect right to my dick.

So please, Anonymous, don’t think that you have an imagination that’s at all decrepit or pathetic, much less one that’s superlatively so. Different strokes—and different things that lead to stroking—for different folks!

Fear

So, a couple of weeks ago I got a question asking if I did scary stories, and I answered with a resounding "yes!" I limited myself in the examples I gave, though, excluding both my stories of "boys in peril" (that is, stories of guys who are about to get, or have gotten, far more than they bargained for) and my stories about bad doctors (usually psychiatrists), even though both sets are animated by fear.

I got some (gentle) pushback to that limitation, though, and so I went through my archive and collected both of those groups of captions for your reading and jacking pleasure. While I was at it, I gathered my list of captions that focus on intoxication of one kind or another, for my own reading and jacking pleasure. Enjoy!

(Also: turns out I’m really pretty darn depraved.)