asker

Anonymous asked: Love love love the way you write.

Well I love love love, gentle Anonymous, getting feedback like this, so thank you so much!

And everybody: there will be more of my writing soon, I promise!

asker

wellcoached asked: While the rest of us are mentally undressing the handsome jock, simply counting his cash, you remind us with a few simple words, that he has a big heart in addition to big biceps... "That one’s kinda just for you." Sweet...

Awww, shucks—I’m so, so happy you liked it!

I’ve seen that picture so often in cash domination scenes, which—well, while I’m all about people making bad decisions that aren’t in their best interest under the influence of others, those have always left me a bit cold. And so I wanted to do something else with it, something aggressively and unabashedly sweet. Thanks for the ask!

(And there’s a caption to be had with “bigness,” isn’t there? Big biceps, big dick, big heart? An expansive magnanimity that’d come from knowing you’ve got enough to share?)

asker

anthonychrist666 asked: I accidentally unfollowed you haha. No wonder my dashboard seemed bland.

Hah! I’m glad you refollowed, and I’m even gladder to be the chile in your (tumblr) chili!

asker

deepernow asked: Your captions are simply wonderful. I'm often impressed by your ability to bring together symbolism and sensuality in such a concise, effective way. Some, myself included, get too bogged down it and remove it from the personal, human stories you tell. As always, well done!

Thanks so much! I have zero idea at this point if there was a specific caption to which this was referring (I’m way behind in getting to my inboxes, both Tumblr and email, as well as to actually writing captions, as all of you can obviously see—sorry!) or if it was a more general bit of praise. But either way: thank you!

It’s especially delightful to hear because, in your self-deprecation, you’ve hit on a certain distinction between captioning styles that’s always on my mind when I read your work. Of course your captions don’t get too bogged down and removed from the personal—quite the opposite. Or, rather, their occasional remove from “then Jim held Sean down and fucked him” narrative mechanics is a positive virtue of your writing, not a fault. I’ll admit to flat out, unalloyed, burning envy that I’m continually unable (and Lord knows I try) to write the kind of purely discursive captions that you and some of my other favorite captioneers write. Or I do write more discursive ones, but even when they’re not structured by story they don’t manage the kind of densely allusive verbal texture that you (and bzork, say, or gay-college-science when he waxes poetic—which is to say chemical) toss off with seeming ease in both your narrative and non-narrative work. It’s, to put it mildly, a frustration that’s not been lightly borne, and so how gratifying it is to hear that you consider to be a strength what I often think of as a weakness of my work.

My point: the feeling is mutual!

"Wait, stop," I say, trying not to sound too exasperated. "Here. Your tie’s crooked." I tighten it, pushing the knot up to his neck as he stands still for me like a kid on Sunday morning, and then I smooth the length of if down over his shirt, under his jacket, with the back of my hand. "There," I say, brushing his shoulders, flattening out the wrinkles, looking down at him with gentle affection. "See how well I take care of you?"
"Wait, stop," he says, nervous, and I do—steady and sure in the midst of his flitting and fluttering. "Here. Your tie’s crooked." He adjusts it for me as I wait calmly, not needing to move—I’m a potentate, a potency being attended to. "There," he says, brushing out wrinkles on my jacket that aren’t really there, and somehow looking up at me hopefully even though he’s (technically) taller. “See how well I take care of you?”

"Wait, stop," I say, trying not to sound too exasperated. "Here. Your tie’s crooked." I tighten it, pushing the knot up to his neck as he stands still for me like a kid on Sunday morning, and then I smooth the length of if down over his shirt, under his jacket, with the back of my hand. "There," I say, brushing his shoulders, flattening out the wrinkles, looking down at him with gentle affection. "See how well I take care of you?"

"Wait, stop," he says, nervous, and I do—steady and sure in the midst of his flitting and fluttering. "Here. Your tie’s crooked." He adjusts it for me as I wait calmly, not needing to move—I’m a potentate, a potency being attended to. "There," he says, brushing out wrinkles on my jacket that aren’t really there, and somehow looking up at me hopefully even though he’s (technically) taller. “See how well I take care of you?”

(via bzork)

We hike all the way up to the top, and we each head off to do our thing, to commune with nature and the vista and whatever. I start to take a panoramic picture with my phone, and as I slowly turn back around I have to struggle to keep it level and not to laugh. He’s posing right in my line of sight, trying to look as monumental—and his skin’s almost the right shade, and his muscles are curved and carved just like the rocks—as the geological formations all around us. And yeah. He’s a fuckin’ rock—solid. Always has been, likes to think he always will be.
But the whole reason we’re here, everything we’re seeing, is evidence of just how much something soft like water can wear down rock, can shape it through time. And water—my moist breath on his ear, my wet tongue on the back of his neck, and his own seed splattering against the ridges and gorges and gullies of his abs—is what’s gonna break him down, too.

We hike all the way up to the top, and we each head off to do our thing, to commune with nature and the vista and whatever. I start to take a panoramic picture with my phone, and as I slowly turn back around I have to struggle to keep it level and not to laugh. He’s posing right in my line of sight, trying to look as monumental—and his skin’s almost the right shade, and his muscles are curved and carved just like the rocks—as the geological formations all around us. And yeah. He’s a fuckin’ rock—solid. Always has been, likes to think he always will be.

But the whole reason we’re here, everything we’re seeing, is evidence of just how much something soft like water can wear down rock, can shape it through time. And water—my moist breath on his ear, my wet tongue on the back of his neck, and his own seed splattering against the ridges and gorges and gullies of his abs—is what’s gonna break him down, too.

(via maxhockeyjock)

asker

proudsage asked: "The boy's an ox..." "I make him leave his yoke on." The abruptness of the last sentence, focusing the reader's attention back on the image, leaving the imagery of the person in it grunting and rutting as they plow you swirling in the reader's mind... You're right. Textual and image-based porn, when properly combined, are far more than the sum of their parts. Thanks again. =)

You have zero reason to thank me—after an ask like that, I’m the one who should be thanking you. That kind of detailed, nitty-gritty, “let’s analyze this on a minute textual level” feedback is something that I don’t (but then again, could I ever?) get enough of, so: thank you!

It is a lovely picture, though, isn’t it? The way he’s just slightly leaning forward, the way he does look like someone just barely being held back, and the contrast of that with the thick satiny tie—-unf, man, unf. I’m glad you enjoyed it, and thanks again for the absolutely delicious feedback!

asker

Anonymous asked: The beauty and power of your writing is astonishing. I wish you would do more full-length fiction. -Hyptrance

Thanks for the ask! I assume you’re the Hyptrance I know from writing MC stories and whatnot? Either way, it’s so, so gratifying to hear that you like my writing enough to want more of it, at length!

To be honest, I haven’t really given doing longform fiction any serious consideration. Part of that, to be perfectly frank and open and honest, is fear—fear that I wouldn’t be able to sustain it, fear that I wouldn’t know how to keep a handle on the material, and fear it just plain wouldn’t be any good—and so knowing that others not only think I could but wish I would is just lovely. Thank you!

All those reasons aside, the thing that’s really keeping me from doing a longer piece, at least at the moment, is time. This ask actually gives me a good opening to say that it’s been a few days since I posted, and I’m sad to say my updating will most likely be in fit and starts for the next month or so. I’d ask you all to bear with me!

It was easier than I thought it would be. I knew Gregg had heard through the grapevine—every fucking person had fucking heard through the fucking grapevine—but if he’d had an issue with it I’d never have known: when he saw me at McRourke’s he let out a hoot, ran over, bought me a pitcher. We started bullshitting right where we’d left off from two Augusts ago, him just adding “and ass” every time he talked about how we needed to go out together and score some pussy together, like we did in the old days. And he insisted that since I was going to be home for the summer again, finally, I come with him to his gym like I always used to, too.
"Plus—shit," he said. "You’re not gonna believe it. Tyler Farris works out there now."
"No shit man! Little Tyler? Geeky Tyler? From senior year chem?"
"Yeah man. Practically lives there."
That next week I went with Gregg, and we worked out, and I was relieved at how another part of my life hadn’t seemed to change, hadn’t upended itself in all the drama of spring semester. When we were done, Gregg headed off to buy a smoothie, and I was just standing there by the free weights when suddenly I realized that the guy I’d been watching ‘cause he had perfect form wasn’t a guy at all; it was Tyler. I watched his muscles ripple, I watched them shift and glide under his skin, and It was weird how he was built—little Tyler Farris was fucking built—but still recognizably him. Same nerdy glasses, same pouty mouth (I think he’d played the trombone or something in the marching band?), same look of intense, absorbed concentration he used to get when he was the only single one in class working on a complicated knot of stoichiometry alone in the corner. He watched the weights, breathing out through pursed lips as they almost touched above him, but it was clear he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking through them, past them, focused on something else. Focused on the prize.
He swung himself up, and I watched something move in his shorts as I felt something move in mine. When I looked up from his crotch, he was toweling off the bench, and he’d spotted me. He smiled—or smirked—and jerked his head as if to say “‘Sup,” as if to say “Yeah, I know you’re looking, and you can look, but understand that I could put you—all of you—on your knees; you can’t hide anymore, can’t hide the way I always wished I could have.”
Yeah. Tyler’d heard through the grapevine, too.

It was easier than I thought it would be. I knew Gregg had heard through the grapevine—every fucking person had fucking heard through the fucking grapevine—but if he’d had an issue with it I’d never have known: when he saw me at McRourke’s he let out a hoot, ran over, bought me a pitcher. We started bullshitting right where we’d left off from two Augusts ago, him just adding “and ass” every time he talked about how we needed to go out together and score some pussy together, like we did in the old days. And he insisted that since I was going to be home for the summer again, finally, I come with him to his gym like I always used to, too.

"Plus—shit," he said. "You’re not gonna believe it. Tyler Farris works out there now."

"No shit man! Little Tyler? Geeky Tyler? From senior year chem?"

"Yeah man. Practically lives there."

That next week I went with Gregg, and we worked out, and I was relieved at how another part of my life hadn’t seemed to change, hadn’t upended itself in all the drama of spring semester. When we were done, Gregg headed off to buy a smoothie, and I was just standing there by the free weights when suddenly I realized that the guy I’d been watching ‘cause he had perfect form wasn’t a guy at all; it was Tyler. I watched his muscles ripple, I watched them shift and glide under his skin, and It was weird how he was built—little Tyler Farris was fucking built—but still recognizably him. Same nerdy glasses, same pouty mouth (I think he’d played the trombone or something in the marching band?), same look of intense, absorbed concentration he used to get when he was the only single one in class working on a complicated knot of stoichiometry alone in the corner. He watched the weights, breathing out through pursed lips as they almost touched above him, but it was clear he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking through them, past them, focused on something else. Focused on the prize.

He swung himself up, and I watched something move in his shorts as I felt something move in mine. When I looked up from his crotch, he was toweling off the bench, and he’d spotted me. He smiled—or smirked—and jerked his head as if to say “‘Sup,” as if to say “Yeah, I know you’re looking, and you can look, but understand that I could put you—all of you—on your knees; you can’t hide anymore, can’t hide the way I always wished I could have.”

Yeah. Tyler’d heard through the grapevine, too.

(via dabbaabba)

asker

Anonymous asked: I like good photos, but when you put great words along with them they become so much more. And you are by far, without a doubt, my favourite "captioner" on here. You are an awesome writer. Just. Woah. Nice, man.

Again with the blushing!

It is a weird, almost alchemical thing, isn’t it? I mean, I love visual porn, and I love textual porn far more. But there’s something about when the two meet just so, and feed off of and amplify each other, that seems to go beyond the capabilities of either medium.

I’m not saying I think mine always manage to do that, but I’m very, very gratified that you think so, Anonymous. Thanks for the ask!