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  • tzaris:

    Edit never ends by thomasdozol http://instagram.com/p/ubM5akExJD/

  • bimarrieddaddy:

    Happily Married/Happily Boyfriended. Happily Tumbling to over 20,000 Followers. Why don’t you follow This Is Why I’m Bi?

  • yeahstr82gay:

    "AW FUCK! Dude, it hurts! It HURTS!"

    "Hold-on-HOLD-ON!  LIE STILL!  I can feel you open—open—oh fuck!  Ohfuckohfuckohfuck!  Opening!  OH! AWGH! AW FUCK! BUDDY!"

    There was nothing elegant about their first time.  How could it have been?  Neither Doug nor Eric were raised to be elegant.  The most elegant thing Doug did last week was swing his youngest kid in the air and accidentally hit a ceiling light; on Thursday, Eric pushed his office chair across the hallway to the copier without getting up and without dropping the doughnut balanced on top of his coffee cup.  But otherwise, these were not two elegant men.

    These were men who retreated to the toilet after dinner to read the newspaper and enjoy alone time; who sat in offices, mowed lawns, heaved over-stuffed garbage bags from under the kitchen sink, scrambled under couches to vacuum the carpet Saturday morning, crawled around like horses and ponies for their kids while their wives made wry comments about creaky knees, never managed to get their ties straight for church, shoveled snow, sucked in their stomachs every time they buckled their belts, still managed to look cute to their wives, and twice a month fucked those wives with their socks still on and their boxers just halfway down their thighs, under a sheet, a blanket, and a comforter, in the dark, grunting.  

    Ballerinas, they were not.

    But they did each feel a yen for something … more … and they had enough self-confidence, mixed with the scent of desperation and a dash of humanity, to seek out someone else to share it.  They hovered in gay chat rooms and creeped Craigslist and shot nervous glances around the locker room for two years before they stumbled across each other on one of those chat sites (“bimwm,” that was Doug; Eric was “hardguy”) and just … clicked.  And realized, amazingly enough, they were only 45 minutes apart.

    The first meeting at Starbucks was inelegant for its own reasons: nervy and stained with a touch of spilled coffee, but the two men soldiered on, liked each other, refused to let go when the other seemed ready to, and finally, after six months of dithering, brought their hairy asses to the micro-motel’s stale air and stiff bed.

    Nothing went right; one zigged when the other zagged; they had promised not to kiss on the lips, and then accidentally rubbed their mouths across each other; Doug jumped every time something grazed his cock; Eric became fixated on the fact that his dick kept acting like a scared turtle, and he continually gasped, “It’s just scared, it’s just scared,” whenever Doug touched it and found it soft.  Doug finally took the plunge and just wrapped his lips around it, only to gag when it unexpectedly stiffened right up; Eric’s joy gushed out in the form of a high-pitched giggle that he had worked a lifetime to hide; they kept trying to feel each other up like they felt up their wives, rubbing and gripping pec like tit; Eric accidentally murmured, “Yeah, babe,” and Doug had frowned and said, “Don’t call me ‘babe’”; when Eric finally said, “Shall we give ‘er a go?” they tried first this way, then that way, until finally Eric just took the bull by the horns, pushed Doug’s legs back, clambered over him sidewise, and stuck it in.

    Fire. Pain. Cursing. Something that sounded like a small fart.  ”You okay?” “UNGH!” It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either—they had both committed to it beforehand, and they were soldiers.  

    They weren’t ballerinas, but they were soldiers.

    And soldiers get the job done. 






    (via menzmen)

  • time2bate:

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