I'm going to a party

It's been months since I've been to a party.  I keep using work as an excuse to not socialize, but the fact of the matter is, I'd rather stay in.  I know that some people find the seduction of someone socially arousing, but it just frustrates me.  If I see you and like you and we hit it off, I don't feel like putting the breaks on in front of a bunch of other people. I want you all to myself, all alone, so I can have my way with you.

I'm with someone now that I can totally have my way with.  It's heart-stopping.  I just keep my dick rock hard, slowly pumping inside of him for what seems like hours (it's probably only an hour or so, but it's certainly longer than what most people are used to).  Do you have any idea how exhilarating it is to be on the edge of cumming for more than an hour, just dripping inside of perfect man pussy?

That sounds crude, but I tell you, I've never had anything like it.  This boy is like a geisha.  He's pumped up, muscular, but still round like a woman...or like anything that is sexy...is.  Having him underneath me, penetrating him, fucking him for hours and then finally unloading two full nuts of cum pushed all the way inside of him is like a bottle of wellbutrin washed down with a hefty dose of scotch.  It takes me 30% longer to get anywhere I'm going after that.  That's how sated and slowed down I am.

I got sidetracked.  Where was I?  Oh yes, the party.  Well, I'm not going to be able to see my regular boy this January 31st.  If I were, I'd probably skip out of town with him in tow on the 30th and spend the weekend up here in this time-stop-capsule screwing him morning, noon and night, but I have a friend really down on his luck and he's been bugging me to come up here, so I'm going to treat him for the New Year.  That said, I'll stay in the city for the party, pick his ass up on the 31st and haul him up here for a few days of farm R and R.

The party is at a theatre and will be filled to the brim with a bunch of theatre queers...my favorite kind of folk, since they're mostly gregarious and funny.
I'm planning on doing a lot of flirting and trawling, oh yeah, and drinking ;)

Stay warm, farm followers!  Let me hear from you, wherever you are!

Christmases Kinky

It’s Christmas, always a time for memories, but I’m not going to talk about sugar cookies and stockings.  It is the gay farmer website after all.  I’m going to talk about a couple of queer Christmases I had when I was living in NYC.

This memory is of a Christmas I must have had more than 20 years ago when I was about 24 or so.  At the time, I was a bartender at a notorious bar in the Village, a left over from the 60’s, called the Ninth Circle.  This bar had already long since peaked, had been visited by some of NY’s coolest set, but now was just a watering hole for the last hangers on of that era, those about to die of AIDS or just beginning to, underworld small time crooks and young hustlers looking for food, lodging and spending cash.  One hustler…what was his name?  I can’t recall.  I can see still see him.  Not much to look at, thin, unkempt, but cocksure and reckless.  He trawled the waters of that older crowd, would sidle up next to them as they sat at the bar, take out his cock and let them grope it under the concealment of the bar rail.  His cock was huge and from my vantage, I could watch the old men’s expression change to lust as they touched it.  Afterwards, they would flag me down to order him a beer or drink of some kind.  They were hateful perverts, all of those old men.  Deceitful.  They didn’t even have the decency to pay the young kid money.  They cheaply doled out their affection in drinks, dinners at the diner, or a place to sleep next to them back at their apartments.

What was I talking about?  Oh, yeah, Christmases.  Well one Christmas, I spent walking all over the city with a friend I met at that bar. His name was Tommy.  He was a graduate of the Julliard School of Drama and kept me in stitches whenever I worked.  He was a funny, funny guy and …well, I can’t remember how or why we agreed to do it, but one Christmas morning, we put on Santa hats and walked all the way from our apartments in the Village, up Eight Avenue, across Central Park, past the Museum, then down through the East Side till we ended up back in the Village at a burger joint.  We had martinis and burgers for Christmas.  It was wonderful.

But the real reason, I’m telling you all of this is this.  After I said goodnight to Tommy, I went to a porno bookstore.  Now remember, its Christmas night.  Still there were a couple of hustlers in there trying to make a few bucks.  Maybe for some last minute shopping, who knows.  Well, there was this one that simply blew my mind.  He was about 6 foot tall, Hispanic, very light skinned, very tough, big bubble ass and a full, red lips.  When I approached him, I wasn’t certain whether he was going to be hostile or what.  After a brief conversation…I remember he was playing a video game while we talked.  My eyes were on him, but his were on the video screen before him… I convinced him to come into the back of the bookstore with me and share a stall.  This place was run by the mob.  All of them were then and you could pay off the attendants to let you share a booth together, normally only 5 or 10 dollars.   Anyway, I got this guy in there and he acts like this tough top and he wants me to suck his dick (which was huge, by the way), but I wanted some of that ass.

After fooling around with his cock for a while, I got him to turn around.  His ass was perfect and when I started to eat him out, the scent of it was sweet and fresh.  For a while, he held himself stiffly, but soon began to relax and after a few minutes more, he was actually sticking it out for me so that I could eat him out deeper.  Lastly, he reached around and spread his fat, bubble cheeks for me so I could really get in there. Even now when I think about it, I get hard. 

The guy was driving my crazy, so I stood up and whispered that I wanted to fuck him.  He told me that it would cost me 60 bucks and I can tell you I practically threw the money at him.  I couldn’t get in my wallet fast enough.  I gave him the money.  I remember the sound of the bills folding in his hand as he turned around to present his back to me again.  His pants were down around his ankles.   I remember the outline of his muscled legs.  He had taken off his black aviator jacket and hung in on the hook on the back of the door.  His t-shirt was lifted slightly to reveal his stocky waste.

I ate him some more to get him good and wet, then rock hard, I pushed my cock slowly into that perfect ass.  He was tense.  After a few strokes, I felt like I would explode in him.  I had to keep thinking of horrible things: the prospect of getting arrested or killed, to keep from coming.   Then, just as he had before, he relaxed and soon he was pushing his ass towards me and leaning more deeply into the wall in front of him.  I was crazy with lust.  It was one of the most rapturous fucks I have ever had and I can tell you that I was especially crazed when I reached around and felt that his cock was rock hard.

After a bit more pumping, I pulled out and came huge ropes of cum.  He did not.  Then we silently put our clothes back on.  He left the booth before me…almost like he couldn’t wait to get out…away from me?  Away from the shame?  I don’t know.

By the time I pulled myself together and moved to leave the store, he was back at the video game.  He never looked up as I left and I never saw him again. 

If I could go back and relive that day, I would not have paid him for sex.  I would have asked him to dinner and then, if he needed money, just given it to him.  As I look back on Christmases past, I don’t remember the money or the presents. I remember the contact. I remember the people.  I remember the rush of feeling that I was in love.

Strong Coffee

Over the many years I dreamed of this house, I anticipated a deliciously brewed cup of coffee.  For years, I had been living with a small 3 cup brewing system in my room of a NYC apartment and I vowed that when I had the space, I would purchase a great coffee maker and brew enough coffee for my 4 cup thirst along with the needs of any friends that might amble in.

While the home was being built, I sated anticipation with shopping at places like Bed Bath and Beyond, the Kitchen Store and the like to find all the things I would need to stock my dreamed-of kitchen.  I wasn’t just out-rigging a meatloaf and potatoes operation; I was out for nothing short of a restaurant grade finish.  And during one of those forays, I bought a coffee maker priced at 120 dollars.

It was a Cuisinart and it had a built in grinder for the beans, some weird kind of way to select the number of cups you were going to brew, and a big thermal pot to store all the coffee in when it was finished brewing so it wouldn’t sit on the burner too long and get acrid.

The first couple of pots were a disaster.  If you don’t tell the machine you would like to brew less than 4 cups, it misdirects the water over the grounds and you get tea colored coffee.  If you don’t preheat the thermas, the coffee pours out warm at best.  If you don’t program it right it beeps…and beeps…and beeps till you want to  throw the mother fucker through the goddamn window.

Yes, folks that 120 dollar Cuisinart was an exercise in anger management for me and finally, I just got sick of trying to pretend I enjoyed operating the machine or drinking its coffee.  So you know what I did?  I dumbed things down considerably.  I bought a French Press and I can tell you I wish I had thought of doing it sooner.  You boil water on the stove till its well, boiling hot, so temperature is not an issue with this brew.  The first sip can set your head on fire if you’re not careful.  Secondly, and this is the real pioneer part of the story that I like, I don’t use the water out of the tap.  No, I fetch, yes, fetch it out of the stream that runs below my house.  I actually fetch a pail of water when I get up in the morning.  It’s one of the first things I do.

I don’t like using the tap because it can sometimes taste like sulfur. The stream water, on the other hand, tastes mountain-fresh.  Indeed, you can watch it roll down the mountain from my upstairs window. 

So I just wanted to give you that report before I started out with my day.  I wanted to give you a heads up on what’s in store for you when you drop by.  Not just any kind of coffee.  Mountain stream water coffee.  French pressed if you like.  And there will be time to talk or share a piece of pie or just sit by yourself if you care to and look at that mountain, listen to that stream and wander off with that water on a trip some 300 miles away to the great, blue sea.

Your Ass is Grass

I never really imagined I would grow up to be an ass licker.  I mean, brown noser yes, but asslicker…literally?  No.  I don’t even know why I’m so obsessed with it.  What is it with queers and their assholes?

When I was in my ‘formative’ years, I never found my own ass erotic at all.  Never, NEVER, did an idea pop into my head…hey, if I shove something up there instead of squeezing something out, it will feel great.  The idea was as far removed from me as PA is from Honolulu.  But I did grow up with a neighbor friend.  His name was Wissy Seletnick.  The Wissy part was short for Aloysius.   He was a short, stout, sexy Polock and he had this thing where he liked to shove an empty enema bottle up his ass, blow air up there and fart.  Now I ask you, how do you dream that shit up?  But anyway, there you have it.  That’s what he would do and on any number of occasions he would ‘entertain’ me with that.  I mean, we were like 9…10 years old.  That boy was troubled. 

Cut to Provincetown, Mass sometime in the early nineties.  I had never been there before, never even heard of the joint, but I went up with a ‘production’ of Vampire Lesbians in Sodom’.   Couldn’t have been rinky-dinkier if you wanted it to be.  And I got housed with this perfect blond, California surfer kid.  I think he was 28 at the time.  I was maybe 29 or 30.  He looked like a young Rob Redford.  Gorgeous.  And he was straight, or so the story went.  Then one night after a couple of belts and nothing to do…they roll up the sidewalk there by 1 or so in the AM…we were in our rooms and I think I must have suggested that I read something to him out of my journal…or some piece of bullshit I was working on …novel, I can’t remember all the crap I was turning out then, but somehow, and I’m vague on the details, we ended up in bed, me reading to him and the next thing you know we were making out.  And I’m not sure if it was my idea or his, but I ended up fondling his asshole and from the moment I touched it, it was like I’d pressed one of those Staples buttons, “That Was Easy!”  The response I got from him was over the top: moaning and groaning and writhing in the sheets.  Well you can imagine what that looked like…Rob Redford squirming around like a finger puppet with my hand doing the fingering…I went crazy.  And the more I fondled, the more he encouraged me to go.  It was dark and he kept saying…another finger….another finger.  Good thing I was only born with five, that ‘straight’ porn star could have taken enough fingers up there to make applause.  

Well eventually he came.  He was half on the floor at that point and my hand was so deep inside of him, I would have had to open his mouth to see my wrist watch.  And we had an entire summer of sex.  He worked at a hammock store and he actually brought a hammock back to the room we stayed in, slung it between two walls and encouraged me to fuck him in it.  My lord, those were fun days.  PS, later I found that the rest of the cast would stand outside of the door and hear us going at in there.  His cover was officially blown.

When we moved back to NYC, we continued to try to make a go of our ‘relationship’ but it was clear after awhile that it was built on obsession…nothing to do with love.  He and I both were trying to fill holes that….well, no matter how much you stuff in the physical ones…the emotional ones continue to gape. 

I’m 47 years old now.  The idea that I still flirt with fucking ass, eating it, having a boyfriend ‘wife’ blows my mind. Yet, here I am still.  I wonder how all of this will play out 3 years from now when I’m 50…how about 55 or worse yet 60?  I mean, I know that straight people have the same problem…finding sexual attractiveness in older partners…but I think it’s going to be especially difficult to find it between two men.  How is any 50 year old man still going to be taking loads, fingers, dildo’s whatever up his ass at that age?

It’s absolutely frigid here.  We have 30 degree temps and half the land is still covered with snow.  The spring birds have returned and must be half starved, half frozen at this point.  A hillside of daffodils planted some 3 years ago is erupting in those stout, pine green stems I love to see.  Looks like the display will be full.  I can’t wait to lie in some warm grass soon and look at them.  Who will be in my arms on that day?  Where will my hands be…and where will they wander?  Over grass, across his sunshine heated clothes, feeling thigh and buttocks.  Where will all my protestations about gay sex be then, when I pull that man to me, kiss him and make him mine?  

Spring Starts

Listen readers, I'm really sorry about the lapse in writing.  It won't happen again.  This gay farmer is committing to keeping you informed on all the latest in farm tips and sexploits.  So stay tuned.

Spent a whirlwind week speaking at a conference in Indianapolis where I enjoyed 70 degree weather (ok...only for a day, but I enjoyed it) and then spent the remainder of the week in the far less glamourous reaches of southern Pa where I can half heartily report that the daffodils are budded above muddy cold earth and scattered forsythia blooms look forlorn and ragged.

Put in a cold frame, did I tell you?  You know what that is? Well, it's ironically named for one, because not more than 14 days after putting it in, temperatures outside dipped to 17.  I like to say if it had been one mark higher on the meter, the temp would have been legal.  Anyway a cold frame is a couple pieces of wood slapped together to form a rectangle with a sloped top...the slope of which slides south.  You put the frame on a suitably tilled plot of soil, then put a couple of glass panes over top to trap all the solar energy that streams inside.  For two weeks there, it was doing great and the soil inside was like padding around a north carolina farm in July.  So I got cocky and laced the whole thing with a seed mix for fancy salad greens.  One week later, I added a row of radishes and beets.  Two days after that...just as the lettuce was beginning to emerge, we had this cold snap we're currently going through and I've been afraid to look inside ever since.

Back in the single saddle again.  Did I tell you?  I won't go into all the gory details, but yes, single again.

You know what my problem is?  I just can't get off on the gay of it all any more.  The more I think about sex with men my age, the more I think about gay sex in general, the more it seems laughable.  I mean, Jesus, I'm 47 years old, and while I probably have a few more miles on me in the attractive department, the idea of laying down with another man, equally as old and playing house, seems preposterous.  What am I going to do?

I can't date someone younger...too much younger...I just don't think we'll have anything to talk about.  It's like I've reached a Waterloo.  Before, anxious ridden, I used to be able to turn on a porn, take a hit of poppers and lose myself in some jerk off session.  I used to be able to escape that way.  Same thing with tricking.  Used to be able to log on to the web, find an apartment buzzer to ring, head on over, shoot a load and move on with my day...now...regardless of what I try, jerking off or sleeping around, I can't prevent reality from covering me over.  I was, am and will be an older gay man, pursuing the sex of what really should be left to adolescents.  At least straights can legitimize their partnership with some solid goals like children and though I wouldn't defend that statement vigorously, it is a reality.  I mean an old woman and old man having sex is almost as gross as two men, almost, but their partnership has the rearing of kids  as a focal point and that somehow seems like it makes more sense to me.  What do partnered gay men strive for?  Extracurricular play dates with online buddies?  A trip to NY for the black party?  Redecorating the vacation house in CR?  I don't know.  I guess the more I talk about it, the more ridiculous my statements seem.  I guess they pursue happiness, like they're supposed to.  I guess that's what they do.

I haven't been doing that.  I've been pursuing making money, shopping and growing vegetables.  And here's where I am:  Business is up; I have a house full of shit that doesn't look right; and the icy weather snapped up the vegetables in the frame.  I'm one for three.

Saw a couple with an old dog living in an RV.  I imagined they were thrown out of some house somewhere, more victims of the current economic times.  I thought, how do you make the decision to live in an RV with an old dog.  And then it dawned on me, with the right partner, with the right friend, life is much , much better, and almost anything is bearable and nice.

It's hard to believe...

I keep a garden journal in a small, but beautiful note book I bought when I was in Costa Rica.  I promise not to digress too much, but that trip was one of the best I've ever had.  I went with my best friend.  I can't remember the airline we flew, but from the moment we met one another in NYC to go to the airport...where did we meet, Penn Station?  I'm trying to remember...anyway, this friend of mine is always good for a few laughs and we were joking the entire time.  Desperate to catch up, when we approached the airline counter, I convinced the gate agent that my friend was very ill...that's the reason he looked the way he did.  I tell you it was murderous fun...insulting my friend like that in front of the ticket agent and my friend unable to respond in kind because he knew that if she bought it, we would be upgraded.  Well it worked. In fact, they damn near brought a wheel chair to collect us.  We were upgraded free of charge and placed in first class where we proceeded to order two glasses of scotch at 6 in the morning.

Anyway...I went to Costa Rica and one evening my friend and his boyfriend (who is Costa Rican and lives there) and I rented ATV's and we drove about 5 miles to this little town in. the. middle. of. nowhere.  And god was it fun and when we arrived, they were selling these really cute books made of some oddly stained wood and impressed with some dried leaves and shalac'd over and bound with a bit of burlap. Really cool.  So I bought one and have been using it to journal my garden experiences here on the farm.

It's really great to look back through it.  I can reread my thoughts on grafting, check the dates of when the redwinged black birds returned, recount the days when the last garden row got put it.

Any-way the whole reason I bring this up is because we had a MOTHER of a snow storm here two days ago.  There are sections of the property where the drifts are nearly 3 feet, yet according to the garden journal, I should be hearing spring peepers any day now and finding evidence of their mating (you know, popper bottles, used condoms, shit covered toilet paper...wait a second, that's Central Park Brambles....sorry)...I should be finding evidence of their mating...the large clumps of eggs and the long rows of trailing ones in the marshes by the last week of March. It seems like we have a long way to go between here and there.

The sun is intense though.  It's like someone hung a hydrogen bomb low in the sky ...I mean, I know that's what the sun is, but...I mean...you know what I mean. Anyway the point is, its fucking intense that sun and it's easy to see that whatever the snow cover, it's no match for that fire ball.

Oh, anyway, let me give you an update on the 'farmer things' that are going on here.  I built two cold frame...frames and covered them with old glass window panes I saved when I redid the lower part of the barn.   I placed the frames, covered with the glass on the south side of the barn...I really should have taken a picture so you could see....placed them on the south side of the barn and dug in their 'beds' with composed manure.  Under one, I tried to make it a 'hot bed' by digging in some half rotten manure and mixing it with pigeon shit and saw dust (you know, you really have to see this mess in operation...I mean, how on god's earth am I going to find a suitable partner when I'm out in the barn scooping up pigeon shit and saw dust...who the hell am I going to end up fucking in my life...?  A Log Cabin Republican?  I don't know) then covering it up with more manure and some compost.  I'm going to seed them with salad greens in a week.

I have to get to work.  I attached a a pic of the great winter wilderness...just a ways down from the house next to the creek.  Enjoy!