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.