How to Suck an Uncut Cock
There comes a moment in every American cocksucker’s (and I use that term as an honorific) life when he/she pulls down a pair of trousers and is met not with a well-shorn sailor, but a hooded monk. Yes, I’m talking about the rare occasion (in America and Israel, at least) when you wind up with a foreskin in your hands. And, eventually, mouth.
As we all know, not every dink is created equal, and dealing with one of the uncut variety offers its own unique pleasures and challenges. I interviewed a bunch of uncut gay guys (the only demographic that has been on both the receiving and giving end of this particular activity) and they offered some simple tips for giving a long-skinned dude the beej of his lifetime.
The first thing to remember is that size DOES matter. Not only the length of the dong, but the size of the foreskin, too. Some foreskins will be tight as a drum when the penis is hard, while others have a bit of turkey neck dangling down even at full mast. How much they have will decide what you can do with it. Make sure you don’t stretch a tight one, and be sure to diddle the ones with wiggle room generously.
The typical response from a cocksucker who isn’t used to having some extra dick slack is to Thermalift that shit by just pulling the foreskin back and pretending like it’s not there. Big mistake. “My head is really sensitive,” says Richard from San Francisco, who, like most uncut guys, is more sensitive than his snipped brothers (that’s what happens when your head isn’t numbed by rubbing inside your jeans every day for countless years). “If the skin is back it’s really intense and feels good, but sometimes it’s too intense. They’re going down like it’s a cut dick, and it’s quite painful. They have to give it a break and switch it up.” If the penis gets agitated, the best thing to do is give it a break by re-covering the head with the foreskin.
But not too much! Adam from Philadelphia cautions, “You have to pull the foreskin back a little. It doesn’t feel like anything if you’re just sucking the skin over the head.” So, it needs to come back to the top, but don’t turn it into an empty Chinese finger trap. Got it?
Three Days of Torture in a Male Chastity Device
Hi, I’m Brian Moylan. Welcome to Tubesteak, a regular column where I talk about penises mostly and what I do with mine and what you should do with yours. There will also be some discussion of cocks, cocksuckers, cuckolds, and maybe, just maybe, a clitoris or two. But, honestly, mostly just dicks.
Waking up with your dick locked in a plastic cage is the hardest part. It always takes a minute to remember why there is a crazy contraption squeezing the hell out of it. Your morning wood fills it to the brim and your spasming penis looks like a kid with his nose pressed against a window. It’s trying to break free, to get through the plastic to freedom. But it can’t. It is trapped, and it is dying.
This only happens, of course, if you put your penis in a male chastity device like I did. I wanted to know what being unable to touch my dick for days on end would feel like. For that I needed the CB-3000 (I’m going to assume the CB stand for “cock block,” but I guess it could also stand for “chastity belt”?) which retails for about $150 and came in the mail in a delightfully unmarked package. (Haha. Package.)
While the mechanism seemed simple at first glance, getting it on was a bit complicated. The CB-3000 consists of a dong-shaped plastic cage that holds the penis and a ring that goes around the base of the cock, trapping the balls between the ring and the cage like a medieval peasant’s head in the stocks. Then, the ring locks to the cage, and a small padlock secures the whole kit and caboodle. The directions weren’t much help, but a wonderful animated GIF on the device’s website helped me figure everything out. Who would’ve thought the medium historically used to document adorable kittens and Honey Boo Boo falling down would help me paralyze my hog?
After a series of peen contortions that would’ve put Daniel Browning Smith to shame, I finally got it in there. It wasn’t comfortable. Because of the weight and shape of the device, trying to fit it into tight underwear or pants was nearly impossible. Surprisingly, though, it didn’t create too much of a bulge, even in form-fitting jeans (at least from an outsider’s perspective). To me, my basket felt larger than life, and I initially assumed everyone else was paying as much attention to it as I was. After carefully gauging the reactions of numerous passersby, however, I don’t believe anyone ever noticed (or maybe other people just don’t stare at strangers’ crotches like I do?) That was part of the fun of this whole experiment: knowing that I was walking around, having meetings, going to work, and riding the subway with this weird toy in my pants. It was my own kinky secret, and I liked it.
But that was the most enjoyable part. The weirdest thing about the chastity device was that it made me think about my dick all the time, while also rendering it completely obsolete. I wanted to fuck everything, but I couldn’t fuck anything. It was sort of like having a black hole in my pants, pulling everything toward it, but there was nothing there.
The hardest part was peeing, which is done through a hole at the end of the enclosure. Since my dick is a bit shorter than the molded plastic (go me?), my urination was more a sad dribbling than a steady stream. This meant I couldn’t use a urinal and had to pee in stalls in public restrooms. It also meant I had to mop up the floor a few times. Showering with it on wasn’t so great, either, because there is no good way to get everything dry. After my second day wearing the CB-3000 (which, now that I think about it, sounds like an evil castration robot, amirite?) a little bit of steam had collected on the inside, like in a terrarium. It was condensed dick sweat. Nasty.
What Your Underwear Says About You
Congratulations, you have convinced some poor fool to come back to your house from a bar/party/awkward OKCupid date and tricked them into thinking it’s a good idea to have sex with you. (That’s the reason we call them “tricks,” btw, because there is always some sleight of hand.) Now it’s time to take off your pants and immediately reveal everything your prey needs to know about you. While we all know dick size is really the only thing that matters, first impressions are pretty important too, and anyone who takes home a male lover is going to first judge him by the style of his knickers.
So, what exactly do different types of undies tell us? Listen up, broseph. (I said that ironically.)
If you wear boxers, you are one of three types of people. 1.) You never left your dorm room without wearing a baseball cap—probably white and most likely with the brim all frayed. You wore those baggy bloomers under your “relaxed fit” jeans from the Gap (or Old Navy if you were on scholarship) and now they’re under the pleated pants of a cheap suit that you wear to your job in finance, real estate, law, or something else that has to do with money; 2.) You’ve eaten sushi off a naked woman before; 3.) You live in an urban environment, wear absurdly baggy pants and miraculously belt them somewhere around your mid-thigh so that you can show off what lies beneath. You are especially proud of your choice in underwear and enjoy the fact that no one wants to sit next to you on the subway. You wear a backpack.
If you are none of these people, then you are my dad.
The state of your briefs says just as much about you as the fact that you wear briefs. If they are new, clean, well kept, and without stains or holes, then you are the kind of guy who takes pride in his appearance. Perhaps too much pride. And speaking of pride, you’ve been to at least one Gay Pride event, possibly showing off those briefs of yours. You’re not gay, necessarily, but gay guys like you. This is especially true for briefs that come in colors or patterns. The louder they are, the more likely you’ve done CrossFit. If your briefs are tighty whiteys bought at Target or Walmart and are holey, worn out, and a total mess, then you are a momma’s boy who needs to get your life together. Dump that girlfriend you’ve had since high school and give up chew. Also, get some damn OxyClean already. No one calls them tighty vague-bodily-fluids-y. So you either care too much or you don’t care enough. Hooray for you.
You’re just all things to all people, aren’t you, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch? But no, really, you’re just average. This is what you are, just a bland person who does what the media and fashion industries tell you to do. You’re the kind of person who bought a Wii and played a few rounds of tennis, but now that shit just collects dust under your television. You like mashed potatoes, football games, beer, pussy, and everything else that everyone else loves. You will never be rich, but you will never be poor. You’ll die working on a home improvement project in your garage. Speaking of your middling boring life, you are also average in the schlong department, and this is the best way to hide it. You also need a haircut.
My Very Gay Night at Very Straight Strip Clubs
I’m about as gay as Cristiano Ronaldo’s underwear drawer, so the sultry photos plastered outside of New York’s mega strip club, FlashDancers, have never really interested me. I live around the corner from the place, and I used to joke that the guys wearing maroon FlashDancers bibs and handing out titty-filled flyers were the only people in all of Manhattan who thought I had any interest in paying to see boobs. But recently I got to thinking, and as a man who loves sex, sex workers, the Platonic company of other men, and absolute camp insanity, I decided I should just sack up and go inside some straight strip clubs. I did, and that is how all my illusions about strippers were shattered.
I wasn’t alone. Serving as my Virgil to this implant-filled underworld were my friends John and Hassan, both strip club veterans if not exactly aficionados. After paying $20 to get into the place we walked up to the bar. The first tits I saw belonged to a woman gyrating behind the bartender with all the energy of a children’s toy whose batteries were about to die. As soon as we ordered our drinks a tall blonde who looked like Janice from The Muppets after some plastic surgery came up and talked to John. She wasn’t whispering sweet nothings in his ear for nothing—it was obvious that this interaction was about business. Then another stripper named Maya came up to talk with Hassan and me. She was American, about 5’8”, and hot in a very expected way. She most definitely had a tramp stamp. Her dress was electric blue and one of those situations where the top is connected to the floor-length skirt by a big metal ring that frames the belly button. I said I loved her dress and asked where she got it. She said they keep all the dresses there and the strippers get to choose from a big pile of them. I looked around and saw the same dress in different colors on several of the other dancers.
Seeing an opportunity, a third stripper came up to join us. Her name was Eva, and I was her reluctant mark. She was Swedish, so she said, but had dark hair, small tits, and was about six feet tall in her stripper heels. I peppered her with questions about the club. She told me it was busy earlier, with business travelers and the happy hour crowd, but it was starting to die down. She told me that the weekends were the busiest but also full of young guys, who are the worst customers. “Why? They don’t spend a lot of money?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “They just cum in their pants too quickly.”
The Disasters of the Fake Hymen
My boyfriend did not want to break my hymen. There is probably a certain sect of men who get off on popping cherries like they’re a row of bubble wrap blisters, but I’m not a girl and this wasn’t my first time. And my hymen was going to be messy. These are probably all reasons my boyfriend was less than enthusiastic about this little experiment.
A couple of months ago my editor told me about Joan of Arc Red, a fake hymen made in China and marketed mostly in Japan. Essentially, it is a piece of plastic with a bit of dye inside designed to let a sullied woman pretend her precious membrane is still intact and appear to bleed upon intercourse. Yes, Joan of Arc might have been a murderous delusional schizophrenic psychopath, but at least she was always a virgin. When my editor originally told me about this thing, the idea was to get someone with a real vagina to test-drive it. A couple of days later, however, I stumbled upon this article in New York magazine. I sent him a link to the bad news, he asked if I’d like to test it out in my butt, and here we are.
When I first proposed this experiment to my boyfriend he said yes in the abstract, but when the time for participation arose so did his excuses for not doing it. He thought it would be sloppy and asked if they were made in China, as if his balls might somehow get lead poisoning from it. The only thing that didn’t arise was the one part we were going to need to get the job done. Who knew that fucking a guy with a butt hymen would be so unappealing to a red-blooded gay American male?
After a long week of nagging and some negotiation, we put the towel down on the floor and got to work. Each box is wood paneled, so it looks like a million 80s rec rooms where real hymens were busted while Porky’s played on HBO. Inside, on a delicate pink satin pillow, are two foil packets, each containing a hymen. At first I didn’t understand why you’d need two of them. By using the second one, wouldn’t you be letting your partner know you’d faked it the first time? By the end of the evening, however, it all made sense.
How to Quit Porn and Not Entirely Ruin Your Life
Hi, I’m Brian. Welcome to Tubesteak, a regular column where I talk about penises mostly and what I do with mine and what you should do with yours. There will also be some discussion of cocks, cocksuckers, cuckolds, and maybe, just maybe, a clitoris or two. But, honestly, mostly just dicks.
There I was, lying in bed ass-naked at 1 AM on a Tuesday night with my eyes closed pulling on my limp dick like a bird trying to get a worm out of the frozen ground. This is what jerking off had become for me: fiddling around with a mushy penis like I was searching for a prize at the bottom of a bowl of ramen. I never should have given up porn.
In a valiant effort to prove that my cock wasn’t indebted to images of manufactured sexual abandon, I had decided to give up pornography altogether to show that I could still beat off like a 15-year-old who just discovered what happens on Cinemax after midnight. But I couldn’t. It had been a week and I hadn’t gotten wood of any kind but the morning variety since.
Before going any further, I should mention that I probably have a more complicated relationship to porn than most people. I wish I could say it’s because I’m hot and hung enough to star in it, but I am neither. Like most horny uglies with small dicks and big opinions, I took to writing about porn, covering the industry and its gossip on Fleshbot for about four years. Watching people fuck had lost its magic for me—it was workand I was “doing research” nearly every day.
It’s not that I became desensitized to it. Oh no, I was still slapping my salami as often as possible, but I had only done it in the company of visual stimulation for as long as I could remember. In high school I had underwear catalogs (and, yes, Cinemax), and then, after getting a job in a bookstore, I purloined stroke mags that were supposed to be mailed back to the distributor. In college I graduated to VHS tapes before DVDs took over. Then, when the internet hit, I had every type of porn known to man just sitting there in my room, waiting for me to masturbate to it. The straw that broke the camel’s penis, however, was when keeping up with it became my professional obligation. My member was more dependent on seeing poles going into holes than I ever imagined.
Why I Hate Fashion Week
Like the swans returning to Capistrano or all your friends jumping off a bridge, it’s that annual ritual where a million fashion students parade around in public wearing all of their thrift store accessories at once. It’s New York Fashion Week, and it’s driving me a little bit crazy. That’s because Fashion Week is stupid.
I don’t believe the fashion industry is stupid. I thank it every morning when I put the clothes on my back, no matter if they’re real designer threads or some knockoff I got at Top Shop. But the growing idea that Fashion Week is a spectator sport that should be open to everyone with an Instagram account and a subscription to Vogue is baffling to me. Fashion Week is for fashion people, and that’s the way it should be. Unless you work for a department store, retail boutique, fashion magazine, or stylist, you have no business being in the front row.
Posing as a Gay Republican Will Get You Laid at the RNC
The G in ‘GOP’ does not stand for gay (though it does stand for ‘grand,’ which in and of itself is pretty gay). In fact, gay Republicans are probably some of the most hated people on the political spectrum. Most gay activists think they are traitors to the cause, while staunch party leaders like Santorum view their gay delegates as most gay people view santorum (in the poop and lube sense): a vile inevitability that you have to deal with but will never embrace.
So, why would anyone want to pretend to be a member of the gay Republican caucus (another really gay word)? To get laid, of course! Here’s how.
THERE ARE PARTIES
Sure, just about every affiliate group is having some sort of shindig to celebrate their inclusion into the rich white people’s party, but the one for gays sounds really fun. GOProud, a group for gay Republicans, threw what sounds like a great bash. According to the Washington Blade, the party had booze, dancing, some talk about Andrew Breitbart (snooze), and strippers. Yes, strippers. If you were a gay dude on the prowl, you could just put on a pair of khakis and tell the guy at the door that you built them, and you’d be in. Once inside, you’d wait until the boys were liquored up and horny from touching toned torsos littered with dollar bills, and every butthole at the party would be yours for the taking.
THERE IS CRAIGSLIST
Just search ‘RNC’ on Craigslist and you’ll find dozens of ads from gay guys looking to hit some of that sweet out-of-town Republican tail. You can get a Discrete Blow ‘N’ Go, some Thick Chocolate 4 R N C, or, my favorite, NYPD cop looking some GOP / RNC friends. A hot gay New York cop! You can’t even score one of those in Manhattan, but with an elephant pin and a condom, you’re good to go! All you have to do is keep a straight face while saying you voted for John McCain in the last election and he’ll toss your salad faster than Paul Ryan will decimate Medicare.
How to Punch Out a Paparazzo
On June 19, Hollywood bloviator Alec Baldwin was the latest in the long line of celebrity dicks to punch a paparazzo when he socked a New York Daily News photographer in front of City Hall after getting his marriage license (getting married makes Baldwin angry, I guess). Anyway, point is that socking a pap isn’t that hard. You too can be immortalized for punching some guy trying to take a photo of you, just like Sean Penn, Kanye West, Quentin Tarantino, and Chris Martin, by following these five easy steps:
First, you need photographers to follow you around. Sure you could go out there and get an acting or music career, or start wearing silly getups like Lady Gaga, but that will take years! The easier option is to become infamous by committing a few awful crimes. Think about the swarms around Charles Manson or Bernie Madoff. But it’s hard to punch when your hands are cuffed, so this method only works for those who can run very fast and hide very well.
Yell a Lot
Now that you’re famous, you’re like the one girl in a bukkake video, and the photographers are a bunch of dicks competing to spray the money shot on your face. If you’re gonna punch one out, make sure they all know it’s coming by screaming and cussing. Gather a crowd. It doesn’t count if no one takes a picture.
Do we really have to teach you how to do this, you fucking pansy? You know all about making a nice tight fist, don’t you? Just send it in the general vicinity of someone’s face at a relatively high speed, and you’re set. Also, throw your body weight into it if you want to break a nose.
How Grindr Can Get You Everything You Need (Except Butt Sex)
One of the greatest things smart phones have done for the swinging gay lifestyle is picking up the old school bathhouse and dropping it in the pocket of every homosexual with an iPhone and a libido—which is to say, every homosexual. Yes, Grindr (and its imitators like Scruff, Mister, and other macho-sounding apps that haven’t even been invented yet) is a way for gays to get laid whenever they want, so long as other people within a one-mile radius have their phones on. It uses fancy GPS technology to locate queers on the prowl close to you and track their distance from your current location (0 feet away means he’s actually inside you right now).
But there is more to life than getting laid (well, kinda). There is also stuff! And drugs! And favors! All of these things are possible to score on Grindr if you know a few simple tricks. Here are some good ones I learned from a few of my friends.
According to Sean, an expert in using Grindr to get all sorts of things other than head, getting things out of people is a lot easier when you’re outside the city. “In New York, all the conversations are very sexual,” he says, which is good if all you’re looking for is some slap and tickle. “Even when you come to New Jersey, people are a little more chatty here.” Once you get them talking, that’s when you reel them in and milk them (surprisingly not a sexual reference here) for all they’re worth, and it appears hospitality isn’t an urban virtue.
RELY ON THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
When Steve’s job sent him to Denmark for a year, he was not only all alone, but stuck with a washing machine whose knobs and buttons he couldn’t decipher, thanks to their being labeled by Vikings. “I found the closest guy who was acceptably cute and chatted him up. ‘I’m new to the neighborhood. Strange question—how the hell do I work this thing?’” Steve sent the guy a photo (of the washer, not his dick), and his mark happened to have the same machine. He came by a short while later to show this dirty boy how to get clean.
CASE THE JOINT
The longer you talk to someone, the more information you can get out of them, giving you a better idea of what you can scam from them. Sean’s boyfriend was chatting up a boy on the phone who mentioned he was moving. Sean and his boyfriend had just moved too, and needed some furniture. Next thing you know they had scored themselves a dining room table and chairs for $70. Even if it’s IKEA and breaks in a year, that’s a whole lot longer than a BJ will last you.