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Straight, Gay, or Bi, Neal Boulton's BastardLife.com is the only online sex & relationships magazine for all of us.


I guess I am a lesbian's worst nightmare. Yes, I love women, love sucking their clits and tasting all of them, love the scent of them on me the next day. But I only love that when my boyfriend's warm cock is thick and filling me up inside about to cum. Heaven begins when I can feel him in me like that and my girlfriend is straddled over my mouth feeding me her pussy—while all of us climax together, my mouth melting into her wetness."

Elizabeth R., Greenwich, CT

By Neal Boulton at 9:02AM on May 26, 2011


By Geoffrey Duggan

There have been times in recent weeks when I've gotten this queasy, butterfly feeling in my stomach because I need to feel a hard penis in my mouth. To go down on a man. To stare into his muscular abdomen and short fluffy pubic hair. To smell him there. To look up at him with the ache of need I have for it.

To suck his every contour.

I probably sleep with a few guys a month, but when this urge overcomes me it feels as though I've been starved for it my entire life. Urgent is my need. But it's not just because I love the warm rubbery thickness or even the way my mouth sucks on his head as it swells with excitement in my mouth. It's also not his precum or the moment of climax that I love to drink. It's the actual taste of penis that is so utterly unique to every other part of the human body that I live for. The salty skin of his body in the summer is one thing, the sweaty raunch of his underarms another; the muskyness of his ass when I rim him is devine, like the thicker sweat of his balls. But nothing—nothing—compares to the indescribable smooth taste of the skin of his penis. And because I can't describe it, I'll stop trying. You know if you know. You know my need to feel and taste that.

Tonight, put it inside my mouth. Feed me.—G.D.

By Neal Boulton at 8:42PM on May 25, 2011

In A Minute

My girlfriend loves men. "I love cumming on his cock," she says about her hulk of a boyfriend. Says she likes when he looks down and sees it all over his shaft while they're fucking. "It makes him shoot so hard I can feel it inside of me," she goes on to say. Like always, I just listen, while she undresses for me. "You know I never do this," she says again, hoping the graphic stories of her boyfriend reassure me she's straight and that what we are about to do is merely a fluke. Again, I say nothing, knowing she'll cum all over my tongue in a minute.

Jennifer G., Memphis, TN

By Neal Boulton at 12:51PM on May 24, 2011

Why Hot Women Suck

Dogs. I recently received some amazing letters from men who wished their women were ugly. Of course, I read on to learn more—and what I found was wild. But was it a trend? Yeah, it was: In a poll of 9,137 men who read BastardLife up to 37% of you said dogs did it for you. "I've been with hot women, and usually they were a bore in bed. It's the woman who has long accepted she isn't the hottest girl in the room who is the most in touch with her sexuality—and in touch with what turns a man on in bed," Jim from Seattle told us. 62% of you went for the bombshells, but echoed what Rick from LA told us, "I'll take a lame lay over an ugly one, but I have to admit that my best sex memories where with women who weren't really all that good looking at all." A small number of you told us that it wasn't her body you cared about, it was her mind and her personality. We love a good liar.—N.B.

By Neal Boulton at 12:40PM on May 24, 2011


By David Goldberg

I was that guy at the rest stop off of Interstate 95 late at night, lurking around the grounds by the picnic tables in the dark. The young cute one watching you with that assessing look. I was that guy in the men's room at the mall at lunch during the middle of the work week, letting you know I was one, too. And when we did what we did, my heart leapt to twice its speed. When it was over, it was over, and we parted as if nothing ever happened. Why linger around and get your name, or give mine when we'd both gotten what we desperately needed.

Later, when I realized that most adult video stores had booths with glory holes between the stalls, I began to live in them. Several months after that, I realized I had sucked off more men than I could count. But I was miserable. I love cock, and I even love the naughty secrecy of back room sex, but I had never touched a man's body, felt his face, kissed him passionately. And I wanted to. I wanted to be held. I wanted to feel his entire body laying with me. I wanted to see him walking naked around my apartment, or sitting on the couch in his underwear.

Christ, I wanted to have dinner with him!

Instead, I settled for the blare of porn that I fed nervously with single dollar bills until someone's cock appeared through the hole for me to service; settled for a cock within the stench of a bathroom at a truck stop; settled for the nervous fumbling with a stranger in the dark outdoors, always risking arrest.

Some men have it all—the boyfriend, money, all the trappings—and get off on doing what I was doing. But I had nothing, and the kind of sex I was having made me feel like I had even less than that. Why did I stop? I never caught an STD, I was never assaulted; I had no guilt, either. I stopped one day after I visited New York and went to Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea and saw hundreds of guys walking around hand in hand on the sidewalk, at cafés laughing over brunch, at bars making out, and dancing at clubs.

That's when it hit me: I had never seen a openly gay man.

When I got back home, I didn't come out—I had no one to come out to. But within three months I was packing up my life and moving to New York where I still had no one to come out to. But the beauty of it was, I never needed to. Coming out wasn't about words, it was about living. And the moment I stepped out of my tiny thimble of an aparment and drew in that dirty New York air—I was out, for good.

Yes, I was that guy at the rest stop off of Interstate 95 late at night, lurking around the grounds by the picnic tables in the dark. But now I'm not.—D.G.

By Neal Boulton at 11:10AM on May 17, 2011

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