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The bedding contest

Sure sex is intriguing, but there's nothing like a contest, a raunchy one, so BastardLife reached out to five smokin' hot readers from around the country to see who could bed the highest number of people in the shortest amount of time using five different methods: the Internet, the bar, the public bathroom, the bath house, and the glory hole video arcarde. We weren't kidding about the raunch.

Michael, Houston, the Internet: "You see? This is what I hate about trolling Craig's List and ManHunt! Too many guys playing email tag, demanding more pictures, and stalling for an hour or so before telling me, "I'll pass." I did get laid though, three times, but it took me till about 3AM to do it—and as the hours got later, the guys got drunker and more high."

Suzan, New York, the bar: "Does anyone actually talk to each other, in person, anymore!? I mean, this is New York! But I only hooked up one time and it wasn't until 4AM. That's last call in NYC, so, yeah, I got the guy who basically found himself in my shoes: among tons of men, but none of them brave enough to make any moves. If only men were still men anymore!"

Gerald, Miami, the public bathroom: "I love my life. I live in a hotel town, and there is no place with more action than the hotel bathroom. I trolled inside three different spots and scored multiple times. I had a hunky married man while his wife was checking in for them in the lobby, another horny queer from the neighborhood like me, and a rugged older man who seemed to be trolling for men like me who were willing to service them—in bathrooms. But probably the best part of the escapade was the two twenty-somethings on vacation that I scored at the same time in a stall with a door that actually reached all the way to the floor, concealing all three sets of feet in the stall. Priceless."

Terrance, Washington, DC, the bathhouse: "Is it this town? Sadly, there was literally no one cruising or getting it on in this bathhouse. It's hard to admit, but I threw in the towel at 1AM—then went to my hotel to call my wife and jerk off alone."

David, San Francisco, CA, the glory hole video arcade: "If I hadn't left by 9PM it would have become absurd because at this particular spot you can both go into a booth without any hassles and get it on—which I did about 7 times. Any more and I would have felt like more of a slut than I clearly already am. I lucked out though because all of the cocks I had were on the large side, smooth, and kind of perfectly cut."

Harvey Milk would be proud.—C.D.

By Neal Boulton at 9:11AM on June 11, 2010
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Don't ask, until you repeal

If you only knew. No one has caught the reality of "don't ask don't tell" quite like photographer Jeff Sheng. His series of portraits of closeted military men and women now serving in Iraq and Afghanistan are a crystal clear window onto a sad state of affairs that we hope will change in the coming weeks.—C.D.

By Neal Boulton at 4:00PM on May 25, 2010
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Gang bang

What's in a name? Jimmy loved Steven. But what Steven didn't realize when he lay back and let Jimmy take all of him was that he was also being loved by Michael, Jeffrey, Melinda, Thomas, William, Scott, Quentin, Lisa, David, Johhny, Wynton, Damon, Clara, Timothy, Zack, Edward, Zoe, Matthew, Paul, Brian, Elise, Stewart, Natalie, Fabio, Richard, Collin, Fred, Nelson, Garcia, Anthony, Carrie, Heather, Anderson, Mark, Lewis, Jerry, Sam, Jerome, Chris, Juliette, Vicky, Henry, James, Laura, Omar, Alex, Ken, and Tommy—men and women Jimmy had also had unprotected sex with over the past few years but lied about until the guilt got to him. After Steven tested negative, he exhaled a sigh of relief, then told us, "Making love with Jimmy was like one long quiet gang bang."—C.D.

By Neal Boulton at 7:08AM on April 20, 2010
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This very inked planet

Pain me beautiful. Many of you have sent me phenomenal images of your naked, inked bodies. The women that is; and I thank you for that. After awhile, I began to compare yours from last week, to hers from this week; then hers from a month ago, to yours from last year. I was struck: each of you were so distinctly different. Why was that? The magazines all write about you, claiming to decipher what your ink reveals—but I saw no common denominators.

I had questions, so I called New York's consummate ink autour, Adam Suerte—founder of the now infamous Brooklyn Tattoo.

"The term, 'the average woman' is an oxymoron where ink is concerned," Adam told us. "Every woman is her own galaxy, but there are tattoos we do end up doing over and over again. That's not to say we do the same exact tattoo—but their are requests on subject matter we see very often from women like stars, butterflies, flowers, ladybugs, and birds."

As a species, Adam told us, "Women are naturally predesigned to take pain better than men—due to childbirth, some say, their pain tolerance is "god given." What's more, he said, "They sit better, and are every bit as ballsy as men as far as the amount of coverage is concerned."

In fact, Adam said, the women he has seen over the past few years "are not afraid to show off how much space they get covered on their body, and how much of it is visible."

I wasn't satisfied. A man gets a tattoo and it has significance. Men have that in common. Maybe as simple as something tough he wants you to see when he pulls up his beer at the bar. That's when Adam revealed the key. The magic ingredient that just may be the beginning to decifering what your ink says about you.

"Neal, it's about placement," he said, "and that placement is about making woman feel and look sexier. You see, when a woman is getting tattooed, she's thinking of how she will look with the tattoo naked; whereas a man's wondering how it's gonna look out on the street."

Back at my desk, I pulled out all of your amazing photographs—one was more beautiful than the next. Then I saw it: all the various sensual places on your nude bodies, all of the many natural patterns and designs. And while I may still not quite know just what makes your ink different than mine, one thing was for sure, I wanted more, because what I saw was ink that amplified all of the best qualites that make women the most unique species on this very inked planet.—N.B.

Brooklyn Tattoo, open now and worth it.

By Neal Boulton at 6:22PM on April 12, 2010
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A thousand pictures

"It's what I do." Franklin never liked to watch pornographic movies, but sitting in the posh hotel suite for our interview, he tells us he can't stop thinking about sex.

"It wasn't as if triple X films repulsed me, but something perhaps about these good suits of mine and jerking off in video arcades trying not to get them stained; or renting them from the local video shop, having to greet the teller with an embarrassing stack of raunch. Adult films and strip clubs just aren't a good fit for me," he said, rattling the ice in his tumbler glass low now on scotch.

Then something happened to Franklin that seemed to fit him, and his elegant suits, quite well: he moved to New York on a promotion from the publishing house where he was a star writer for several of its magazines.

"Nothing prepared me for New York. Hell, there was more masturbation per square inch in Times Square where I worked than anyplace else on the planet."

That's when it struck him. Instead of succumbing to the debauchery all around him—the loose men and women he described to us who would throw themselves at him during the holiday party and when working late—he'd write.

"It's what I do, and when I look back to my teenage years, I preferred reading Playboy than masturbating to Hustler or Penthouse."

Franklin began by creating an alias, a pen name, and an entire identity for his creation to deflect prying minds from ever figuring out that it was him. He wrote for Playboy, his adolescent preoccupation, and he became a staple for several European magazines like Lui who like Playboy, revealed enough to rack your brain with sex, but not in a way that made you feel dirty.

"A picture may well be worth a thousand words," Franklin said softly, sipping the last of his scotch, "but my thousand words may just paint you a thousand pictures, and for me, that's the power."—N.B.

By Neal Boulton at 8:51AM on April 06, 2010
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Straight as an arrow

Liam tried to keep his sea-green eyes hidden in the shadow cast by his baseball hat's brim, but his attempts weren't completely successful: With every tilt or turn of his head, flashes of turquoise would shoot across the table like lasers.

"Honestly, I'm really not into guys," he said casually, no hint of defense in his tone.

"Even when I'm like, literally into them, you know what I mean?" Liam chuckled. Maybe this guy wasn't trying to hide his eyes after all, I thought. Or if he was, it wasn't because he was embarrassed or ashamed, and certainly not because he was shy.

"You know, like 60% of gay porn stars in Europe are actually straight," Liam added. It was funny to hear a Eurostat coming from such an All-American Abercrombie prototype. "It doesn't have to be such a big deal, you know? I mean, it's just a job. And it's a hell of a lot easier putting myself through college doing this than working at Starbucks."

Liam makes a good and practical point. In a way, he's the perfect spokesmen for this next generation of adult film stars: Unlike their strung-out and out-of-control predecessors from the 70's and 80's, these actors are professionals like any other, working hard to make a substantial buck, which they're more likely to put in the bank than they are to throw away on drugs and excess. When Liam's not in front of the cameras, he's busy getting his master's in finance and fixing up the condo he shares with his girlfriend of five years, social worker Marie.

"What does Marie think of all this?" I asked.

Liam grinned and shrugged. "She doesn't know," he said, simply. "I'm sure she'll find out some day, and that's cool. But for now, she doesn't need to hear about any of this. It can't hurt her." Liam went on to quote more statistics about how sex with a porn star is in some ways the safest sex of all: Actors are required to get screened for all STDs before starting every new shoot, and in gay porn, condom use is a general requirement—no exchange of bodily fluids is ever allowed anally or orally, "unlike the filth of straight porn," he says.

"Damn, I feel bad for some of those girls," he nods with sympathy.

"In a way, Marie benefits from my day job," Liam laughed.

"How's that?"

"Well, look at it this way," he began. "I spend hours focusing on how to bring my partners the absolute most pleasure possible, cause that's what looks best on film. Some guys, I know just how to grip their waists when I've got 'em on their hands and knees and tell them to tilt their asses up, how to perfect the rhythm of my scrotum slapping against theirs; others, I know how deep they like me to penetrate them when they're climaxing or, if I'm on bottom, when to flex my pecs while they hold on and ride me. By the time I get home to my girl, I'm so damn ready to let her give me what I want—and for those soft hips and round breasts. I mean, we have one hell of an urgent sex life by the time I pull her underwear down and see her naked body."

Liam pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair. His eyes popped like flashbulbs.

"Sounds like a lucky girl," I said—J.B.

 

By Neal Boulton at 1:55PM on November 13, 2009
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Swung

Fuck, I'm actually going to do this. Fin was only 18 when he first fantasized about it; then, a month later, he took the leap.

"I read about it in a local listings magazine. I was nervous as hell. I hardly ever left my sleepy suburb for the city, but on the day I did, I went into an adult video store, flipped through this zine and, boom, there was a listing for a sex party," he said in a low voice over the phone.

"Can you hear me?" he asked, "My mom and dad are in the next room, and I'd be in so much trouble if they overheard me telling you this," he told me.

"Yes," I said and Fin went on, telling me the entire story—R.T.

I stuffed the free magazine into the inside pocket of my leather jacket and darted out into the rainy day, then to the subway for the bus station. On the bus back home, I leaned my head against the window, hornier than I'd ever been as I stared at the landscape that blurred by.

Later, I jotted down the time, date, and address of the party that promised (as the ad stated) 'to be worth waiting a week without jerking off for.'

I was so nervous.

Then the day finally arrived. It wasn't raining this time, and I sat on the bus, hard as rock in my jeans that evening, and finally emerged into the city. Once on foot, I made my way to the anonymous black door on 8th Ave., buzzed, and heard the unlatch of the lock that allowed me passage inside a dark room that smelled of sex.

As my eyes adjusted to the blue black light I realized I was staring at a man locked in sex with a hauntingly younger blond woman—while he was performing fellatio on a man who was standing in front of his face. All three of them groaned with pleasure and need.

I didn't know where to begin, or if I should run out of there. My stomach was nauseous with sexual terror—and arousal. I went deeper into the club, past many more foursomes and threesomes and couples, all twisted and feeding upon each other, until I found three men and one woman who had just begun to undress. She locked in on my scared eyes.

Fuck, I thought, I'm actually going to do this.

Thankfully, she undressed me, and never took her stare away from mine. I was now nude, and nervous, when she led me to the men who as she went down on me began to suck my lips and my nipples and massage my buttocks. Somehow, we all found this unifying rhythm as we became intertwined in what felt like hours of urgent hungry sex.

I was covered in everyone else's cum when I finally climaxed, all of us spreading and smearing and gliding our hands around our bodies with it, lovingly, knowing we would never see each other again—or if we did, we might nod, and grin knowingly as we passed the other on the street.

That night, I slept with my head, heavy with an afterglow, against the window of the bus, lulled by the hum of the massive engine carrying me home.

By Neal Boulton at 3:02PM on November 05, 2009
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Stallin'

Pit stops. In a poll of 4,139 BastardLife readers, 21% of you told us that you had no shame about the times you cruised and hooked up in either the bathroom of a club, bar, or restaurant. However, over 50% of you ruled out the roadside rest stop for your pit stop romps citing it as either, "below my standards," or, "just too creepy."—M.T.

By Neal Boulton at 8:05AM on October 21, 2009
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Bull headed

Montana, 10:43 P.M. Saturday night. It was one of those nights. I knew it the minute I slipped on my black lace thong and felt my wet, hot pussy. Shit, I wasn’t just wearing Hanky Panky, I was craving it. By the time I made my entrance into Diablo’s, I was in full fuck-me drag and someone was about to get lucky. 

I slid onto my favorite bar stool, perfectly positioned to observe the merchandise as it rolled by. Suddenly I felt a toe slide up my fishnet stocking. And when our eyes finally met, I was pretty sure this Puerto Rican princess would soon be slipping inside my satin sheets and spreading my perfumed thighs.

"How about we have an Obama contest? Whoever has the best stimulus package wins."

"Wins what?" I smiled. "I’m Meredith."

"Rosa. Nice to meet you." 

And then HE walked by – an absolute John Mayer ringer and my total drop-dead favorite in the hunky male department. I was a goner—until he opened his mouth.

"Come here often?"

He didn’t just say that, did he? Do guys still say that shit?

He grabbed his crotch and stuck his tongue in my ear, "this package has your name on it, gorgeous."

"Does it now?"

"Yeah, really. Get ready for the ride of your life." 

I think some pick-up record had just been broken. The guy had gone from Adonis, to boy toy—to loser in less than 30 seconds.

"I’m sorry," I answered, ever so sweetly, "but I think your package is defective. ...It’s missing a BRAIN."

I grabbed Rosa’s hand and headed for home.—L.R.

By Neal Boulton at 2:12PM on October 16, 2009
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Moms on film

"You can't be a rock & roll animal 24 hours a day you know. I mean I get on camera and I do what I do to entertain you by being the nineteen year old Olympic lay in bed. Hell, the director is like right there and he wants the best of me, he wants to get what he's paying for. Imagining my audience gets me through my sets (3-6 a day)—the men in suits on business trips horny and alone in their hotel rooms, the young boys who haven't done it yet looking for clues. Then when I get home, I make my husband dinner, do the homework with my children, and tuck them in like any good mother, or, adult film star."—Vanessa-G, Mother of 3, Pasadena, CA

By Neal Boulton at 6:20AM on October 10, 2009
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BastardLife Books

 

 

 

"My boyfriend is amazing, He's OK with the fact that sometimes, instead of sex, I just have to have him in my mouth while I'm masturbating. It's purely selfish. He simply provides me a hard cock, and I feast on it while I jerk off.—Mike, Salt Lake City, UT

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"I had my first anal orgasm today and my mind was blown. Look, guys do have G-spots. If they don't, I absolutely and totally do."—Seattle, WA.

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"My boyfriend and I had our orgasms at the same time while we were 69'ing. And that was the best, and tastiest, one I've ever had in my gay life!"—Richard, LA, CA






























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