Fucking Him Down – Only Fans

It’s no big secret that I enjoy fucking guys in their 20’s. The daddy/son thing is hot To me.

This 24 year old Latin Guy let’s me do whatever I want to him. And I take full advantage of that!

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Only Fans – Fucked Raw in a Video Booth



I was at an Adult Bookstore several weeks Ago, cruising the video booths.

The was gorgeous guy in one of the booths. Half Latin, green eyes, moustach, square jaw. Hairy chest And a beautiful, thick, uncut cock!

He fucked me raw right there in the video both and loaded up my muscle butt with his hot load.

Of course I recorded all of it on my iPhone for you guys!

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Only Fans Teaser!



I love listening to a man moan while I suck a hot load out of his Cock!


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I was talking to a friend of mine last week. He and his partner of several years just broke up. He was saying to me, “ Everything was so good between us. My life was really good. And now, its not.”
I replied to him, “You know, babe. As unfortunate and painful as this is, most relationships in this world come with a “shelf life”.
I was kind of shocked to even myself say that. I went home that evening and began thinking about what I’d said to my friend.
Am I jaded? That was so inappropriate! What was I thinking to say that to him?
But, after considering my words I thought to myself: How many people in our lives really do last forever?
If I were to just sit here and tell you that 98% of of your relationships had an “expiration date” on them, you’d probably think I was trying to be a douche, or just a jaded fag with no friends. LOL.
But, when I sit and think of the literally hundreds of men and woman who have made appearances in my life in one facet, or another. Maybe for a week. A month. Several years.
Then, I compare those numbers to the amount of people who I’m still really close with for 20+ years…
That’s a pretty vast ratio!
The point I’m getting at here is this:
It never occurred to me that there is nothing wrong with simply enjoying time with another human being for as long as it’s meant to be. Then letting it go with love when it’s done. I think its a natural part of the human condition to covet something (someone) that makes me feel good.
Sure. There are challenges with every relationship. And many can be overcome. But, that’s not what I’m talking about, here. I’m talking specifically about when a relationship with a friend or lover has simply run its course.
This deluded ideal of “Best Friends Forever” and “Happily Ever After” really fucks up how I handle my parting of ways with other human beings.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a “fixer”. I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I’ve spent agonizing over thoughts like, “How am I gonna make things better? What words do I use to change his mind?”
And, when my best efforts to “fix” something that is not fixable fail, that’s when the anger and blame comes to a head.
I get burnt up when a friendship has run its course!
“She fucked me over! After everything I did for him, this is what I get in return! He just stopped loving me the way he used to!”
I create dramatic narratives that aren’t true. We all grow as individuals. In one way or another. It’s inevitable. So, of course as we grow as people, we grow apart as well.
And, instead of looking at all the wonderful things that person has brought me. All those moments of laughter, tears, adventures, personal confessions. A literal mental scrapbook of memories gets warped by these insane judgments I make, just because its over.
I have, VERY FEW TIMES in my life walked away from a person ands genuinely said, “Thank you. Thank you for every amazing thing you have taught me. Thank you for the memories that I’ll cherish forever. And thank you most of all for helping me become a better version of the man I was before I met you.”
The pain from the loss of the relationship clouds that. The void. And the fear that I may never feel that way with another person again all makes the truth and my gratitude towards that person turn to pain, resentment, and anger.
People come into our lives for a reason. Maybe its just supposed to be for a season. And if you’re lucky, you get those very few who last a lifetime. There really is no equating time and substance. Looking back on my life, I’ve had some people who were in my life less than a week teach me more than people that I’ve known for years. The point is, they all taught me something. Holding on to that “something” they taught me is so much more valuable than trying to hold on to them. (and besides..I believe thats called a hostage crisis 🙂 )
Having this clarity gives me a much deeper sense of gratitude for every interaction I’ve ever had in my life. They all meant something. I was just to blinded by the fear of losing each person to see why.
Maybe you can relate to some this as well.


“How’s my little monkey?”, he used to say. I remember running as fast as I could,  jumping into my Dad’s arms. He would swing me around in his arms and tussle my hair. All the other kids would stare in wonder at him.

He stood 6’4”, and was well over 220lbs. Like a giant. He dwarfed most of the other children’s fathers. And his personality made him even bigger. Deep, bellowing laugh. Charismatic. And, he had swagger. A true New York Guido. With the hairy chest and the thick gold chain, and the Cornicello (Italian horn) hanging from it. He drove a 1980 blackT-Top Camaro.
And, my Dad was always there to back me. I remember when I joined a pee-wee soccer league, both my parents would attend the games. My Dad was literally kicked out of one of my games by the referee, for cheering to loudly for me. He was my biggest cheerleader. He was my hero. I suppose every 7 year old looks at  his father, like a God.
My Ma used to mutter under her breath,when we hosted parties at our home, “It’s time for the Joseph show, again.” I would giggle. He made me laugh with his loud mouth, and macho banter. Women swooned over him. And, I wanted to be just like my Daddy, when I grew up.
Every other weekend, he organized family soft ball games with several other Italian families. I remember my first bicycle. My Dad taught ride it. First, with training wheels. And, when I initially tried to ride my bike without the training wheels, and crashed..My dad picked me up. He spit on my elbow to get the dirt off. Then, he said to me, “Get back on that bike, and show your Dad how a big boy rides his bike.” And, I did. I felt like I could accomplish anything when my Dad was there to guide me. It was such a wonderful time in my life.
Until the darkness came…
Something shifted. In my Dad. He started taking work trips, for days at a time. Apparently, his work trips weren’t exactly going as he explained they would, to my Ma. I remember listening against a closed door, as my parents yelled at one another, My Dad was desperately trying to lie his way out his infidelity. He owned a high end hair salon, and he had told us that he was traveling to San Francisco for a hair convention. My MA had credit card statements, from a honeymoon suite in the very city we lived in. They documented every purchase he made while he was on his supposed trip to San Francisco. Nothing was ever the same in my family, from that day forward. Nothing was ever the same between my Dad and I, either.
Without going into a detailed narrative, (I’ll save that for the memoir) I will say that my father’s presence in my life became sparse.
The after school video game arcade trips. The weekend softball tournaments. The family outings. They were gone.
I still had my Ma. And, please don’t misinterpret my words. My Ma is my world. She has never been an absentee parent. She always made me feel loved. And, I am aware of how blessed I was to have a parent who was always there for me. I do know how many men and women weren’t fortunate enough to have even one of their parents present in their lives.
But, this is my story. And, for a 7 year old child, who grew up with a Dad who was very demonstrative with his love. Who was always present in his life. Then gone. It was earth shattering. He didn’t pack his bags and leave. We were all still a family. But, a very broken one.
My Dad had begun a love affair with cocaine. It was the early 80’s, and cocaine had become a huge part of many people’s lives. My Dad had also started an affair with the manicurist, who worked for his salon.
Now, hindsight is 20/20. Having this knowledge as an adult’s helped me to understand what was happening at this time in my life.
My Ma was trying to protect me, as best as she could. It’s not like she ever sat me down and explained to me, (at 8 years old) “Don’t freak out. It’s not you. Daddy is fucking the manicurist and snorting large quantities of cocaine.” That wasn’t a conversation that ever came up, if you know what I mean.
This was also a time, when divorce was just become a “thing” amongst married couples. Kramer VS Kramer has just premiered 3 years prior, and sparked the “divorce revolution”, amongst American families. And my Ma, coming from a Sicilian Catholic upbringing,was still trying to find some sort of way opt salvage some sanity in our insane household. Shows trying to find a way to salvage a functional “family unit” for me to grow up in. But, you can’t fix broken.
And, there is nothing to find, once something is gone. And, my Dad was gone. Long gone. As a recovering drug addict, myself..It’s not difficult for me to relate to what the disease of addiction was doing to him.
But, for a hyper sensitive little boy…All I knew was that my Daddy was gone. He was no longer at my soccer games. He was no longer at any of my elementary school functions. He was no longer present in my life, whatsoever. There was no explanation given to me. I concluded that I had done something terribly wrong. I would lay awake at night, wondering to myself, “Why doesn’t Daddy love me anymore?”
By 1984, the cold war in my home, between my Ma and Dad shifted to a full on World War. Frequent arguments. Yelling. My father breaking things. Looking back, I would imagine that he was most likely in a cocaine induced psychosis.The yelling between my parents scared the shit outta me. I would be huddled in my bed. Door closed. Blaring Culture Club. My hands over my ears. Crying. Trying to drown out the screaming and slamming doors. When the front door would open and slam shut, I would timidly go to my bedroom window, which faced our front driveway. When my Dad’s Camaro would go flying up the street, I would finally be able to breathe again. The monster, whom I once called “Daddy”, was finally gone.
I’d come out of my bedroom, and curl up in Ma’s arms. She would hold me and rock me, as I cried myself to sleep.
And, that was the way things proceeded. Me and Ma. Dad gone. And me constantly wondering what I could do to win back my Dad’s love.
By 1985, my parents were barely speaking, When they did, they were usually cursing, accusing, and pointing at one another. I was becoming more and more distressed. Anxious. Frightened by my Dad’s rage. And, deeply depressed. Despite every effort I made to win his love back…I had failed. I blamed myself completely for this mess. I would spend school functions, locked in the bathroom, crying. Everyone wanted to know where me Dad was. I had run out of excuses.
My 11th birthday was the breaking point. It was 1985, and Chuck E Cheese was the new, cool place for a child to have a birthday party/ (This was long before the franchise became notorious for gang shootings and brawls)
I had invited many of my classmates, friends, and their parents to my party. Despite the disharmony, which had become the dark, corroding thread woven through my families existence..I was hoping that this birthday party would somehow give me a few hours of family bonding, without the yelling, or pain.
I was dressed and ready to go. Ma had just finished putting on her lipstick and she looked radiant and beautiful, as always. I went through the house. looking for my father. I walked into the living room. There heat, on the couch. Unshaven. Untoward. In his bathrobe. I began to grow a bit nervous. I ran to him, and jumped in his lap. “Daddy. It’s almost time to leave. Ma is out of the bathroom now. Are you going to get dressed?”
My Dad looked past me. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. And, he said nothing. I began to panic. I threw my arms around his neck and whispered, “Please, Daddy. Please get dressed. Everyone will be there. And, I was hoping we could play ski ball, like we used to! And, air hockey! And, make great big sundaes together.”
My Dad finally looked me in the eye and said solemnly, “I can’t go, Son.”
I shudder, writing this now. Remembering the sinking feeling in my 11 year old heart, when I heard those words.
The tears spilled, uncontrollably down my face.
“But, why?? What did I do wrong? Whatever it is, I did wrong. I’ll make it better. Please. Please, Daddy! Please come to my birthday party.” I was growing hysterical.
Out of the corner my eye, I remember seeing my Ma enter the living room. My Dad had just begun speaking again…”Your mother doesn’t want me there.”
My Ma quickly swept me off of his lap, pulled me upright to my feet,and took me by the hand. She faced my Father fearlessly, looking him square in the eye. She said, “No, Joseph. Not this time. You will not put this on me. And, you will not lie to our son.”
Before he could even answer, Ma had taken me outside the house, onto the front porch. She took a tissue from her purse, trying to dry my tears. But, I was inconsolable. I ran back int to he house, and threw myself at my Dad. “Daddy, please. I’ll do anything. Please don’t leave me on my birthday!”
I looked into his eyes. They were vacant. There was nothing there. No sadness. No remorse. And, I felt helpless. Ma came back in to the house again. She scooped me up to my feet, once more. And, she delicately led me out of the house. Down the driveway. And, into the passenger seat of her car. She dried my eyes. She kissed my cheeks. And, she told me in the most convincing tone she could muster, “We are going to have the best birthday party ever.”
But, her words slipped through me. A mantra of sorts was repeating itself in my mind. Like a drumbeat. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
Those words weren’t directed towards my Ma. And, they weren’t directed towards my Daddy, either. They were directed towards myself. I hated myself. All I could think was, “What kind of a Son could make his Daddy, no longer want to be his Daddy?”