Hey boys,
I kept a diary of my hook-ups when I moved to London - the good ones and the bad.
I'm publishing them on my Patreon! www.Patreon.com/oliversparshot. - You can also join the chat about it on my Discord: https://!!!!!!!!DISCORD LINKS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON LPSG_______!!!!!!!!!!NVuT5A4eD
Thought you might like the first episode which went up (along with a few hard dicks) last week! Enjoy and check me out on Insta! Oliver Sparshot - gimme a follow.
x
HERE CUMS TROUBLE - EPISODE 1
FOREPLAY
December 20th 2012
Where do I start? Where does anyone start with anything? There isn’t one single point to blame for anything, is there? Every person… every action, goes back to the very beginning of time. The very beginning of matter itself. To dust… and then to nothing at all.
So I might as well start with...
His dick was long, wet and thick with a single tear of cum crowning his japs eye. He thrust it inside, balls squeezing tightly against butt cheeks and I groaned, gripping my shaft, pressing my head back into the pillow. I was ready to squirt. I watched his muscles flex as he slapped his hips against lube-stuck curls and sticky skin. His blonde hair was greasy with sweat and he smiled hungrily, panting, coils sticking to his forehead, plastered to the tanned skin of his arched neck.
Eyes closed, eyelashes, flickering, he bent his back - downward dog - and lifted his sweet face to the sky in prayer, lips parted, while his toes curled and stretched. He whimpered. I watched him forensically, his legs stiffening, his butt hardening. He still had precisely 3 minutes and 29 seconds according to the screen but I couldn't hold on and I could tell… nor could he. ‘Do it,’ I whispered. His balls were sucked up. He let out a series of grunts and licked his lips and gritted his teeth. I caught the birthmark on his backside as his slick mound clenched and punched. His hard nipples were two perfect brown studs and his cappuccino skin was stretched – smooth and glistening – across his lean, hard, hungry body. A whimper. A groan. I whispered with him. ‘Fuck’ and then held my breath as my heart pounded, pounded, pounded. He screwed his eyes up. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose and clung onto his cheek beside a patch of freckles. Bright teeth nibbled his pale lips. He was feeling it too. I felt the burst beneath my balls and tensed. My legs hooked up and I came in four deep bursts which exploded six hot, white streaks of spunk into the warm, dusty air, before slapping on my laptop keyboard. ‘Oh ffffuck,’ I said, trying to stop but it was too late. I watched with one eye as the guy on the screen pulled out of the arse of some lucky stranger and finished himself off with his hand. He had neat nails, I noticed. His stomach tightened around his abs and he made a coughing noise, his head to the ceiling as three surprisingly small dribbles fell onto the cupped palm of his hand. He licked it up like a puppy, then grinned proudly at some guy out of shot. My heart, thudding, I was empty at last. I closed my eyes then laid back, staring at motes of dust flying from the window to the bare, hot bulb of the bedroom lamp.
It wasn’t an affair. Not yet. Just a video fantasy, in bed alone. I wiped my hand on my boxers, shut my laptop and fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming about work and blow jobs. I was 29, almost 30. A milestone or a gravestone. Had I made the decision to stay in this relationship forever? I turned onto my side and looked down at the garden below. The cherry tree was glowing amber, set against rotten grass and a dank sky. No. I fiddled with my dick, wiped it with a Nike running sock and looked in the mirror. After months running to try and tame my horny ass I was in the best shape of my life and pumped with testosterone all day every day. The relationship was over and I was ready to escape it and clamber hungrily into as many warm beds as I could. To feel hairy legs, to be tickled and touched by the searching fingers of other men, to taste the hot salt of a stranger’s cock. To see new messy morning faces and taste new tongues. I knew it was over. I’d known for a while.
That was exactly one year ago. And things have changed. Perhaps… perhaps it’s better to start at the end. That’s the problem with long-term relationships, right? If you know the climax, you can decide whether it’s worth the trouble. I hope mine is enough to keep you with me.
January 1st 2013
ONE
How did I end up here? How the hell did I end up here? After everything. My amazing year as a single gay man in London And now I'm sitting in a shop doorway in the early hours in a Cornish fishing town with nowhere to sleep, no food and no idea what I'm going to do. I'm single again. And I'm pissed.
My first year in London as a free gay man is almost over. Eleven months and three weeks of dating, fucking, falling in love, ruining love, chasing men, rejecting men… it was all supposed to be so simple. No heartbreak, no tears, no complications. No strings attached. Now after twelve months I'm covered in string. What a fucking mess. I'm stranded, lost and alone. Again. As ever. As always. I am going to die alone. That's all there is to it. I give up.
Jesus, the moon looks huge. I look up at it, sitting above the bowed roof of a chip shop. It always seems so small in London. And I can see the stars. I yawn and roll the back of my head against the shop door. Where am I going to sleep?
At least it's warm and dry here. A soft, clear night. I hold the moon in my fingers. A white coin. I'm still shaking from the adrenaline rush of the fight. It all seems so surreal now. Only a few minutes ago I was in that strange house crying and apologising. Apologising for fucking what? What the fuck did I do? His face was so frightening. He’s a fucking monster. So violent-looking. I shudder. They were usually such friendly blue eyes and I fell for that broad sexy smile. But after a few pints the angel became drunk and abusive yet again. Blank fish-eyes. I can still see his mother crying in her dressing gown. My breath is coming back and despite the horror and the shame of what I've done, I know it's the right thing. I’ll miss his amazing dick but that’s all.
Resolution follows disappointment more quickly than it used to. The first few boys hurt me badly. But now, twelve months of dating and shagging, and after another violently awful night, I find myself smiling and shrugging my shoulders. Yet again my handsome, funny boyfriend has turned out to be clinically insane. It was inevitable wasn’t it? And inevitably I’m wondering whether I have the strength to go through it all again. The prick test has come back positive. All gay men are mad. I just have to find the right insecure, paranoid, erratic narcissist for me.
A siren wails out towards the sea. I close my eyes and feel it winding around the old, cobbled streets. It can't be the police, there's no crime here. No scampi thieves. I hope it's not his mum dying of a heart attack. She looked so bewildered by it all. Why did I agree to come down here with him in the first place? I must be mad. Maybe that's it. Twelve months and ultimately, I'm the lunatic. More crazy than the guy with the bald cat. More crazy than the one who prayed during sex and the guy with monthly pre-menstrual stress and the one who was bitten by a horse and the horny prude and the 30-year-old virgin. The Olympic athlete, the dancer, the 'straight' guy, the German dog, the Italian bell boy. My Scottish man. Where is he now? And the rest. No. I haven't become mad. I was mad before any of it started.
How could I have thought it would be so easy? How could I ever have imagined I’d go from the safe, predictable bedroom in that old terraced cottage, holding my spent dick in my gym sock, to being stranded and homeless in Cornwall? Back then, right at the start, I thought I’d become a sexual adventurer. A swashbuckling love-pirate. No. I’m a 31-year-old fugitive, huddled on a stone step next to a bag of clothes, balancing his old laptop on his knees, still typing, still shivering. Didn’t my fingers shiver at the start? With excitement and expectation?
I’ve aged 20 years in twelve months. Now I’ve become one of those older gay men. I don’t think I believe in love anymore and I’m tired of meaningless sex. But I’ll go home and pretend I’m having the time of my life. I’ll beef up with steroids. Open up a new front on my ruined heart. I’ll go to clubs with other people who’ve lost their direction and their hope and pretend it’s enough. My heartbeat replaced by the incessant, hypnotising tick and thud of euro-trance beats, worshipped by a thousand flailing arms and gurning faces. A small pill. A drop of clear liquid. A line of crushed chalk up my sorry nose. I’ll dance in a pitch-black club and then wander home in the morning, dishevelled and abused with a stranger and stick myself into him, gripping his hips, watching the wallpaper, waiting to cum so I can sleep as the stink rises... all for a momentary spasm that would have been more enjoyable alone and the distant sense that life has something still to offer me. And what will I do? I’ll say I never hoped to share my life with another man. Who wants to be tied up in a relationship when you can be tied to the bedposts and edged, edged, edged? Let me cum. Please.
I feel my dick thicken and shift in my jeans. Is it going to rain, I wonder? The moon has gone behind cloud. I lean back into the shadows of the doorway as two drunken friends stagger by, laughing and singing, arm in arm. It isn’t him. He’s not come out looking for me. Thank goodness. Genuinely, thank God for that. I imagine him, a Cornish Jack the Ripper, hunting me down with a knife in one hand and a pasty in the other. I chuckle and look up to the sky. A long sigh and a smile.
London. I have to find my way back. My life is still in that ridiculous city. And somewhere, right now, amidst the world’s greatest, most exciting sprawl of idiots is the man I will love. London, look after him for me. He’s too good for you. Poor guy. He’s too good for me too.
I lift myself up and tuck my laptop under my arm. It’s 2 O’clock in the morning. I have to find somewhere to sleep.
My phone bleeps. A message on one of my apps.
'Hey. you’re cute. Any more face pics? Where are you?’
There you are. Life goes on.
I kept a diary of my hook-ups when I moved to London - the good ones and the bad.
I'm publishing them on my Patreon! www.Patreon.com/oliversparshot. - You can also join the chat about it on my Discord: https://!!!!!!!!DISCORD LINKS ARE NOT ALLOWED ON LPSG_______!!!!!!!!!!NVuT5A4eD
Thought you might like the first episode which went up (along with a few hard dicks) last week! Enjoy and check me out on Insta! Oliver Sparshot - gimme a follow.
xHERE CUMS TROUBLE - EPISODE 1
FOREPLAY
December 20th 2012
Where do I start? Where does anyone start with anything? There isn’t one single point to blame for anything, is there? Every person… every action, goes back to the very beginning of time. The very beginning of matter itself. To dust… and then to nothing at all.
So I might as well start with...
His dick was long, wet and thick with a single tear of cum crowning his japs eye. He thrust it inside, balls squeezing tightly against butt cheeks and I groaned, gripping my shaft, pressing my head back into the pillow. I was ready to squirt. I watched his muscles flex as he slapped his hips against lube-stuck curls and sticky skin. His blonde hair was greasy with sweat and he smiled hungrily, panting, coils sticking to his forehead, plastered to the tanned skin of his arched neck.
Eyes closed, eyelashes, flickering, he bent his back - downward dog - and lifted his sweet face to the sky in prayer, lips parted, while his toes curled and stretched. He whimpered. I watched him forensically, his legs stiffening, his butt hardening. He still had precisely 3 minutes and 29 seconds according to the screen but I couldn't hold on and I could tell… nor could he. ‘Do it,’ I whispered. His balls were sucked up. He let out a series of grunts and licked his lips and gritted his teeth. I caught the birthmark on his backside as his slick mound clenched and punched. His hard nipples were two perfect brown studs and his cappuccino skin was stretched – smooth and glistening – across his lean, hard, hungry body. A whimper. A groan. I whispered with him. ‘Fuck’ and then held my breath as my heart pounded, pounded, pounded. He screwed his eyes up. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose and clung onto his cheek beside a patch of freckles. Bright teeth nibbled his pale lips. He was feeling it too. I felt the burst beneath my balls and tensed. My legs hooked up and I came in four deep bursts which exploded six hot, white streaks of spunk into the warm, dusty air, before slapping on my laptop keyboard. ‘Oh ffffuck,’ I said, trying to stop but it was too late. I watched with one eye as the guy on the screen pulled out of the arse of some lucky stranger and finished himself off with his hand. He had neat nails, I noticed. His stomach tightened around his abs and he made a coughing noise, his head to the ceiling as three surprisingly small dribbles fell onto the cupped palm of his hand. He licked it up like a puppy, then grinned proudly at some guy out of shot. My heart, thudding, I was empty at last. I closed my eyes then laid back, staring at motes of dust flying from the window to the bare, hot bulb of the bedroom lamp.
It wasn’t an affair. Not yet. Just a video fantasy, in bed alone. I wiped my hand on my boxers, shut my laptop and fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming about work and blow jobs. I was 29, almost 30. A milestone or a gravestone. Had I made the decision to stay in this relationship forever? I turned onto my side and looked down at the garden below. The cherry tree was glowing amber, set against rotten grass and a dank sky. No. I fiddled with my dick, wiped it with a Nike running sock and looked in the mirror. After months running to try and tame my horny ass I was in the best shape of my life and pumped with testosterone all day every day. The relationship was over and I was ready to escape it and clamber hungrily into as many warm beds as I could. To feel hairy legs, to be tickled and touched by the searching fingers of other men, to taste the hot salt of a stranger’s cock. To see new messy morning faces and taste new tongues. I knew it was over. I’d known for a while.
That was exactly one year ago. And things have changed. Perhaps… perhaps it’s better to start at the end. That’s the problem with long-term relationships, right? If you know the climax, you can decide whether it’s worth the trouble. I hope mine is enough to keep you with me.
January 1st 2013
ONE
How did I end up here? How the hell did I end up here? After everything. My amazing year as a single gay man in London And now I'm sitting in a shop doorway in the early hours in a Cornish fishing town with nowhere to sleep, no food and no idea what I'm going to do. I'm single again. And I'm pissed.
My first year in London as a free gay man is almost over. Eleven months and three weeks of dating, fucking, falling in love, ruining love, chasing men, rejecting men… it was all supposed to be so simple. No heartbreak, no tears, no complications. No strings attached. Now after twelve months I'm covered in string. What a fucking mess. I'm stranded, lost and alone. Again. As ever. As always. I am going to die alone. That's all there is to it. I give up.
Jesus, the moon looks huge. I look up at it, sitting above the bowed roof of a chip shop. It always seems so small in London. And I can see the stars. I yawn and roll the back of my head against the shop door. Where am I going to sleep?
At least it's warm and dry here. A soft, clear night. I hold the moon in my fingers. A white coin. I'm still shaking from the adrenaline rush of the fight. It all seems so surreal now. Only a few minutes ago I was in that strange house crying and apologising. Apologising for fucking what? What the fuck did I do? His face was so frightening. He’s a fucking monster. So violent-looking. I shudder. They were usually such friendly blue eyes and I fell for that broad sexy smile. But after a few pints the angel became drunk and abusive yet again. Blank fish-eyes. I can still see his mother crying in her dressing gown. My breath is coming back and despite the horror and the shame of what I've done, I know it's the right thing. I’ll miss his amazing dick but that’s all.
Resolution follows disappointment more quickly than it used to. The first few boys hurt me badly. But now, twelve months of dating and shagging, and after another violently awful night, I find myself smiling and shrugging my shoulders. Yet again my handsome, funny boyfriend has turned out to be clinically insane. It was inevitable wasn’t it? And inevitably I’m wondering whether I have the strength to go through it all again. The prick test has come back positive. All gay men are mad. I just have to find the right insecure, paranoid, erratic narcissist for me.
A siren wails out towards the sea. I close my eyes and feel it winding around the old, cobbled streets. It can't be the police, there's no crime here. No scampi thieves. I hope it's not his mum dying of a heart attack. She looked so bewildered by it all. Why did I agree to come down here with him in the first place? I must be mad. Maybe that's it. Twelve months and ultimately, I'm the lunatic. More crazy than the guy with the bald cat. More crazy than the one who prayed during sex and the guy with monthly pre-menstrual stress and the one who was bitten by a horse and the horny prude and the 30-year-old virgin. The Olympic athlete, the dancer, the 'straight' guy, the German dog, the Italian bell boy. My Scottish man. Where is he now? And the rest. No. I haven't become mad. I was mad before any of it started.
How could I have thought it would be so easy? How could I ever have imagined I’d go from the safe, predictable bedroom in that old terraced cottage, holding my spent dick in my gym sock, to being stranded and homeless in Cornwall? Back then, right at the start, I thought I’d become a sexual adventurer. A swashbuckling love-pirate. No. I’m a 31-year-old fugitive, huddled on a stone step next to a bag of clothes, balancing his old laptop on his knees, still typing, still shivering. Didn’t my fingers shiver at the start? With excitement and expectation?
I’ve aged 20 years in twelve months. Now I’ve become one of those older gay men. I don’t think I believe in love anymore and I’m tired of meaningless sex. But I’ll go home and pretend I’m having the time of my life. I’ll beef up with steroids. Open up a new front on my ruined heart. I’ll go to clubs with other people who’ve lost their direction and their hope and pretend it’s enough. My heartbeat replaced by the incessant, hypnotising tick and thud of euro-trance beats, worshipped by a thousand flailing arms and gurning faces. A small pill. A drop of clear liquid. A line of crushed chalk up my sorry nose. I’ll dance in a pitch-black club and then wander home in the morning, dishevelled and abused with a stranger and stick myself into him, gripping his hips, watching the wallpaper, waiting to cum so I can sleep as the stink rises... all for a momentary spasm that would have been more enjoyable alone and the distant sense that life has something still to offer me. And what will I do? I’ll say I never hoped to share my life with another man. Who wants to be tied up in a relationship when you can be tied to the bedposts and edged, edged, edged? Let me cum. Please.
I feel my dick thicken and shift in my jeans. Is it going to rain, I wonder? The moon has gone behind cloud. I lean back into the shadows of the doorway as two drunken friends stagger by, laughing and singing, arm in arm. It isn’t him. He’s not come out looking for me. Thank goodness. Genuinely, thank God for that. I imagine him, a Cornish Jack the Ripper, hunting me down with a knife in one hand and a pasty in the other. I chuckle and look up to the sky. A long sigh and a smile.
London. I have to find my way back. My life is still in that ridiculous city. And somewhere, right now, amidst the world’s greatest, most exciting sprawl of idiots is the man I will love. London, look after him for me. He’s too good for you. Poor guy. He’s too good for me too.
I lift myself up and tuck my laptop under my arm. It’s 2 O’clock in the morning. I have to find somewhere to sleep.
My phone bleeps. A message on one of my apps.
'Hey. you’re cute. Any more face pics? Where are you?’
There you are. Life goes on.
