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5:35 am

Blogger: HogBoss

Feeling: Scared, confused

I know I shouldn't be writing this down and getting it anywhere near the Net, but I need to get this off my chest, and blogging seems to be the only way I can do it. Plus I'm pretty sure I got this thing set on private, and there's no way I can write this out by hand—my hands are shaking so bad now I can barely keep them on the keys.

I'm having a problem. A big problem. I bet I'm the only man in the world who has ever had this problem, which is why I'm freaking out and maybe losing my mind. God, it would be nice to know I was going crazy, cause then maybe none of this would be real and I could just be on drugs for the rest of my life in some mental hospital.

But what I've seen since yesterday is way too real to be some sort of brain trick or something. God, I wish I could write better, cause I can't get the words out fast enough and I don't know how to describe what's happening in my life.

I need to write the words. I tried to say them earlier, but they just wouldn't come out. I remember sometimes when I was on set I would have trouble getting up the nerve to do something new and different, and that's how I feel right now, cause if I type these words, then it will all be true and there will be no going back.

On set, I would always take a hit of poppers when I was feeling nervous before the cameras rolled. And I've got my bottle of poppers here with me right now, cause I'm thinking that might help me get out what it is I need to say. But I'm so fucking scared I can't even think about taking a hit right now.

Get it together, Hossein! I feel like such a weakling right now. You're a bigger man than this. You've starred in hundreds of movies. Your face and body are known all over the Internet. You've done things in movies most people have never even dreamed of. You pulled yourself off the street with no help and have a home and a family.

Or at least, I used to have a family. Now I'm not so sure. It used to be I thought of my son as my family, the most important thing in my life. But after what I've learned this weekend, and it breaks my heart to say this, but I don't think I can think of him that way anymore. How could I? 

Fuck, I just need to get it out. I'm gonna hit these poppers and finally get this off my chest, even if it's just to my computer screen. Here goes nothing.

My son is a cum addict.

There, I said it. My son, my pride and joy, my only offspring, is a jizz junkie. Even though he hasn't been to a single day of school yet in his young life, he knows what he wants, and that substance he wants can only be produced by an adult male's orgasm.

He's a hopeless little cocksnot goblin, and he can't even identify the difference between a triangle and a circle. He's a fucking cum piglet, and I hate it!

There, I knew the poppers would help me get that out.

I don't mean to use harsh terms, these are just phrases I picked up while I was in the industry.

There were some women I acted with back in the day who just LOVED semen. Hell, it was women like that who made me famous, because they were the only ones who could trulyÉappreciate the volumes I could give.

And they didn't mind being called such names. I don't think my son would mind, either, if he knew what those words meant. But he doesn't, because he's far too young.

That's what's so hard about this whole thing. He doesn't even know how bad it is! But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to go back to how it all started, yesterday afternoon at the park.

We'd been playing catch, like any normal father and son. See, that's what I've always wanted for my boy—just for him to have a totally normal life. I guess I want that for him because I never had it myself.

Nobody's ever heard of the shithole town I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in unless they pay attention when the news talks about the poorest and roughest neighborhoods in the US. I didn't know my father, and my mom tried her hardest, but her drug habits meant I pretty much had to make do on my own.

Fortunately, my special talent eventually made it pretty easy for me to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and once I figured out how to use it, life got much better.

It came at a price, though, and even after I started making money in the porn industry, I still didn't live a normal life. How could I? I was known around the industry as the biggest cummer to ever have lived, and to this date, I think I still hold that title. Fuck, that's all tied up in this whole mess with my son, too.

Anyway, living a life as a porn star who fucks countless women full of sperm, gives them insane facials, and drowns them in the stuff doesn't exactly add up to a normal life. So when my precious little guy showed up on my doorstep, I knew I had to do my best to give him a normal life.

I do mean he literally showed up on my doorstep, too. It was like a scene out of a movie—about a year after I resigned from porn, I heard a knock on my door in the middle of the night. I opened the door, and there was no one there. Then I looked down and there he was, in a cardboard box, with a note on it saying, "He's your fault."

A lot of my friends, mostly other porn stars, told me I was crazy to take in a kid like that. But I showed them when I got the paternity test proving he was my own flesh and blood. Who his mother is, I may never know, but I know for certain he's my boy.

Which is why this is all so fucked up. Is there something in my DNA that made my kid the way he is? Is this my fault? I wish I had never got that paternity test. If I hadn't, then I would feel so bad about being repulsed by my own offspring.

Anyway, the first few years of his life were normal. And all that changed yesterday when we were playing catch, like we do every Saturday afternoon. I accidentally got a little heated thinking about this chick I was sort of dating for a while, and I wasn't paying attention, and I threw the ball too hard and socked my son right in the face.

It was a total accident—I would never hurt him like that on purpose. I dropped everything and came running over and held him and put cold water on his face from the fountain nearby. He wasn't bleeding or anything, but it took him forever to stop crying, like always.

He finally stopped sniveling on the way home, and I looked over at him and was happy to see him smiling. He's one of those boys who is all or nothing. When he's sad, nothing will console him, but when he's happy, there's absolutely no hiding it.

It must be something about his looks. He's an adorable little kid, as he should be—he's got 50% of my genes, and I didn't become a famous porn star just cause I have a huge cock and shoot more cum than anyone else on film.

He sort of looks like me, but he's definitely got some of whoever his mother was in him as well. He could have come from any number of women I fucked over the years, both on and off screen, and they ran the gamut from super-white redheaded sluts to dark-brown Nigerian women.

Some parts of him look like me, but sadly he's pretty slender and small for his age. I don't think he'll grow up to be 6′5″ like his dad, or as solid and powerful as me. He doesn't look like the type of boy who will ever build up enough protein to get more than just toned.

He's got his temper from me as well. That boy can throw a tantrum, and when he does, I will do ANYTHING to get him to stop. It's annoying and a little scary that a boy his age can have so much power over me, his own father, but when he starts whining and yelling, he gets me wrapped around his little finger. But he's also got a sweet, sensitive, and quiet side that must have come from his mother. He's a bit smarter than I was at his age, but then again, brains have never been my strong suit, I'll admit.

So when I saw him smiling, I found myself smiling too. But if I had known that smile would eventually lead to me making the most horrific discovery of my life, I wouldn't have cracked a grin.

"What's up, amigo?" I asked him. "You look like you're feeling better."

"Daddy! My tooth is loose!"

My son turned to me and smiled, and it turns out he was right—the front bottom tooth was wiggling as he pressed it with his tiny tongue. He's too young to be losing teeth, but at least I know it will grow back, since it was just a baby tooth. Still, I'll never forgive myself for knocking out my son's first tooth. God how I wish I could go back, so that I never found anything out.

I focused on my son's loose tooth because it made him happy and excited. I filled him in on the Tooth Fairy and let him know if he left the tooth under his pillow, he'd get a special treat. He loved that idea, even though he had never had money before and had nothing to spend it on. I think the excitement is what caused him to wiggle that tooth until it finally popped out while we were eating dinner.

That night he went to bed at his normal 8 pm, and I watched a bit of TV downstairs waiting for him to go to sleep. I was calm and relaxed, because I hadn't had a night to myself in a long time. Usually, if I managed to get him to bed on time, I would go online and find some chick to fuck. It isn't hard to get women to come over once they figure out who I am, and what can I say? I have a porn star's stamina.

But that night I wanted to some time to myself. I wanted to tuck a few coins under my son's pillow, watch some porn, and go to sleep early.

I crept into my son's room at the end of the hallway. Even though my time as a porn star has allowed me to retire young, I still only have a modest house. It's just me and the boy, and we don't need much space. Still, I gave him a nice-sized room, decorated with lots of cowboys and lassos and horses, since he loves that stuff. If only he knew his dear old dad starred in a few cowboy-themed movies—though very different from the ones he likes to watch.

I took a moment to watch my son sleeping in the dim light. He was in his cute flannel pajamas, tucked under his covers even though it was kind of warm. I crept over to him and gave him a kiss on his forehead, which now sort of feels like a goodbye kiss, since that was the last moment I had with my son when I thought he was normal. Before I knew my son's a cum freak.

I slowly reached my hand under the pillow, clutching two quarters that I was going to leave behind, and as I did, my hands hit something wet—something rubber. There was a huge wad of it, like my son had a sheet of wet rubber balled up under his pillow.

I grabbed a fistful of the rubber stuff and pulled it out, and that's when I almost fainted. My hand was full, and I mean FULL, of condoms. Used condoms. MY condoms. I know them, cause they're my own special brand my producer helped me launch a few years ago. They're different colors with black writing—my name—up the length of them.

And the worst part was, they were all empty. Not just empty, but bone dry. They were crinkly and slimy, and some of them looked weirdly stretched. I don't know why I did what I did next, but I wish I hadn't.

Because I began to investigate the ball of condoms. At this point, I was in total shock. I didn't understand what I had found, and my brain couldn't process what this all meant. Hell, I don't think anyone has ever struggled with this before, so of course my brain couldn't process it.

I was grossed out as I began to probe the ball, which is weird, because they were my condoms. They hadn't grossed me out when I peeled them off my cock, sagging with my jizz, after fucking the women I brought into my house while my boy was asleep. But now, they seemed so vile my stomach was turning.

Still, I started to pick them apart, and as I did, I realized something. They weren't all bone dry. Some of them were wet—slimy. Though the cum that had once been in them was apparently long gone, they were a bit sticky, and not just from the lube. And that's when I noticed it.

One of the condoms—a hot pink one that looked awfully like the one I used three nights ago—had teeny-tiny little teeth marks. A perfect row of teeth marks, except for one missing tooth. Fuck.

At that point, I was convinced it was all a mistake. It was too vivid to be a dream—I'm not the brightest guy in the world, but I know when I'm awake and when I'm dreaming. But I figured it had to be a mistake. Maybe one of the women I brought over did it as some sort of sick joke. Maybe they weren't bite marks at all and were just left there by her clit piercing. Worst-case scenario, I figured, was that my son somehow thought they were toys.

But then I saw something that really made my stomach turn, and I almost had to leave the room cause I was afraid I was gonna be sick. My little boy was asleep on his side, happily dreaming with a little smirk on his face. But out of the corner of his mouth, barely visible between his plump, red lips, was a little blue piece of rubber.

The exact shade of blue I wore when I last fucked just the day before. I reached forward and pinched it, and realized it definitely was the reservoir tip of a clearly used and stretched-out condom.

Despite my horror and disgust, my curiosity got the best of me. Gently I used my fingers to part my son's lips, and gripping his bottom jaw, I pulled his mouth open and peered in. The condom was draped back along his tongue, and his mouth was so small that more than 50% of the rubber was down his throat.

I knew I had to get it out of him. I couldn't allow this—how could any father allow his son to have a condom in his throat? He's so young, he shouldn't even have SEEN condoms at this point in his life.

I pulled on it lightly and was immediately met with resistance—strong resistance. It was like his little throat was clenched around it. But the tonsils on a boy that size are not a problem for a man like me. I yanked a bit harder, and then my son—without waking up—made a horrific noise. It was mostly gagging, but also that high-pitched whine he makes sometimes right before he cries about something stupid that's bothering him. Which happens a lot. Every day, in fact.

He continued making that noise as I pulled, and slowly the slimy thing came out of him. I could see the letters of my name on the condom as I pulled it—though if I didn't know how to spell my own name, I would have had no idea what this partially ingested condom had written on it. The writing was covered by the disgusting wet phlegm-filth I was extracting from my beloved little brat.

When I pulled the condom fully out of his throat, it hung over his lips, dripping his own mucus back down onto his mouth. But it was only mucus, I could tell. There wasn't a single sperm left in that condom.

I'll admit, I was totally mesmerized by it. I couldn't stop staring at the globs of gunk running down the spent rubber, and how long the strands of it were—at least four I could count—as they dripped down to my son'sÉoh god, all over his face.

Suddenly, I had to reach over and grab my son's little Thomas the Tank Engine trash can and hurl into it. I have an iron stomach, and I love gory movies, but this was too disgusting for me to take. I retched as quietly as I could, and soon my whole body was shaking.

My son had somehow slept through all of this, and I couldn't be near him anymore, so I got up and returned to my room. As soon as I was in there, I shut the door and took a huge breath. I have never felt so shaken up in my life as I did then, leaning against the door.

I walked over to my nightstand and chugged a glass of water, then headed to the bathroom to refill it. While I was filling it up, I got distracted by my reflection in the mirror. That happens to me from time to time—sometimes I look at myself and I can't believe I am who I am. I just think, Jesus, I really am Hossein Domingo. The Hossein Domingo.

My face is handsome (I was never one of those porn stars who survived on just what was below the neck), but it looked harrowed. My eyes were sunken, and my face was so pale that my thick lips looked obscenely red.

So much of me looks like my son, there's no denying he's mine—though I really wish right now that I could. But he's got those same signature red lips, just like mine. People on my video sites use to comment on my lips; they loved how I would bite them as I was shooting off.

We also both have shaggy, curly black hair and skin the color of coffee with milk—though my son seems to have a bit more milk in him than me. I have a thick mat of curly hair across my chest and running in a line between my abs (which I still have four years after retiring from the porn industry, thank you very much!), and of course my son only has hair on the top of his head.

Our noses are different too. I have that classic Arab nose, the one that allowed me to make those stupid Taliban porno movies early in my career. I'm Arabic and Latino, so it was just as easy for me to play a Mexican gangster when needed. My son doesn't have that Arab nose though—his tiny nose is a bit upturned at the end, like a pig.

I stepped back from the mirror to take a better look at the lower half of me. Maybe I wanted to look at it because it was the part of me that was most different from my son. Most different from anyone on Earth, really.

Under normal circumstances, my cock would be remarkable to anyone who saw it. But it didn't get much attention back in the day, despite that it's a full 10 inches when hard and about as thick as my wrist. It's got a few other features that make it a bit abnormal. Right now, it's soft and heavy and hanging downward like it's asleep, so those features aren't as clear right now.

But when I'm raging hard, which I still am more often than not, the cord that runs along the bottom of my cock is clearly much thicker than most people's—as thick as my middle finger.

I've remained in great shape even as I've grown into my 40s, but there is one part of my body that has taken a beating, and that's the piss slit of my cock. I've always had a big piss slit—back when I was a young buck it used to be a bit tighter, and my loads would spray out like when I held my thumb over the garden hose. Now, though, after years of making money spraying out my signature gargantuan loads, the piss slit is wider, especially right before I cum. And now, when I do jizz, it shoots out like a stream of water rather than a high-pressure spray.

Dr. Gareth, the doc for all of us porn stars back in the day, said that my cock and balls were the perfect combination for my talent. Obviously the real power and the real difference between me and my costars was the two giant eggs in my sack, but the doc made the point that my cock was just designed to deliver cum well. "Efficiently" he used to say, though most of my female costars called it messy.

I looked down in the mirror to my two nuts, and I started to get so mad at them. They hung there, nonchalantly, looking as obscene as they always have. Whenever I look at them, I think about how they are probably the most famous balls in the porn industry. They are bigger than anyone else's who's been on film, and they hang halfway down my thigh in their hairy sack. They look to me like pool balls, and the left one hangs a good two inches lower than the right one. Most people who look at them can't help comparing me to various animals with huge nuts, but really, they are very human—they just look like a blown-up version of what most men have.

I was so pissed off at those balls, cause I began to wonder if they were the cause of this huge problem. There's no way it's a coincidence that I have the biggest balls that shoot the BIGGEST loads in porn, gay or straight, and also that my son seems toÉwellÉI don't even wanna type it out again.

And as I was having these hateful thoughts, my thoughts turned to some of the women I'd worked with. Needless to say, from the moment I did my first casting-couch shoot, all the porn directors and actors knew where my true talent was. So I started making cum fetish porn back when I was in my 20s, and I have hundreds of movies under my belt.

So many of those pornos featured women whoÉand I hate to say this, truly disgusted me. Some of the ones who did just normal shoots with me were OK, but the ones who were in my Cum Slut Schoolgirls series, for example—well, I couldn't even look at them or talk to them after the shoot. Once the cameras were off, I preferred to pretend they didn't exist.

It was the girls who genuinely LIKED the cum stuff that really bothered me. Some women, you could tell, were in it for the money, and they'd spend a lot of time in the bathroom afterward washing their teeth and showering. But other women, well, they honestly loved dick juice. It was so disgusting and inhuman—I still feel a strong hatred for them. They AREN'T human to me, not fully, because what kind of human drinks cum from several men in an hour and still smiles afterward? What kind of woman thinks she is worth anything if she is willing to lick up cum off a porn studio floor?

I shouldn't have been thinking about that, because my cock started to get hard. It's confusing, but when I think about how much I hate those women, I get rock hard. And when I'm hard, wellÉI can't hold too many thoughts in my head.

So pushing aside the thoughts of what I had seen in my only son's bedroom, I headed back into my own bedroom, flopped on the bed, and pulled up the hard drive I have plugged into my flatscreen. I knew exactly what I wanted to watch—Drowned Divas 8, what has been voted over and over again as my best scene.

In this one, the woman I've always despised the most is kneeling beside the pool in the backyard of a big mansion, surrounded by men of all shapes and sizes. The DVD cover boasts over 100 men, but I know for a fact there were only 60 or so guys there, because some of the masked guys went two or three times.

Anyway, the woman actually drank it all. It's the only shoot I can remember where they didn't have to pause the cameras so my scene partner could spit or at least have a drink. It was a single-shot film, which is a big part of why it was such a success. But the part everyone raved about was the load I shot at the very end, after holding her head in place for two hours. It's my biggest load on record, and it was so thick and juicy that this whore-thing couldn't even drink all of it. So the film ends with her licking up the cum like a hungry dog off my thighs and feet as it fades to black.

Watching that always makes me shoot a huge load, which is exactly what I did, and I found I felt much better. I couldn't believe how huge the load was. It was like my morning load usually is. I have to cum a few times a day or else my balls get too heavy and it gets uncomfortable, and usually my morning load is the biggest. That was my fourth load, but it was just as chunky and creamy as my first load of the day always is. And I had the distance of my morning load too—my first four shots landed up on my neck, and the next six on my chest, until the final 10 or so spurts just covered my abs and filled my belly button.

I have no idea why that load was so huge, except that usually when I'm upset about something, my balls seem to produce more jizz. I was pretty upset, so I'm guessing that's what it was—after discovering the problem with my son, my balls had to expel an extra large portion of sperm to help me get over it.

I used five paper towels to clean myself up as best I could, tossed them in my trash, and decided I wasn't going to worry about my son until the following day. I fell asleep quickly, like I always do after busting a load.

But that was not the end of my night. How I wish it had been. Three hours later, I woke up to an alarming bang, and then a very loud rattling and crashing sound at the foot of my bed.

I moved as quickly as I could, grabbing the baseball bat leaning against my nightstand. I crept over to the light switch by the door with the bat raised above my head. I was ready to pounce on whatever it was, but I'm so glad I didn't.

When the light first flicked on, just for a moment, I thought it was a racoon that had come in through the window and gotten into my trash can. But then I realized it wasn't at all. It was him, my son, and he had somehow gotten himself lodged into the trash can. His head, shoulders, and both his arms were stuck in the wireframe bucket, and he was on all fours, struggling, trying to weasel his way out of it.

Then my heart sank as I looked at the floor around him and noticed bits of paper towel scattered all over the place. It looked like a dog had gone through the trash, but this was no dog. This was my son. And what disturbed me most was that there weren't enough bits of paper towel to make up the five I had used. So where had the majority of them gone?

"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted at my kid, but he just continued to whine and struggle. I could tell he was in quite a bit of pain, so I reached down, sat him upright on his undies-covered butt, and yanked. The trash can was really jammed on there, so I yanked hard. I was worried I was going to pull his arm out of its socket. He yelped and screamed, but eventually with a pop the trash can came off.

"Thank you, daddy!" he said, and he was already up on his feet, jumping at the trash can I held in my arms.

"Mijo! What the fuck are you doing? It's one in the morning!"

"One more!" he cried out, obnoxiously ignoring me. "One more!" He was still leaping at the can, and when I looked at it, I saw a final paper towel was indeed stuck to the greasy, filthy bottom. It was mostly dry, with a golf-ball-sized glob of cum in a sort of pouch.

I reached in and peeled it out, and suddenly my son went crazy. I've never heard him make noises like he did—snarling, growling, and LOTS of grunting.

"What is it, son?" I asked, trying to hide the pain, shock, and disgust in my voice. "WHY DO YOU WANT THIS?" I was really getting loud, but my son didn't flinch.

"IT'S! MY! SNAAACK!" he screamed, and suddenly he stomped on my foot. It really hurt—he's got tiny little pointy heels. I shouted andÉ.fuck. I dropped the paper towel.

I was immediately distracted from the pain in my foot by what happened next. My son LEAPED to the floor and threw himself down on his stomach, and I could only watch in horror as he reached for the paper towel. He tried to snatch it up to his mouth, but before he could, I stepped down on his hand, hard. Too hard.

I felt the cum squish under my foot,and watched as my son sat up suddenly on all fours. I have never seen such an expression in his eyes—pain was there, yes, but more than that it was hatred. Pure hatred. And then he let out one of those screams—those silent screams that really scare the shit out of me, because I know what they mean. They mean a tantrum is coming.

Which is exactly what happened next. My son threw one of the biggest fits of his life, and it lasted for over an hour. I usually try to ignore him during his tantrums, but this time I couldn't. I couldn't stand it. So I rushed to the bathroom and rinsed off my foot, which really set him off.

When I came back to him, he was still screaming and crying, but also licking at the carpet. Fortunately there wasn't anything there. I don't know what I would have done if I had actually seen him eat sperm.

The screaming and wailing and crying drove me CRAZY, so I carried him back to his room and threw him in there. Good thing I had that lock installed on the outside of his door for when he's not good at staying in his room when I tell him to.

I went back to my room, and it was a full two hours before the screaming finally stopped. Thankfully he's asleep now, which has given me time to get all this off my chest. I feel so much betterÉbut fuck, what am I going to do when I go wake him up for play group?