The patron content is only available for patrons of Tale of Men. You can become one here.

Tale of Men project was born out of my passion for photography and storytelling. As it grows, the cost starts to mount. You can help the project stay alive by becoming a patron or purchasing the Tale of Men magazines. Thank you!

I was born in 1981, in a city in what was then East Germany. From the beginning, I was a quiet, introverted child — someone who preferred to observe rather than to be seen. I always felt a little out of step with the world around me. When the Wall fell and Germany reunified, it was supposed to be a time of hope. But for my family, it was the start of something else — something harder. My parents struggled to find their footing in the new world, and as they lost their way, I lost almost everything I had known. Stability, security, even a clear sense of home — they all slipped through my fingers.

At school, I became the “poor, weird kid,” the outsider. Children can be cruel, and their words left marks that time hasn’t completely erased. To this day, I still carry the scars of feeling not good enough, not wanted, not seen. As I grew older, I had to face another part of myself: I was gay. In a perfect world, that would have been just another detail about who I was. But in reality, even within the LGBTQ+ community, I often felt judged — not enough, not pretty enough, not loud or perfect enough for a world that sometimes seems obsessed with appearances.

And yet, despite everything, I kept moving forward. It wasn’t easy. There were setbacks, doubts, dark nights where I questioned if I was ever really going to find my place. Somehow, I built a life — piece by piece, step by step. Today, I stand on my own two feet. I travel the world, I celebrate life, I dance under city lights, and yes — in true cliché fashion — I love to party.

Still, self-confidence is something I haven’t fully mastered. Doubts linger, and sometimes my shyness and insecurity create a distance that I don’t mean to put there. I know I can come across as reserved, maybe even cold — but the truth is, I feel deeply. I care deeply. I don’t always have all the answers. I don’t always move through life with boldness or certainty. But every day, I try — to be kind, to be open, to live honestly. And maybe that’s enough: to keep showing up with a good heart, even when it’s hard.

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It was just another ordinary day. A slightly warm 25 degrees, a gentle breeze blowing, the sunlight bright but not blinding. I had a shift from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m., preparing ingredients, mixing drinks, greeting customers—just like always. Everyone was busy with their own lives, and so was I.

After work, as usual, I went to the gym. It’s the only place in my life where I still feel I can keep control of my own rhythm. The treadmill, dumbbells, squat rack—these systematic workouts help me maintain balance amid the chaos.

I walked into the shower. Hot water flowed down, washing away sweat and exhaustion. Just as I was about to leave, the door was pulled open. I didn’t even have time to react, hadn’t even turned off the water. It was a blurry, broken moment—time froze, sounds disappeared, and every inch of skin suddenly felt unfamiliar, no longer belonging to me.

I put on my jacket, covering the swollen marks left by the resistance band. I put on a mask, hiding the redness of pimples around my mouth. These are all things that can reasonably exist in everyday life—no one would ask questions. As I left, I still said “Thanks, bye” to the front desk staff, my tone steady, as if nothing had happened.

I rode my scooter from Yonghe, heading north, all the way to the unlit coastline. Out there it was so quiet, it didn’t feel like the real world. I sat by the shore; the wind was gentle, there was no rain. But I heard “raindrops,” one by one. They weren’t falling from the sky—they were falling from inside me. I thought, maybe that’s the only sound I can make—unseen crying, a pain I dare not admit.

On May 12, I went to the hospital. I said I’d had sex and forgot to use protection. The doctor didn’t ask much, just prescribed PEP. I nodded, thanked him, took the medicine—like a responsible adult. This way, I could convince myself it was just a risky sexual encounter, not some kind of trauma. As long as I don’t say it out loud, as long as I don’t admit it, then it’s just an unpleasant event, nothing more.

I went back to work—preparing ingredients, mixing drinks, greeting customers. After my shift, I went to a friend’s bar, drank with them until midnight, laughing and having fun, as if the world had no cracks in it. I told myself: as long as I look normal, as long as I smile naturally, no one will suspect what happened yesterday. That way, I’m not a sexual assault survivor, but just a normal person who had an unfortunate sexual experience.

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The patron content is only available for patrons of Tale of Men. You can become one here.

Tale of Men project was born out of my passion for photography and storytelling. As it grows, the cost starts to mount. You can help the project stay alive by becoming a patron or purchasing the Tale of Men magazines. Thank you!

A Moment of Truth
by Rob Corn

Slowly, I pull his throbbing cock from the depths of my throat, 
and with every pulse, a dwindling stream of his hot cum spills out. 

Him, exhausted. Me, grinning with satisfaction, 
gazing up at him from below, 
before seizing that overwhelmed moment to get off myself. 
His cock, semi-rigid, dangling in front of my face, 
a final drop of cum hanging on a thread. 

I come so hard that afterward, 
I inevitably collapse into myself, 
resting my head against him. 

A deep breath floods through me. 
A thought flares up: “Should I tell you the truth?” 
I smile. 

What would the truth be? In this moment? 

In this exact moment, the truth would be 
that I’ve come for the third time today. 
Or, to be precise, not even today— 
it’s the third time within six hours. 

Every two hours. Not a bad average. 
Number one knocked me out cold today, 
number two was a horny, willful accident, 
and number three was planned for good measure. 

Number three, whose taste still lingers in my mouth 
as I write these lines— 
an athletic ex-twink, late thirties, 
with a damn fine, firm, shaved cock 
and an unrelenting urge to be milked. 
Him, on his knees at the bed’s edge. 
Me, on my knees in front of it. 
Him, bent over me, gripping the stair railing for support. 
Poppers bottle in hand. 
One mouth, two free hands— 
the ending’s a given. Glorious! 
And it brings me back to my truth. 

Number one, oh my God! 
Not a boy, not yet a man. 
19, more like a fleeting dream of youth, 
taking every detour out to Potsdam, 
including a car-sharing ride with tinted back windows— 
worth the risk that no one’s waiting by the roadside. 

I can’t help but thinking of the scent of sweet, boiled milk. 
Pale skin, an unshaven reddish-blonde bush, 
that shy, uncertain, yet boldly curious gaze. 
An unbelievably gorgeous, bulging, rigid cock 
with full, hairy balls, 
a fire raging inside them the moment 
we both stripped off our sweatpants 
and took each other in. 

The roll of toilet paper he brought along 
and then forgot in the car— 
he didn’t need it. 

This insanely young guy, 
with the light fuzz on his face, 
gave me more than just his cum today. 
He sparked a memory in me— 
what it was like back then, for me. 
That rush when I did these things 
for the first time in my life, 
with men the age I am now. 

His reckless youthfulness, 
a true fountain of feelings for me. 

On the drive back from my 19-year-old Potsdam adventure 
to Berlin, I passed the sign for the Parforceheide rest stop. 
How often I’ve wanted to pull over here, 
to see if the cruising rumors about Parforceheide hold up. 
Today’s the day. 

Tuesday, early afternoon— 
not cruising rush hour, 
but prime hunting time 
for tradesmen or dads clocking off early. 
Lady Luck smiled on me: 
a nice, cut cock on a slightly shy mid-thirties guy 
standing in his work pants at the urinal. 
After a quick mating dance, 
the path led out of the restrooms, 
through a slit in the fence, 
into the woods. 

I couldn’t hold back. 
There, kneeling with my back against a tree in the snow, 
in front of this hairy little powerhouse 
with his mocha skin 
and that beautiful, firm, cut cock 
deep in my throat. 
I came the second I dared 
to pull my throbbing dick out of my pants. 
The level of horniness was perfected. 

I smile. 
My truth. 

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I’m not quite sure when I discovered that I actually enjoy being nude.

Growing up there was always so much shame associated with nudity. Or sex. Or sexuality. It was something to never talk about, never in polite conversation, and often conversations around any of it were either reserved for raunchy boasting, or sleazy sneak peeks at the chapter on reproduction in middle school biology that our teacher would pretend did not exist and skip over. 

Fast forward years and I was doing a lot more advocacy around sexuality and sexual rights among my peers: other queer and questioning young people who had been told who we were and what we desired were wrong, were illegal, and were to never be talked about. We fought, the law changed, society started talking more about queerness. On a personal level, liberation around my sexuality led to liberation around my sexual wants, and you’d think what would automatically follow was unlearning the shame we were force fed around our bodies and nakedness. But nope, it’s never that easy to come by.

In the summer of 2015, I had my first nude beach experience on Fire Island in New York. As a poor grad student studying in NYC an overnight on Fire Island would have ruined me financially, and frankly I had never even heard of it when my friend invited me to come along with his partner for a day trip. I remember them proudly introducing me to this cornerstone of the US East Coast gay experience. They showed me around, taking me from historic Cherry Grove to The Pines via the meat rack, which was also my first experience seeing cruising and sex out in nature, though mind you this was around noon so most of the woodland creatures were still napping from last night’s party. We went to this stretch of beach in The Pines and my friends took off all their clothes, all so casually, and sat down to soak some sun. I followed suit, surprisingly feeling no hesitation. I remember this afternoon very well because they made it seem so normal, so natural, to just want to be one with nature, let the sun glimmer on your skin as the waves licked your feet.

In the years that followed, I kept on seeking out nude beaches during my travels, but also at home. The first Covid summer in the Netherlands was a gorgeous one, and outdoor hangs were permitted, so I would go to these nude gatherings on the beach in the dunes of IJmuiden on the North Sea. The nude section was a bit of a trek from the main beach, but it was so refreshing to meet others who enjoyed being in the nude, who were comfortable in their skin. When the bars and clubs reopened, such hangouts faded out too, unfortunately. At times they resurface, like on that unseasonably warm sunny day in May, when some like-minded folks head down to Gaasperplas here in Amsterdam to read a book in the nude, and others head to Nieuwe Meer to soak some sun, take a dip, enjoy the views of naked men cruising in this wooded lakeside area, and perhaps partake in some if that’s the mood of the afternoon.

It’s quite commonplace to conflate nudity and sex, and that makes it challenging for some to enjoy nudism without the sexual connotations either arising from or being expected of it. Many a friend has shied away from going to a nude beach or a naked night at a bar (of which we have many now in Amsterdam) for this very reason, and more often than not it’s about unwanted sexual attention. It’s a tricky situation to navigate given that even today we have to remind people why consent is important, and especially the fact that nudity does not imply consent. Thankfully, the beaches and bar nights I am drawn to seem to be frequented by people who observe and respect consent very well. And personally speaking: sometimes I just want to soak up the sun, enjoy a drink and chat, and at other times I might want to explore and engage more. Sexual desire emerging from true comfort and ease, coupled with the excitement that comes from a good conversation, is for me the ultimate firestarter! 

As my comfort with being nude grows, so does my curiosity. For instance: this is only my second ever photoshoot in the nude! And I’m looking forward to going on a naked hike this summer. Nudity has become quite enjoyable: to break free and just be in your own element, love the feeling of the air, the sun, the water on every part of yourself. It’s a different kind of freedom, an acceptance, a comfort of being one with yourself. And that’s a journey I want to continue on for life. 

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I grew up in a small town in the East of France, close from the German border. I wouldn’t say it was a particularly homophobic area -at least not more than any other small town- but it deeply lacked of queer people.

Out of my whole childhood, I can only recall one gay couple around, a colleague of my mom and his husband.

It’s hard for queer kids, because you don’t even know what queer life can be. Most of us left to bigger towns.

I moved to Paris when I was 16. I wasn’t out -even to myself- before moving there, and have not been in the closet since then. For me, this city will forever be associated with the freedom to be yourself. I felt truly empowered to be there so young, navigating in anonymity of a big city.

After some years, I felt again that queer lives were not visible enough in the streets of Paris. The community is vibrant but mostly concentrated in our bars, cabarets and other associative venues. I decided to move to Berlin, one of the queerest cities in Europe in my opinion. It was the perfect decision for me, and I really feel at my place in this city. But it is definitely not perfect : in the last two years, I really felt that an increase in violence towards us queers, from street harassment to assaults.

This is a harsh reminder, that it’s not because our situation improved in the last decades -or at least in the West- that it will keep improving, or even that it will stay this way. I’ve been harassed or assaulted 6 times over the last 2 years. Gladly, these events did not made me want to hide, but rather to look more queer, more provocative, more like myself. If people have a problem with me existing, then I can just be worse.

Being an open slut, showing my sex life is part of this. The beauty of being queer is to be out of the norms and to break them. Sex and kinks are political, and I think that exposing them is part of a cultural fight.

With the rise of fascism, I believe we need to learn how to support each other to remain free and proud. Tomorrow can still be better than yesterday, but we have to fight for it.

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