Sex. Even the taste of the word feels a little dirty. Your
lips part slightly as the syllable rustles through the edge giving your lips a
tingle that eventually filters through your entire body. Some people cannot say
the word without disgust. Some say the word with laughter to cover the
awkwardness it holds. I say the word with a smirk, because sex, my friends, is
what I do best.
Who am I, and why should you care? Well, Beau de Jour, I am
obviously not, but one has to keep some things a secret in this world of
decadence. I keep my personal life personal and my sexual life sexual. My
partners may not be as open as I am, but their stories will soon find their way
to the masses. I have had sex across the United States in places from the
wilderness to hotels. Mostly with men, but even a couple women find their way
into my stories. I do not pretend to know anything of romance, even though some
of these stories lead to romantic entanglements. The truth is, who I am is not
as important as who I do.
I moved to the New York area a little over four mouths ago.
Since then, I had a threesome with two lovers, a romantic entanglement with
excellent sex, an actor whose sexual prowess reminded me of a drunk dog, and a
man who wanted me simply because his friends had me. This was only in the NYC metro area, not including the
strange, devilishly handsome, and awkwardly stagnant people back in the Midwest
where I originally lived.
My flavor changes. Normally, I find myself bending over and
forcing a man into me simply because I want it. Sometimes, if they’re forceful
enough they can actually take control of me. Generally, I’m the one getting
what I want and they’re just the receptacle for my need. My needs change.
Sometimes, I need to fuck, or be fucked, sometimes I want someone to slap my
ass or lick it. A few times, I might want to force someone to need what I have
to give. Regardless, one-night stands are all about me.
Do not mistake that I do not care for my partner’s
satisfaction. I do want my partners to finish, but I do not pick-up men randomly
to have some emotionally lethargic experience. I pick them up because I need
cock or I want someone to sit on mine or beg for me to complete their needs.
I would not call myself handsome. Some people would find me
downright in opposition to the idea of the ‘gay ideal’. I am hairy which could
be helped with waxing, but why do I give a damn when I hope to never see most
of the people again. I am balding, but I do have a nice cock that may not be
huge, but people seem appreciative nonetheless. I’m also fairly agile and lithe
with only about five pounds too much in my stomach to have it be flat. Most
people ignore me, but the few that don’t always leave me with a story to tell.
Those stories shall be here for the world to read. You may
call me a slut, tramp, trollop, whore, or harlot, but at the end of the day I
know what I like. Someday, I may want more, but if that day is to come, the boy
still has to be able to please me. Let’s see how many people do before that
time, shall we?
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