I had both the advantages and curses of being a rock star. I could afford to go anywhere I wanted on the spur of the moment or as the mood hit me, but if a mood hit me that would land me in the tabloids, I'd better be prepared to go to the ends of the earth. The mood had hit me to get the most exotic and total fuck that I could find by the most talented cocksman I could attract. I had been on open exhibition for months and could have had any woman I'd wanted during that time.
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Selina quickly checked herself in the bathroom mirror one last time. She'd been looking forward to tonight's job and her preparations had been meticulous. She smoothed down her knee-length black dress that clung to her, showing off her shapely body to full effect. The low cut neck-line showed off her décolletage, with just a hint of the lacy black basque she was wearing below it. Sheer black stockings and stilettos completed her outfit.
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I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.
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I walked into the truck stop diner and was surprised to lay my eyes on an old truckin' buddy, Hank. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years. We both haul loads Coast to Coast, but rarely cross paths.
"So, how you doin' good buddy?" he asked.
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My back was killing me by two o'clock. At eighteen I'm in good shape but, Damn!
My sister has a lot of crap!
Some how it's become my job to move it all.
My dad would help, but at sixty his back doesn't need the strain. And he's working on the family barbecue grill.
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I love touching my pussy. I love the feeling of my most personal effect in my hand. I love bringing myself to orgasm by playing with my pussy. I love the feeling of being in charge of my own happiness. I love feeling my silken gift at my fingertips, and the feeling of intimacy that it provides for me.
I've also had to learn to love all of those things.
I've come to love them over the last several years, as masturbation is my only true sexual outlet right now.
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So it was New Years eve, the time to party, to celebrate, and with any bit of luck, get laid. And in the past I've had absolutely no problems getting laid on New Years Eve. Sometimes it was because I was lucky, others it was because I lowered my standards, or alcohol lowered them and I got laid. In either case my main goal of having sex has been accomplished on NYE since I turned 18, and I'm now 29. So I guess I am at least guaranteed to get laid once a year.
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The truth is, I want to be hurt.
The red plastic cup of beer in my hand is damp and sweating. The bass is pounding so loudly I can feel it vibrating inside my veins. My shirt is sticking to my skin along my spine, my skin tired and dewy and angry. God, I hate my life.
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In those days, I didn't wear underwear. I had long hair down to the small of my back. I was in good shape, lean and muscular, a bike rider with thick legs and a laid-back demeanor. You probably know the type.
So a certain kind of woman often responded to me. A certain kind of man, too, although I'd never given that a thought.
For my part, here's what I liked in a woman: Natural, sensual. smart. Sexual intellectuals. Open and daring, although even if they weren't, I usually got them there pretty quick.
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I walked home in the glaring sun as sprinklers tinkled on the lawns of our neighbours and sweat seeped slowly into my clothes. I wiped my brow and held the straps of my backpack, beneath which the thin material of my school shirt was nearly saturated. The temperature had risen steadily over the past week and the heat wave was now at its peak.
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