Contemplative

I sit and analyze.

I'm faced with some job changes that could signify the end of my favorite hobby. I don't think it would be a permanent end, but an end nonetheless. As I am still searching for that perfect balance of "fun to chat with" and "fun to fuck," it wouldn't be too difficult to put that search on hold. These changes would greatly affect my free time. My fucking time. My play time.

Oddly, I'm not too sad about that. I'm dissatisfied still. Unfinished. Orgasms given but attention still at a deficit. At odds with myself.

I had a man who ravaged my body and blew my mind. He's been gone for a while, but in his place is a new model that has yet to be filled. Maybe I just expect too much. Maybe the time away from the hunt would refresh my attitude. Or maybe I'll never be that satisfied again.

Lunch meetings

His blonde eyes rivaled my own in intensity and his dimples curved like commas around his bright, white smile. This boy was too pretty for me.

So how did I find myself sitting across the booth of a local brew pub, sipping my water with lemon while he finished a raspberry wheat? Potential.

Our meeting was unconventional but my desire to mar that pretty blonde hair with my wet, pussy-slick fingers was purely animal.

I had worn a dress, anticipating we'd meet at his place. He lives near by. But last minute change in plans forced us to improvise. He met my steady gaze with his own, only dropping his eyes a few times to glimpse my ample cleavage. I had dressed to impress, after all.

"You are so damn sexy. Want to get out of here?" I just nodded.

He paid his tab, placed a protective hand on the small of my back and led me to his car. He smelled fantastic -- cologne, soap and lust.

In his car, my skirt rode up around my thighs as we chatted about nothing, eyes looking for a secluded place to park. He stroked my knee, the top of my thigh. I grabbed his hand, spread my legs and invited him in further. He actually gasped out loud when his fingers brushed my nakedness. He slipped his finger into the wet slit, rubbing softly up and down as he drove.

"God, you're so wet already."

I positioned his finger a pinch higher, added pressure with my own fingers and rubbed until I came with a shudder. He pulled over.

He dragged me into the back seat, hands on my tits, ass, back, roaming, feeling, getting to know me. His fingers found me wetter still and curved up toward my favorite spot, bringing me to another shuddering climax.

"You cum so easy. That's so fucking hot!"

I thanked him with broad strokes from my tongue on his beautiful, shaved cock. Are pretty boys usually pretty every where? He had a flat, taut stomach. Tight ass. Strong arms. He was gorgeous. Much to pretty to smear with sweat and cum in the middle of the day. Or maybe not.

I straddled him, clenching my thighs as I rode him hard and fast. I sank into my orgasms with a moan, sometimes a little giggle. He buried his face in my tits, sucking, biting and pulling.

When he couldn't hold back any more, he flipped me over, shoved against the door, pushed my knees to my ears and found how deep he could go. I urged him to fuck me harder, deeper, please! He didn't make any noise when he came. That's something I'll have to change for next time. I like to hear my man groan.

He drove me back to my car. Kissed me goodbye and left to meet someone else for a lunch that would probably involve actual food.

Later that afternoon, he sent me an message: "When can I see you again?"

I smiled: "Soon."

End before we begin

I'm a lucky girl. I've had some great lovers. It's been a smooth, wet transition into this lifestyle. It's easy to enjoy the lover who worships your body, begs for your mouth and cums with a shudder and a gasp.

Lately, my luck has not been so good. My brown-eyed Irish boy could care less if he ever saw me again. Occassionally he'll e-mail, tell me he misses my pussy. I just stopped writing back.

My long-distance lover pulled the curtain on our meeting the day before I boarded a plane. While he had a valid excuse, I can't help but feel like the dupe. Was he as in to me as I am into him? I guess I'll never know.

And then there's the boy I'm seeing now. Eager, voracious appetite, works close by but is never satisfied. Now before you open your mouth in surprise, I always leave my man satisfied. But this man isn't happy with just me. He wants to try something new, exciting, different every time. Let's add a guy, he suggests. Or maybe a girl. What about double penetration? We could swing with another couple.

All of those are exciting, fun things I'm eager to have, but not on my lunch hour when I have a lovely planning meeting at 1. He never seems happy to just meet me for some quick but thorough sex at the local park. I feel like I'm failing before we even start.

The pragmatic me shakes her head, and reminds me that I should be thankful to have these chances at all. To be thankful that men look at my freckled nose and looping curls and want to bury their hands between my thighs. But there's that other little voice, the one that wants something more. Something that I haven't had for a while.

I am a sure thing, but I still want to be seduced. Maybe it's time to look for someone else again.

I liked it

This weekend, I went dancing with a very good friend, a blonde beauty who towers over me in her heels, with a soft laugh and a great smile.

I love to dance, as does she. But this time, I skipped the bump and grind with boys too young and watched her wiggle. She's much too good of a friend, for far too long, to initiate any kind of physical relationship but that didn't stop me from feeling her body twist and turn under my hands.

I also stole a taste of her sweaty skin from her bare shoulder. I could barely discern the bitter flavor of the alcohol from her martini seeping through as she danced with abandon, willing herself to give up the role of wife, mother of three boys and hard-working lawyer.

Under the low lighting, she glistened.

For the love of boys

How many lovers is too many?

I find myself in a precarious situation. My lovers before were solo adventures. Just me and he, exploring the depths of human sexuality and depravity. One tongue, one set of fingers, one stiffening cock confined by my lips.

When did things get so busy?

I started this blog as a catharsis for discussing my need for male attention without actually discussing it with any one. It's my outlet. I am a writer both in this life and in my straight life. It's only natural for me to keep a diary, or accounting of my sexual adventures.

I've met some really fantastic gorgeous men in my life. Through this blog, I've met a few others. But how many is enough?

For a while I thought the next lover would be the last. I've given up that dream. I can't see a point where I'll stop. I know that's dangerous, always looking for the next. But it's become a part of who I am, the mistress I've become.

I love boys. Bald, thin, chubby, tall, short, muscular or a little soft in the middle. I crave them, like the sugar I don't eat. They are the sweetness on my tongue.

I've met a new boy. He's much younger than I, still a 20-something. I tend to prefer them older, wiser, experienced. This one, however, intrigues me. He smells so damn good, he must taste like honey. But he's a little shy and requires that I brush off my skills to seduce him. He's never been a toy. He's not sure how to respond. I should just let him go. Pass me by. Find someone his own age to fall in love with. Except, now I want him for my own.

Maybe just one more. Just one more.

Listen

My cell phone buzzes and for an instant, I'm frozen. I was anticipating the call, but it still gives me a thrill to see his number on the screen.

I answer and once again, marvel at the affect his voice has on my nerve endings. Tingling from head to toe, I respond a little breathless.

"I'm all alone in the house."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

He instructs me to strip my pants and thong, lie on the bed spread and softly rub my swelling clit.

"What would you do, if you walked into my room and saw me like this. Spread on the bed, fingers in my pussy?"

"I'd watch you."

His voice urges me along toward the inevitable with promises of kisses, fingers, dick and fucking. I pant and moan in his ear. When I'm close to the edge, balancing, I ask to cum.

"Can I cum, please?"

"Do you want to? Do you need it?"

"Yes."

"Cum now. Now, kitten!"

My voice fills his ear with moans, squeaks and sighs as I shudder and cum on my fingers and palm.

"God, I love the sound of a woman having an orgasm."

Bedtime stories

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

That's all I really need to hear!

Shopping trip

I've made some plans. This will be a first for me. In this lifestyle, there aren't many "firsts" left.

This is the first time I met and pursued a man online. The first time I booked a ticket to meet him in another city. The first time I carefully picked out dresses, skirts and high heels specifically to please him.

I'm counting the days until I see those brown eyes and hear that rich, deep voice in person. But until then, I have a few more things to arrange. I've made a little list to make sure I get everything I need.

Black garters with matching stockings
The prettiest new anal dildo. My lover has never put his cock in a woman's ass. I promised to be his first.
Red leather collar, jewels or studs optional

I know my prepartions are largely unnecessary. If this man and I connect physcially as we do virtually, all we really need is plenty of room to explore each other.

I'll still finish my list. Much of these relationships are about fantasy. I know I'll probably never leave my home, and neither will he. I know that "future" is couched in phrases of "if only we'd met.." or "maybe next time we can ..."

But fantasy has its own rewards. It's the opportunity to try those things never before allowed. The opportunity to be lovers in a strange city, kissing in public, fondling at dinner, experiencing wet blow jobs in the cab on the way to our hotel. The opportunity to fuck with abandon and joy, without the worry of phone calls in the morning or arcane dating rituals designed to kill intimacy.

And above all, it's the opportunity for orgasms...lots and lots of orgasms.

Vixen, I am

I was never this girl before.

I was not the popular girl in school, the one who's name was forever mentioned in conjunction with prom queen, homecoming queen or court-warming princess. The popular boys paid me scant attention. Blonde and statuesque passed me by.

I'm used to being ignored, passed over, assumptions drawn. I'm 34 but could pass for 25. I have freckles. I'm diminutive. My curls are flouncy, my complexion palid.

Yet, I'm the girl in the backseat writhing under twisting fingers, face flushed, breathing erractic, cresting the third of many orgasms. I'm the one tied to the bed, a dark-headed hedonist between my legs sucking and grinding my clit as I fight my bonds with the urge to bury my fingers in his hair and pull.

In the office, I am bold, assertive, battling those assumptions that have haunted me for many years. I'm usually not the prettiest girl in the board room. But in the hotel room later, it's the dark-eyed C.O.O. that forces me to my knees to suck his cock.

My breasts are my own. My dimpled thighs are testament to my love of chocolate. The faded striae on my sides are a reminder of the child I carried. They are part of the bigger picture of me -- the girl who became the closet porn star, who attracts the lacivious looks from married men with one flounce of that ridiculously curly hair. That same girl who barely gets a glance from others is the same who likes a dick in the ass, three fingers in her cunt and a sharp twist on her nipples.

And where are those other girls now? The prom queen? The court-warming princess? At home, alone, waiting for their husband who is working late -- or rather, the husband who is working my g-spot with dripping fingers to stroke one last fluttering orgasm before he has to wash away my scent and speed back to her.

I don't know how I became this girl, this lust-filled vixen who consumes fucking like air. But I hope she stays for a while longer. Or at least long enough to get my fill of memories to carry me through those long nights when the desire fades.

Pre-occupation

His voice slides like liquid erotica in my ear. He purrs, calls me his kitten. He laughs low, amazingly sexy. I want him badly. He lives hundreds of miles away.

We've been chatting online, what he likes, what I like. We have very similar opinions on dress up, positions, technique. I want to be touched, when I see him the first time. I don't want shy, getting-to-know you handshakes. I want his hands on me, sliding up my skirt, grabbing my ass or just at the small of my back leading me through the hall.

I crave his tongue, that same honey tongue that rolls from my headset down my spine to my wet pussy. I close my eyes, slide my fingers into that wetness and imagine him there. He has never heard me cum for him even though I've done it many times.

When I'm out in the brightness of the real world, away from the siren ping of his IM or the patient wait for his phone call, I wonder if others can feel my desire. I'm so turned on, it's palpable. I'm vibrating with want.

At the deli, dark hair and dark eyes watch me from the table in the corner. He nods in my direction, I wink in response. Does he sense my need? As I place my order, he slides up behind me, brushing my arm as he leans around to grab napkins. He's close enough to smell my perfume, whispers "excuse me."

I could if I wanted, turn around, grab his gaze to hold him there. Strike up a converstion that could lead to many other things. I've done it before. It's worked in the past.

But my mind is preoccupied by his accent, how he says my name and when I'll hear him say it again.

Limits

He's pushing my limits, testing me. He likes many of the same things I do -- being watched, pleasure mixed with pain, messy, wet encounters in the backseat of the car.

He takes these ideals one step further.

"Would you let someone watch us, in the same room?"

"Someone like who, exactly? It's not like your wife is up for a viewing."

"What if I could find someone? What if I already have?"

I admit my intrigue.

"For example...?"

"Well," he says, "Maybe I already know of some guys in this area who work from home and would be willing to let us use his bed for the price of watching."

I'm quiet for a minute. Still under his gaze.

"I don't know."

"Yes you do." He leans forward, brushing his lips in my ear. "You want him to watch you get fucked like a dirty cum slut. You want him to want you, just as much as I want you. But he can't have you, can he? Because for that time, you'll be mine."

You and he, and me

You don't know my name, and I hope you never will. But I know yours, and other things as well.

I know what you like, and don't. I know how often or how little you suck cock. I know you like missionary style and have never had a dick in your ass. I know you won't watch porn, and have no interest in a threesome.

I know, because he told me.

And I know that he likes my loud moans, my heavy breathing, the way I twist under his fingers begging him not to stop. He likes to be in control, contort me to fit his whims, test my flexibility and endurance, not to mention my carefully-controlled gag reflex. He likes to meet me in public, knowing that I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt.

He's fucked me in his car, in the same seat you sit on when you go to the store. He's fucked me on your couch where you watch your favorite shows. He's fucked me on the stairs you walk up at night, on the kitchen counter where you made dinner the night before.

He loves a wet pussy -- the smell, taste, slickness on his fingers, the grip on his cock. He worships pussy, will do anything to make it quiver and clench with orgasms. He has tasted me so many times, he can summon the flavor at will.

He's taken me to lunch, fingered me under the table while the other diners sit obliviously carrying on their dull conversations about nothing. He made me cum into his cupped hand and then wiped my wetness against his napkin. He used those same finger to feed me crackers dipped in something sweet.

He has rented low-class hotel rooms with cash so he could fuck me all afternoon, ignoring your calls on his cell phone. Sometimes he answers, his fingers still firmly entrenched in my cunt, or my mouth swallowing his dick like a greedy whore. While you chatted about baseball practice and dinner options, I sucked him with long, slow strokes, bringing him closer to orgasm. He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor to grab handfuls of my hair and fuck my mouth, spurting all that pent up sex down my throat.

In many ways, I know him better than you. I know him in that intimate way that only lovers enjoy. I don't think of you often, if ever. I have no interest in you, only him. I should feel guilty, but those feelings have past. I know he doesn't love me, and if given a choice, you are the one he would pick. I don't feel guilty because if it wasn't me, it would be someone else with him. Someone else fucking him the way you never do. You had the opportunity to be this girl and you've gone another way.

But deep down, he wishes you were more like me. In fact, if you were, he wouldn't be here at all. It would be someone else's husband sucking my clit, smelling like me when he comes home. And your husband would be fucking you.

Except you're not like me. You're somebody else. And tonight, I'm going to fuck him until he doesn't think about the difference between you and me any more.

Query

A small missive in my e-mail box. I found it while I was away visiting family:

M,

Are you home yet?

D

Mein Docktor is a busy fellow. I haven't seen him in months, many months, although we've chatted occassionally. His schedule is nearly impossible. One near miss resulted in deep kissing and some heavy petting before I was ushered out the door with soaked panties and a deep need for more.

I replied today,

D,

I'm home. When are we fucking?

M

Just now,

M,

Tomorrow. 5:30. Be prepared to be on your knees.

D.

My pussy will be so grateful!

The difference between you and me

There lies a subtle difference between women who like sex, and women like me.

I don't like sex. I relish it. I've been known to lie for it, beg for it. I'll wear ill-fitting lingerie, apply spicy hot lotion to my nipples, search for the perfect pink dog collar and subject myself to face-down denegration in the happy pursuit of the almighty fuck.

I had this discussion with a long-distance lover today. I tried to explain why someone like me takes extreme pleasure in sex when so many women don't. I'm built the same way, the same triggers and turn ons. The same plump clit and stiff nipples. But for me, sex is transcendental in a way that other women seem to miss. My pleasure is really secondary to my lovers. I think that's the key, I get off the more he gets off.

I like to do anything that turns you on. Your excitement will amp my excitement. The more turned on you get, the more turned on I get. I want you to be nearly drooling with desire. That's my idea of good foreplay. If it takes a dog collar to get you there, then I'm in. I want you to want me sooo bad, you can barely contain yourself.

I think that's the real difference between women like me and others. I am invested in the sexual experience. I want you to cum, I want your excitement, your lust, your perverted thoughts. I want you to look at me like I'm a bowl of ice cream that you can't wait to lick and suck. I want to see that in your face.

Other women look at sex like a chore. They might it enjoy it a little, but it's more about filling your needs than theirs so they are not fully invested. Well I need and you need, and I want you to need ME!

I think that about sums it up.

Mirror, Mirror

I've never met you, but I have a dream of you. It's a misty dream, something wavery and undefined, like a reflection in water. I can almost see your face, feel your body, your breath on my throat but you're always just a grasp away. How desperately I want to feel.

In my dream, we meet in the lobby. I recognize you across the polished parquet, my heart beats a little faster. We don't have time to waste on civility, no mating rituals, just need. I need you. I need your heat and attention. You take my hand and lead me to the elevator. You look at me as we ride up, not really saying anything, but keeping a firm grip on my fingers.

The ding of our floor breaks the quiet and you lead me to the door, slide your card and pull me inside. Here you stop. Push me back, kiss me softly. I wrap my arms around you, pulling you this time. We mold together -- fitted, flushed, fevered. Our kisses becoming wet and tense. My hands pull at your shirt, wanting to slide it off. You are exploring the edge of my stocking on my thigh. Slide up further, my sweet and you'll find nothing between us.

The chanting starts in my brain, a soft keening ... bed, fuck, bed, fuck, bed, fuck. You must hear it too because we struggle to remove clothes and move bodies into the room. You're impatient, I spy a bathroom sink with my lusting eye.

You push me onto the sink, sliding my ass back against the mirror. I hear the jingle of your belt as you drop pants to the floor. You don't -- or can't -- wait, leaning into me, sliding into my wetness. I sigh into your neck. I love that moment of penetration, the first time you feel the fullness of a lover in an empty wanting space, now filled with purpose.

Breath hot against my neck, you start slow, acclimating to the feel and slickness of my pussy. How long have you waited to feel me like this? Have you dreamt about it too? Did you grow hard when you imagined this moment? Did you stroke your cock in anticipation of fucking me?

Locked in a stare, I watch you watch me, feel you feeling me. I bite your lip, my tonuge rushes to find yours. In the mirror, you pull up my skirt to see the smushed globes of my ass clinging to the glass. Watch your cock slide in and out of the girl in the reflection.

I wrap my legs around you to pull you closer, tilt my hips just so and the head of your dick rocks against my g-spot. It doesn't take long before I'm gushing onto you, the smell of my lust filling the small room. I'm loud when I cum. Have I warned you? Did I tell you how I moan? Whisper dirty things in your ear about fucking my cunt?

I feel your nails digging into my sides as you push deep again and again. The bell head of your cock is swelling in anticipation, of a longing to cum. When you can't hold back any longer, you wrap your fingers in my hair, leaning your weight into me, shuddering with release. Say my name, lover. Just once, please, before we finally make it to that bed to start again.

Understanding

We meet in our usual spot, I haven't seen him in more than two weeks so I'm already anticipating very damp panties. He climbs in my car, leans over to give me a hello kiss, his tongue darts in my mouth quick and feverish.

I drive toward a secluded section of a parking garage, my favorite voyueristic getaway for a noon-day fucking. I'm singing softly to myself while I drive. He reaches over, brushes my hair from my neck, "I like it when you sing. I've missed you."

"Really? Cause I've gotta say, Brandon, I wonder sometimes."

"Why's that? I always want to see you when you call."

"I know and don't get me wrong, that's just what I asked for. I'm just spoiled by married guys. They pursue much harder than you do."

"I didn't think I had that option. You were pretty adament about no feelings, this is not a relationship."

I suddenly feel needy and whiny. I need to reassert myself, remember that the parameters of my affairs are usually set by me. "Of course, you're right. I don't want a relationship, I'm not looking for that. Like I said, I've been spoiled."

"I see why they would want to spoil you. You are so damn sweet."

He leans in to kiss me again, I feel the tug on my belt. His fingers find my wet slit, slides upward and the veil slips down again as I sigh, fall into my first of many orgasms.

It's an amazing trick he likes to pull, he's fast and accurate with my g-spot, and right as my orgasm starts to peak, he clamps his teeth on my nipple causing simultaneous pain and amazing pleasure. My cunt gushes in appreciation and my whole body quivers, making him to laugh softly and apply more pressure.

When I can't take anymore I spell my sticky thighs and drop my mouth over his cock, his hand pressing on my head urging me faster.

Twenty minutes later, as he pulled me to him for that goodbye kiss, I could smell my lusty appreciation on his fingers. I slipped them in my mouth. He leaned forward, resting his forhead on mine.

"I do like you. And I like our non-relationship-relationship. I just want you to know that."

I nodded in response, fingers still firmly entwined in my tongue. I gave a hard tug with my mouth and a quick wink to let him know that we have an understanding.

Sea salt

A friend today was asking me about my love of women. Yes, I love women.

I have had limited experience with them, but I clearly remember that is was a woman who first introduced me to how truly passionate sex can be for two -- or in this case, three -- people.

I was in college the first time I tasted a girl. I'd had my fair share of kissing and tribbing in high school. Shy forays into fondling. I already knew I liked the full, heavy feeling of a breast in my hand. Girls are a little more adventurous when they are in the swing of hormones.

In college I had a study partner who was sexy in that goth, pierced-lip, dirty girl kinda way. I am a punk rock chick, but I am also a pale, freckle-faced, curly-headed creature. It's very rare that someone looks at me and sees the dirty side shining through. But she did. She knew somehow that a hand on my thigh, or a kiss on my neck would cause a response.

She and her girlfriend ushered me into the world of pussy from a whole new angle. I loved to fuck, loved cock, loved men already, but girls are soft. They smell so sweet. They writhe and twist with pleasure. They pour their juice out on your hand or tongue. They are perfect.

Her girlfriend was the first girl I ever tasted. I don't remember her body, but I'll never forget her scent -- crisp, like quicksilver. She struck a memory of the ocean, how you can smell it before you see it, how you suck in that salty tang like it's life itself. That's how she tasted.

When I licked her clit, she arched her back, pushing my face down into her crease. I was tentative, trying to be gentle, but her grinding hips begged for more force. I was so turned on by her reaction that I shoved my fingers home and brought her around quick. She was a moaner. I was hooked.

A few months later, I graduated from college. A few months after that I was married and settled into easy monogomy until five years later, my No. 1 reminded me that sex is passionate. That it is appropriate to expend massive amounts of energy purely for pleasure. Once again, I was hooked. That addiction reigns today.

I'm still very attracted to women, especially those dark, curvy, spanish beauties. But they are harder to entice than men. I've yet to have another girl for a lover. Although I think about it more and more. And I dream about it often: tight rosebud nipples in my teeth, soft curly hair tickling my nose, and the ocean.

Truth in lyrics

Love
love is an angel that smokes cigarettes
she's trying to kill me
I can only say yes
take me to your bedroom, send me to my death
you can't help being what you are

Can you be attracted to someone who's face you've never seen? Lust for someone who's words are enough? Long to touch someone who lives hundreds of miles away?

It's a new sweet form of torment.

Reprieve

I came to the conclusion that things were not going to work with my lover and I. He is an enigma. I honestly don't know if he cares that I'm around. I know he likes fucking me. He's always eager. He's also single and looking for another to meet. So why should I care if he cares? Hmm... the dance of attention. He gives some, but not enough. I get a little but crave more.

So I start to look as well. At a concert on Friday night. Which one, maybe him?

Today my brown-eye Irish boy missed the way I taste. I relented, gave him an hour to renew my interest.

He met me with a smile and a deep lingering kiss, takes me straight to bed, whispering "Take off your clothes. I want to see your beautiful body."

Eager and generous, he sends me careening again and again before he finally spews his lust on my tits, which I generously rub all over us both.

He curls into a comma against my back, pinning me with his arm and cupping my breast in his hand -- breathes in my perfume at the back of my neck. We lay still for a while, enjoying the lull of post-coital bliss. His fingers trail a path from my hips to shoulder, lightly but consistent. He grabs my ass, pulls me against his rigid dick. Ready for round two?

Fingers dip into my wetness again and again, teasing my attentive clitoris, promising me more but pulling away before I go too far. I'm reduced to whispered begging, "Please, please make me cum. Please fuck me again. Please, baby, please.."

Finally he relents first with his fingers, brown eyes intent on my blue watching me ride each orgasm with my body and dialated pupils, then with his body covering mine and his dick buried deep.

He has earned his reprieve.

Hunting

A friend who wants to be more e-mailed me today about his visit to my area. I was unable to make my schedule work with his, so once again we missed using his quaint inexpensive hotel room for hours of sweaty debauchery.

Next time, my friend, I promise.

We were discussing serial adultery. I think I've reached the point where I can call myself such a predator. I am always looking for the next one.

He asked what I used to seek out my intended prey. I can admit, I don't really have a system. I know what I like when I see it. I'm smitten by the taste and smell of men. I adore the quizically raised eyebrow, the unspoken invitation. I relish strong arms and the rough scrape of an unshaven chin. I know what I like.

I have taken my skills to a new level in the past year. Before I let them approach me, but lately I've become much more aggressive. I can look at a group of guys and know exactly which one will respond best. It's all about eye contact. Can you look an attractive woman in the eye for longer than a second? Can you hold my gaze, smile in return? Or will you slide by me, see me for an instant and move on?

That's the trick for me. I'm bold, are you? If so, then you are the one I want. And it will be well worth the hunt.