A DAY IN THE LIFE OF
A SHAMELESS SLUT..
December 2014 has
been a very rewarding month when it comes to sexual escapades, unforetold
carnal encounters, lascivious liaisons, and garden variety hookups.
Do to a number of
reasons, I've not been "hosting" as frequently as I used to, but have
been "traveling" more. Hosting
and traveling are the common vernacular that we slut folks use to refer to "your
place or mine."
Anyway, over the
past month, I've had the opportunity to visit some pretty tony digs here in San
Francisco. I've been in a penthouse atop
Nob Hill, not to mention a couple of restored Victorians, a number of luxury condos
and McLofts, and two or three of the new luxury high-rise rentals that have
been erected along Market Street.
By the same token,
I've visited a number of abodes, similar to my own. Workaday studio apartments
that are modestly furnished, one and two bedrooms that appear to be shared with
two or more inhabitants, and even a place or two where each individuals designated
living space was so designated by an arrangement of bed sheets and blankets,
very retro and bohemian.
Now, some of these
men were as average and plain, and some as exquisite and stunning as the surroundings that
I've visited. I won't say the
surroundings that they themselves inhabited, because a well appointed abode did
not necessarily translate to a man's appearance. There were rather ordinary men
in pent houses, and magnificent creatures living in the squalor of a squat.
But, the one common
denominator was, they were all looking for the same thing. Most assuredly the premise the employed to
bait their prey was an offering of sex. But, it became quite obvious once basic
were seen to, that this was a person that much like myself, was simply looking
to be touched, to be held, to be appreciated, to be validated.
This is not to imply
that they were desperate, or lacking in self-esteem. I'm certainly not
desperate, and am quite comfortable in my own skin. But, I won't deny that I
take pleasure in another man taking comfort in my own skin, or I in his.
Each and every one
of these men had their own set of features, not just physical, but emotional
and spiritual as well. They had their
own virtues, their own imperfections, their own flaws. Some sought refuge from
their insecurities in the guise of cockiness and bravado, while some were
incredibly timid and withdrawn. Again,
all of us with the same needs and desires, regardless of the package it's
One young man in
particular stands out. I met him on
Craigslist. Now, I'm an open and unabashed Craigslist devotee. In fact, I've
turned CL into a sort of life's work over the past decade. I see not so much as a hookup site, but a
totally civilization, worthy of anthropologic study. I dare say that I consider
myself the Margaret Mead or Dian Fossey of Craigslist.
Anyway, this young
man expressed a need to be handled in a manner that is not only within my
skillset, but my absolute preference. We exchanged photos. He was adorable.
About my height, smoking hot little body with smooth brown skin, a lovely bum,
and a very pretty penis, avec foreskin.
He had very sexy lips. Lips are
important to me, being that I have none. It's one of those features that are a
non-feature of men with my Scot/Irish and Germanic background. I have the typical "Irish" skin,
which people kindly refer to as a "ruddy complexion," which is just a
tactful way of saying that you've got a terminal case of Rosacea and look like
a major boozer.
But lips? Hell, the only reason I bother with a
mustache is so I know where to aim with a forkful of food.
So, en route to the
young man's house, I even mentioned in a text that I bet he was a good kisser,
given his lovely lips. He answered with
a seemingly curt; "haha" and did not elaborate on his kissing skills.
I arrived at his
place, in fact, I arrived to find a parking space only one door away, a miracle
considering his neighborhood. I sent a
text to let him know I was there and he came down to open the door and ushered me
up to his room. He signaled for me to be
quiet as his roommates were home. He hustled me in and up the steps, and behind a curtain that lead to his very modest room.
In the light of his room, I realized thatthe guy was too fucking cute for words. Totally adorable. But, I realized upon even casual examination
that he was undoubtedly born with a hare lip, cleft palate or some other
maxillofacial anomaly. He had obviously
had surgery to correct the issue, and there were no outward appearing scars.
But, it was immediately obvious that there were deep scars that the casual
observer would never see.
Here I am with this
lovely young man, and his reluctance to make eye contact with me had nothing to
do with any sense of dishonesty or attempts to deceive. His reticence about
kissing me had nothing to do with a lack of desire to be kissed. This was all about the emotional scar tissue
that he had built up and accrued throughout his brief three decades.
He was incredibly
careful not to smile, which lead me to believe that while they may have made
the outward repairs necessary to remedy his malady, there was quite likely not
the means and wherewithal to take care of the structural and dental issues that
such an occlusion carries with it.
It broke my heart.
Not because I had pity for him. It just broke my heart that he was afraid of
the intimacy needed to smile. He was harboring deep shame over an issue, a
situation, a life circumstance, for which he bore no initial responsibility. His shame was palpable.
I could relate in my
own way. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about my teeth, and
extremely shy about smiling. I've had
extensive work done on my teeth over the years, and am currently in the process
of my third and hopefully final overhaul. I never had rotted or missing teeth,
and thanks to orthodontics they weren't even crooked. But, there was just
something about them that always caused me to be afraid, to carry some deeply
rooted sense of shame, as though exposing my teeth would be to expose the
darkest corners of my soul. With each
improvement, I've become increasingly comfortable with smiling, with opening my
mouth when I speak to people. But, there
will always be a part of me that carries that inherent bit of shame. People today often remark about my smile,
and it makes me feel good. I want to be
able to convey the joy and happiness that are the very fabric of my life and
By the same token,
some of the most beautiful smiles have been on people that only had a tooth or
two in their mouth, but they were able to smile with their entire face, their
eyes. You could see their heart and very spirit in their smile.
I have no intentions
to take this lovely young man on as some sort of pet project. But, I would like
to see him again. He has already established that he feels comfortable
surrendering his body to me. But, what I'd give to be able to instill the
confidence in him to trust me enough to smile.
I want him to feel
as beautiful to himself as he looks to me.