Women and men alike agree, dick pics aren’t sexy. That’s because their doing it wrong.
It isn’t their fault, their pictures are merely a reflection of their own desires. The risk of exposing yourself, of truly being naked in front of another person is stimulating enough for most any of us. I’m guilty of it myself. I can’t count the times I’ve sent pictures, only to see my words mean more and for those pictures to only be worthy of momentary novelty.
The truth is our bodies only scratch at the surface of our sexualities. This is both a good and bad thing. For those of us entwined in our own egoism, staring at our abs, our curvaceous hips, it should serve as a shock. But to the self-conscious, the girl who is afraid of her body image, it is their sexual salvation. People think their sex organs define who they are sexually; a swollen, throbbing dick or a soft voluptuous breast, none of these describe what is attractive about you. These things are merely accessories. They matter, but only in so much that a typewriter enables an author or boxing gloves enable the fighter.
If you want to know the real dirty secret, the thing that causes more heart pounding, more jean-busting erections and soaked panties know that it is in the eyes. It is in your face, it always has been and always will be. Your cock, your shaved pussy, all they are is an added pleasure, a ship to carry the passenger of your deep, dirty, perverse and powerful sexual identity. People are drawn to calling it ‘bed room eyes,’ but that is a far too romantic way of putting it. The look, the real look to stop someone in their tracks is one of uncompromising lust. It’s the way you feel when you know, really know, that you are the best at something. It is raw power.
So when you see a picture of me, with my throbbing massive cock on display, know it isn’t my erection that has you mystified, but the entirety of my body, firmly postured with my chin up and a look of utter conquering on my face. It isn’t cocky, it isn’t overconfident. It doesn’t preclude me from a sense humour nor does it define who I am outside of the bedroom. It is merely the reflection of my sexuality, a sexuality that I’ve chosen to grasp and own. I make no apologies for it and don’t care for a second whether or not you approve. Because I already know you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this and you wouldn’t be hanging onto my every word.
Remember, it is not in the lighting, how you swivel your hips, how you moan when you are on top, how you thrust deeply, these things are all after the fact. It is in simple, uncompromising honesty, bravery, and the power that is granted to you when you seize your sexual identity and let it be known that you are greater than King Kong. From a picture to the bedroom, unleash the animal; we all have one, it is up to you to see the beauty of your lust and worship it for what it is.
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It always started innocent enough. She had her reservations, and a boyfriend too. But she was attracted to me, and I was willing to let her explore that attraction. My texts always started out playful, I would ask, “What are you wearing?” And she would reply obediently. She loved texting me before a drunken night on the town, and this night was no different. “A red dress, with black heels” was her response. She always kept it reserved at first. Sober, her conscience always kept her from misbehaving. It was only after a handful of shots that she gave into my will. Only after I spent time laying the groundwork, making sure her panties were wet that she allowed for her morals to bend and for her lust to seize her.
I can only imagine on that night what she looked like; her long, jet-black hair running down to her form fitting dress. Her pert, seductive breasts, pushed up with her cleavage on display. She loved to be out on the dance floor moving, brushing her body against the men. Feeling their growing erections, snickering at the ease of their attraction but turned on nonetheless. But she would always, one way or another, walk away and preserve her fidelity. Not with me.
I got busy laying groundwork. “How are you wearing your hair? Where are you going tonight? When did you start drinking?” I monitored her answers, making sure she enjoyed my company. Making sure that the depths of her depravity were known only to her in the dark, blurry memories of her morning after. She would give in to me, answer my every request, and find ecstasy in her relinquished authority. All I had to wait for was a few misspelled words, and a couple risqué comments.
“I wis I could dance wit right now,” She texted me. “I bet you do, sexy. Don’t think I’m not imagining it too. Sometimes all I think about is you in that black dress of yours, bending down on the dance floor for me.” It was a long text, but one sent with a purpose. I knew that soon as she read it, her heart would begin a slow pound and her face would blush. She knew it, as did I. Her bending down on the dance floor, dropping her hips so that she could grind her ass forcefully into me, was her sign that she was mine. Her friends only mildly concerned, knowing she was a good girl knew that I would have had my way with her under different circumstances. They underestimated me, I don’t rely on circumstance; I take what I want.
To be continued.