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There’s an entire demographic of women who aren’t into the Vanderbilts and John Holmeses of this world.
🕑 Added 2024-06-12 05:44:13 +0000 UTCThis week I Google-stalked Jim B, the tall, absurdly rich man who picked me up in a bookstore and took me to his five-star hotel for a week of clumsy sex decades ago. I tracked him down because, for the life of me, I couldn’t visualise his face. His 10-inch penis? That I remember well, and not because of its size. He had what many men pine for—The cock and the cash, but he felt awkward about both.
Steven wasn’t the type you’d think of when you imagine a compelling man, but I can still see every detail of his face when I shut my eyes. His penis wasn’t monstrous and he had no money to speak of. He had to negotiate his speech disorder a minute at a time, but he knew that nobody could do Steven like he could, so the sex was authentic and gritty and wet.
There’s an entire demographic of women who aren’t into the Vanderbilts and John Holmeses of this world. Straight women rarely judge you on the traits you judge in yourself. Sex appeal is a consequence of character. If you’re unadulteratedly you, even if you’re so shy that that’s difficult, sex with you is more likely to be the rollercoaster rather than the teacup ride.
I’ve had relationships with men with six packs, heaving bank accounts, pretty faces, and even political power… and Steven is still the sexiest of them all—The one without the cash, muscles, career, or giant penis. The one with the stutter. The one with the triple-distilled personality that came out of every pore.
