Death of a Boytoy

By Samuel Jesse Johnson

The problem? I aint getting enough! (Its flat-out addicting, yall!)

I already have a boy toy, yall, and he really is gorgeous, funny, charming, great in bed, well-hung (I saw that thread, LMAO), and is totally respectful of Mr. Web and our relationship. He is pretty much perfect in every way except one: he travels and is pretty much gone all the damn time. When we do get to play, its awesome, but I think Id like to have it a little more frequently.
OK, OK, I would like to have it a lot more frequently (LOL). What can I say? Im a freak! So I am actively looking for another boy toy . . . or toys. Which brings me to my second problem: we are in the middle of freaking nowhere in the freaking Bible belt!

What is a horny (but fairly picky) chick to do? I think Im screwed (or not screwed in this case).

Any suggestions, comments, and just plain ol sympathy will be welcome (LOL).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490753010

Book preview

Chapter 1

And Samson lay till midnight, and arose at midnight, and took the doors of the gate of the city, and the two posts, and went away with them, bar and all, and put them upon his shoulders, and carried them up to the top of an hill that is before Hebron.

—Judges 16:3

In the arms of the angel / Fly away from here from this dark, cold hotel room / And the endlessness that you fear (Sarah McLachlan).

I was born Samuel Jesse Johnson on August 20, 1960, in the independent Civil War island of Battlefield, Mississippi, in this isolated defiant Confederate rebellious town that refused to celebrate the re-union of the States until 1950. Even today the hilltop town still recognizes the Honorable Robert E. Lee holiday proudly aside an ever-present lukewarm recognition of the Fourth of July celebrated on the same date. Some in-town homefolks still wonder if the emancipation should have been rightly named proclamation [gate] as the good ole boy system is still alive and well. Dr. Burwell Mitchell delivered me in the hospital requisitioned by the nuns. As my mother who barely made the sprint to Mercy Center Hospital in time claimed, I popped out a solid ten pounder ready to tackle the world an hour after notice. My enlightened grandmother used to state while shaking her head and standing on her now-dilapidated family Antebellum Mansion facing North State Street in Jackson, Mississippi, on our monthly visits, That boy’s not afraid of the devil himself. How prophetically right she was.

My childhood years were spent at the bottom of a steep cul-de-sac circled with seven humble starter houses surrounded by woods and creeks. Westbrook Circle was located directly off Harpers Ferry Road, which was a main Battlefield, Mississippi, and thoroughfare in 1960. As a child, I was fascinated with life and constantly explored the surrounding forest searching for adventure and catching hard-shelled spiders, box turtles, frogs, and snakes. I feared nothing other than my raucous father’s marine-inspired discipline. Though punishment to his favorite son was little, to my defiant brother, life was hell. We were regulars at St. Amos Episcopal Church. However, introspectively our family was acclimated to the understanding of little of God’s true love, yet somehow I knew I was his child from the tender age of four. I remember the moment and time with amazing clarity even to this day. It was fall afternoon in 1964 when I understand there indeed was a divine presence. Highly amused, my brother and I were playing hide-and-seek in the courtyard behind the Episcopal church up the hill off Main Street, entertained by a kind priest who obviously held an incredible degree of patience as after discovery I always returned for another round. Reflective of my life, every journey in Battlefield seemed an uphill walk as we socialized with the congregation who could barely mention Jesus Christ outside the church walls. I do still remember vividly to this day playing hide-and-seek with the priest who had the spirit of a good man, and as evening faded away, I knew that somehow at that moment there was indeed a God and indeed I was his: a man after God’s own heart so to speak. I knew I was special. Not any more special than any of his other children, just special in God’s eyes.

One of my most vivid neighborhood experiences was the innocent adoration of my first girlfriend. While I can’t remember the names of the majority of the many women who bounced in and out of my life, I can still remember my first-grade classmate and first girlfriend, Kim Wissler, who would take my hand and lead around the corner of the house and kiss me innocently on the cheek. I have little doubt that I turned three shades of red, heart pounding, longing for the embarrassment to end so I could dash to my escape. Her family moved up north in the middle of my second-grade year, perhaps disappointed her first handpicked boyfriend never got up the nerve to return the innocent kiss. We moved to a wooded neighborhood located outside Jackson, Mississippi, the summer after my second-grade year. The new junction seemed like another world. I would rarely over the years find any reason to return to that isolated hometown seventy five miles away in which I was born. My sweet, caring mother handpicked a neighborhood surrounded by woods once again, knowing my longing for adventure. I quickly made new friends. Samuel was forgotten as I was christened with a new abbreviated nickname: JJ, short for Jesse Johnson, which would stick throughout early adulthood innocent years. JJ was soon back zealously exploring the woods; examining insects; catching turtles, frogs, and lizards; and forever reviving my fascination with snakes. As life went by, I grew older; and my life eventually spiraled much, much deeper into a wilderness of darkness. Sadly how life would change, the innocence lost—so much potential, so much waste. C. S. Lewis once stated, When a man knocks on the door of a brothel in essence he is actually looking for God. I was always searching, but rarely was my seeking quenched.

Sometimes you have to raise a snake to save others from dying from the venom.

The LORD said to Moses, Make a snake and put it up on a pole; anyone who is bitten can look at it and live. So Moses made a bronze snake and put it up on a pole. Then when anyone was bitten by a snake and looked at the bronze snake, they lived.

March 2006. See you tomorrow, Hollywood, my little Cajun buddy Felix Rabelais shouted as he belted down another drink. I excused myself for the evening from the rousing group of coworkers and customers, half of them so imbibed they would stumble back later to the Peabody bar drinking well into the morning, rarely straying from conversations of business or sports and later to the evening celebrations at strip joint named Platinum Plus.

The guys would be discussing boring subjects when cornered I would enthusiastically participate in yet in reality rarely held my attention. I parted from Texas De Brazil Restaurant around the corner from the world-famous Beale Street, a five-star meat lover’s experience fit for the finest of our primeval Neanderthal taste, yet I was barely filled and walked outside headed toward the Peabody Hotel. I patted my counterpart Woody Douglas on the shoulder as I quietly strutted by him standing outside on the corner. I thought, Why does the guy do it? While several were lingering inside, prepared to head to the nearest strip joint, that self-disciplined goofball would be talking to some customer about pesticides. The guy was the hardest-working individual I had ever seen in my company and perhaps got the least notice than anyone. He didn’t drink, cuss, and made no bones about being a Christian first and foremost. The oddball out, Woody was an overworked outcast, yet somehow I admired and envied the simplicity and honestly of his lackluster, pathetically boring religious lifestyle.

I was Woody’s polar opposite. The guy who could pull off the business deal or otherwise without effort anyone ever noticing. The sales dollars did my talking, and I always hit my mark with little effort. Seemed the same applied to all the acquaintances in my life. More true heartfelt motivation in my career and I could have been president of DuFonte, but then I preferred the anonymity of living life my way. The temporal self-indulgent perks of this job were invisibly priceless.

Diamond nights and ruby lights, high in the sky. / Heaven help him, when he falls. (Sade, Smooth Operator)

Practiced to perfection, I attempted to remain cool when my latest lover Desirae phoned to whisper, Please come see me tomorrow evening. I just need to play with my sweet sweet boy toy sooooo bad. I promise I’ll make it worth your while and you won’t be disappointed. The boy toy moniker—her terminology, not Samuel Johnson’s. The label was indeed pragmatic as I held no macho hang-ups using or primarily being used by this woman with her ravenous sexual appetite. Though I had just spent a lurid night in her bed two weeks hence, I agreed to rendezvous. My suave predisposition transformed over the years understood that Desirae Roper Scanlin, I assumed like most women, would pour her heart out to me yet never really be as sympathetic to my emotional needs. I hid them well. After two failed marriages due primarily to my infidelity, I never stuck around in relationships long enough to feign the pain. Thus, being the quintessential hubris stud I perceived myself to be: never show any untenable weakness, always play it cool, and don’t be too ready to commit even for a night. Desirae was no different in this area than the typical sex goddess. Mrs. Scanlin loved the ostentatious bad boy yet somehow wanted to own a little bit more of my mind and body without taming me. This sexual, enlightened woman never truly understands the primordial hidden need to breed with the strongest hunter.

I preferred Hollywood or Iceman as my friends anointed me and had never imagined I would have any woman refer to me their boy toy. I was told from time to time I looked a bit like Val Kilmer or Iceman when Top Gun debuted on the big screen. I would be compared a number of times over the years to the handsome actor, only I was bigger and stronger. I was cool enough; hence, the first-ever boy toy innocuous tag was simply amusing. Never reveal any insecurity and always be in control. Much like the biblical Samson, I was arrogant, filled with riddles, imbibed in earthly forbidden delights, feared nothing or no man, and had that constant wandering eye for the seductive woman.

A plausible specious argument, only to my soul as I had pretended to be a bit reluctant to go rushing down that evening to love my latest lover. Eventually I agreed to drive down to Battlefield, Mississippi, the next evening. Delayed gratification would keep me alert during the number-crunching sessions as I daydreamed in the meeting room the following morning feigning attentiveness. In reality my night, day, week, or month was made knowing this woman voiced her cravings for my body so badly. She had revived my soul, so it seemed from the realm of lifeless boredom. Too many women over too much time, but then there was something so different about her. I questioned whether or not I should depart from my company meeting early and make the four-hour drive. There was always a bit of guilt when I was shortchanging my company; however, with my thoughts elsewhere, I would dissociate form that fleeting feeling soon enough. Guilt had been a cold foe hidden deep inside for much of my life, and sex always warmed my soul. I had probably been this sexually attracted to other women before, but driving instinct accompanying the Delphic lust had long since vanished. Any shame from lust and infidelity had slowly dwindled years ago along with the true insecurity that I had been hiding inside from an insecure youth who had to constantly prove his worth through competition. Never allow the insecurity to show. Desirae was slowly working me into her web of lust. I had firsthand witnessed this lover’s game play multiple times. I knew the moves to avoid tweaking the web in lieu of being consumed. I had no doubt my twenty-eight-year-old Desirae Scanlin invoked the greatest sexual appetite I had ever willingly been drawn into. This night would be a good night to once again fulfill my empty soul.

The week always started with some manager standing up and giving a diligent salute to our core values, which included safety, business conduct, mission statements, and, above all, ethical treatment of people no matter what belief, religion, or sexual deviation. I say our company gathering was a meeting, but actually it was more of a vacation with coworkers who I considered friends for the most part working on a common goal of adding dollars to the company’s bottom line in order to raise the stock price. There was no professional reason to leave this wonderful little environment at one of my longtime favorite layovers, former pickup spots entertaining with a great company choreographed with a love of travel. Always the explorer, I noticed every detail in a room, every person. I considered my employer the greatest company in the world, although a bit boring with all the internal politics at times. However, the freedom of making my own travel arrangements was often very strategic and not necessarily in the company’s interest alone.

The knowledge of all the beautiful women out in the world dying to meet this Val Kilmer lookalike kept the balance of life manageable here in life’s jungle. Working for the world’s largest chemical company had been a satisfying career laden with perks. I suppose I owed much to this company, but I always rendered more to my own selfish needs. Equitable treatment of people was held up as a company core value only secondary to playing the corporate game and, above all, produce. Not much of a challenge for the guy everyone loved. I could make the lost and distraught smile in a moment’s notice. The company chain of command never felt threatened as my needs were met in anonymity rather than the corporate climb though I had more life skills than any of my coworkers. With the personality oblivious to anger and the charm of a smooth-flowing stream, I was loved by all.

I enjoyed people to an extent, but I worshipped the affection the female gender. I physically excelled in this business, never succumbing to the stress or calories. The week had taken its toll on most of the participants. Thursday night was typically the night for some to rest or for the trip home to see the family, so the crowd would be somewhat diminished. I didn’t have the family issue in mind, so my departure would hardly go unnoticed. My secret life was anxiously waiting. My lover craved my attention, practically begging me to make the trip south from whence the world have received me thirty-eight years earlier from the womb. Hence, back to Battlefield. I would drive without stopping at my ultimate bachelor pad four miles outside Jackson, Mississippi, as I passed through the capital city. I was so smooth and charming my coworkers had no choice but to see the inner goodness like everyone else, right? They would understand the disappearing act a bit early. I never bragged, and I rarely would kiss and tell, but everyone assumed there was a woman involved.

I was temporarily lodged at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, which was always one of my old favorite memories. I had walked through this old lobby dozens of times over my career. The first time I ever sat in this nostalgic landmark hotel was the very first day of my working career. That first night in a Peabody suite, I was naive, married to a wonderful Southern girl, and would never think of cheating on my beautiful young wife, right? The truth is that even then, as a fallen man, the lust was noticeably alive in my heart; however, guilt being my constant companion. Even then I assumed pandemonium would reside shortly thereafter. Sneaking three Penthouse magazines into the storage room once. I got caught and the disclosure almost destroyed my marriage, however having never read the Bible or having no true understanding of God’s love grace I assumed there was little hope for my salvation. I had no idea that Jesus Christ himself strengthen the unattainable law by equating lust with guilt. I would eventually wind up destroying my marriage and afterwards decided I need not get involved in a committed relationship ever again. At this point in my life, I needed to be honest with my true feelings. I was having a blast and living a life epitomizing the perfect bachelor. Every man jealously longed to live the life of JJ or Big J while every distressed damsel desired to be with me. My coworkers male counterparts understood completely. The pickup artist every macho guy admires. I became that guy on crack.

Twenty years earlier, Shorty Jeremy, a married coworker in arrived in Memphis, Tennessee on my first business trip in 1996. He disappeared the third night of the Memphis Belt Wide Cotton conference we were attending. Abandoning me the night before, my distraught assigned mentor called from an undisclosed location in somewhat of a panic the following morning questioning me as to whether or not if I had spoken with his wife, who may have called our hotel room. I assured him no contact had been made. Shorty sounded hung over and confused as my delinquent roommate summoned this new recruit to immediately drive across the Mississippi River bridge and over to West Memphis in order to pluck him from some girl’s apartment. I assumed this coworker managed in a drunken state to pick up a girl from the bar I had left him in with a group of drunken delta cotton farmer’s night before. Or perhaps out of desperation this woman had picked Shorty up. Either scenario, the date was a pickup. I pragmatically assumed this fallen married man would be frantically ashamed now that the new employee discovered he had committed adultery on his trusting wife. My mind was yet absorbed in innocent ignorance. I was soon to be proven grossly wrong.

I arrived on the scene to rescue my temporary roommate from his fallen state. Shorty’s demeanor, in fact, was just the opposite of shameful. A tattered, unkempt, yet obviously relieved Shorty grinning from ear to ear leaped into the passenger side after giving the girl an obvious goodbye smile at the door. He escaped from the uncommitted romp as he thrust his wedding ring back on his finger. Shorty immediately began to brag of his liaison describing every strategic and positional detail of his one-night stand with prideful glee. I somehow wondered if the woman he spoke so lowly of would have been embarrassed or even cared after he referred to the woman as some whore he picked up. Obviously the adultery did not mean whore by rights of payment but rather whore by lack of morals as if he were innocent. I supposed neither participant had asked for a commitment with the rising sun as their momentary embrace was just sexually using each other for a chemical release. After dropping my coworker off at the hotel so he could dash to his room for a quick shower and shave, we loaded the company car and resumed our drive home. During the three-hour drive, I was quickly educated and brought to the reality that most men as part of the unspoken job description in our business were often unfaithful while traveling. Going down the list, Shorty explained the best salesmen at being unfaithful were universally the most admired men in the business. Hence, a bad seed was planted in my naive brain. Obviously most men were rotten and just following their hormonal instincts. Something I thought I would never in a lifetime allow myself to do, but the door was opened and a brick removed from the impassible wall.

I was to struggle horribly at times the first several months of my career with retaining the company image. However, sooner rather than later, the business part of my job quickly became secondary. Six months into my new Job, I went home with a girl after she approached me during a bachelorette part. I felt sick for a time ridden with guilt, but obviously not sick enough. I soon realized the machismos goal among other men was to develop into an admired pickup artist. Evolving into a successful womanizer, became my perceived open door to respect among the many men just being men in my working world. Innumerable proportionality checked off as buxom-bosomed babes worked for James bond image without any downside. No doubt even 007 would eventually admire my perfected style. I quickly learned to be smooth and read the signs of a woman in need. Even more enlightening was that so many women managed to pick up on the fact that I was a willing and able participant. Infidelity against God became easier and easier. I no longer grasped for any encumbering religious moral base on which to attempt to cling on my downward moral decline. After divorcing the addiction swept over my once innocence demeanor as the demigod was born as well as Adonis hypocorism, which was occasionally thrown into the mix.

The difference, as a demigod among the opposite sex, I noted between JJ and every other mortal male would be that I was blessed with incredible good looks stirred with charm yet inebriated with eventual false confidence. I would learn that I never met a mirror I didn’t like while in my mind’s eye these gifts from God were mine and mine alone to use for my very own pleasure till old age or death do us part. The fine-tuning was all me. Not God but me. I wasn’t heartless, and everyone adored me, and I never considered myself a user as I would prefer to be used. The guilt would come but over time, and it was subdued much quicker with every passing liaison. Married women were much safer, and if no one got caught, then no one really got hurt, although I did get caught many times. Before the rampant days of cells phones, at least I was hard to locate, always on the move to any jealous vengeful husband. I had always excelled at every sport I played or competition man could muster. In this new game, I quickly became that Greek demigod of passion. I was on my way to becoming the player all my macho male friends would admire and every woman had to have. All I had to do was stick my toe in the door, and the devil inside would proudly do the rest, escorting this future boy toy to the hedonistic levels most mortal men only dreamt of. Not even levels I had dreamed of. The devil is faithful to his own cause alone for as long as you help him do his bidding; however, his promulgation of his inexplicable destruction is inevitable. My addiction always sought a higher level of bliss.

Years later, while wandering blissfully through the Peabody Motel, I thought briefly about a few of the many women I had bedded in this hotel over the years but only briefly. Desirae Scanlin, it seemed for the moment, hungered for a sexual level above all the others without the physical and emotional baggage. My new lust lately appeared to constantly tease me emotionally and physically, begging me to see her and then disappearing for a calculated time. She played the game exceptionally well and no doubt enjoyed her role on the tease end of the chase. Never committal but always patient—I loved playing this lovers lust driven game. I love the chase. I loved the hunt. I love the avoiding the traps. Like a homegrown city gutter rat, I loved stealing the bait, although with this latest lover’s game, perhaps the fox was being hunted.

Why was this particular anomaly of a perfectly tanned redhead on my mind so much? She wore her sexuality on her sleeve, and everyone appeared to take notice. I had learned over time to delete jealousy out of my life. Men were to obviously desire what I had. Never the other way around. If anyone was to break off a relationship, it was going to be me. No woman would ever dump me. I was merely entertained by the other men who would admire Desirae from a distance as they wished they could stand for a minute or more in my shoes.

Business as well as pleasure always seemed to come easy for me. I knew sales would be excellent this year, thus I decided to depart from friends who were busy discussing business and the good old days in a state of intoxication safely a Peabody suite. I always more relaxed hanging in the lounge environment alone. As Carly Simon would say with one eye on the mirror, I knew I was magnetic. I strolled by the beautiful drake mallards swimming in the Peabody fountain, noticing all the people mingling as they sat sipping. Pretending not to notice Samuel Johnson. I sat down at the bar a listening to the sweet Southern voice on my cell phone one more time requisitioning me with an cache of filthy words enticing me to drive South. There was no doubt as I leaned at the bar I was in a class above every other man in this hotel, sitting around sipping whichever fluffy drink or preferred foreign beer. My self-confidence far overshadowed the insecurities from my youth this chosen evening. I would have no problem returning the kiss sent across the wire form my lover.

I was the guy the other guys longed to hang out with but would give their right arm to witness me taking a fall. I was the man Donald Trump had to make a billion dollars before he could attract the opposite sex as I did. Only I could pull it off with a full head of perfect blonde thick hair without being a perceived as a jerk yet attain the same confidence with an omnipotent smile continuously positioned between my dimples. I once wore a T-shirt that stated, My other ride is your girlfriend. That I picked up at the Hustler Store on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. One of past friends’ wives appropriately nicknamed the Doll, laughing, noted, Big Sexy, you may be the only guy in the world that can truthfully get away with that. Cinnamon—I believe that was her real name—referenced me as the big sexy guy before knowing my real name, so I was forever called Big Sexy in the New Orleans party crowd. Okay, well, maybe I was a bit narcissistic, but everyone loved big sexy, right? Whichever nickname used, I would always position myself as the alpha male and life of a party. At six feet three, ripped, and incredibly good-looking, I always made an appearance. I would always shrug off the story of my handle when some attractive female giggled after hearing someone called out across a crowded New Orleans night spot Big Sexy. But of course I conceptualized the implications of the deserved title. The hatred of an insecure man was hidden deep inside somewhere beneath the skin of big sexy never to be released again so it seemed.

Reminiscing as I sat at the bar, I remember a few years after my first business trip to Memphis I met and began dating cute, classy little waitresses working the cocktail market at the lobby tables of the Peabody. Sherry was appointed the job by the hotel manager as a favor for her very politically connected mother who decided her daughter needed to establish her independence as well hopefully teach her daughter about handling a few of her own expenses. A spoiled beauty, she had a mom who was always ready to serve the safety net if necessary. Tonight, after these many years, I noticed the girls still wore the business-tailored dresses, which still allowed them to expose just a bit more cleavage than necessary to enhance the tips. Not offensive to the lady clientele but just enough to make the men wonder. Dating Sherry would be a loose term; however, I did manage to visit her off and on over a couple of years while staying in Memphis. Shortly after our first night together, she gave up waiting tables and returned to her education. I recalled this night that Sherry had once invited me to a musical concert by Aerosmith at the Pyramid. She was an only daughter. Her mother was a very prominent Tennessee judge off speaking at a political function so we engaged in sex before going to the concert in one of the numerous bedrooms at the family home. I grew up rather poor wing of a prominent family that reeked of money amid successes with a bit of scandal always close behind; thus, my fragile male ego absorbed the abeyance presented with the affluent surrounding. Sex in an unfamiliar stylish bedroom in an unfamiliar house added a bit more decadence to the adventure back in that day.

I knew Sherry had planned to have sex with me even though she claimed she only wanted this evening to be A friendly date. She was beginning to date a known gentleman aware to her friends. I had phoned the former beauty queen at the last minute that day in order to inform her I was passing through Memphis. Aware of the circumstances I played my part well. When her friends arrived to chauffeur us to the concert I performed as nothing more than an older good friend from the past. At the concert I managed to sneak into the open closet attached to the private balcony by invitation of Sherry’s friend for my second go around of the evening. Sherry pretended to be upset with my infidelity, however, it didn’t stop her from desiring to sleep with me once again, back home, after we were dropped off. This time in another room. She was a brilliant girl and would eventually wind up employed by FedEx in a managerial power position. With me, however, the former petite yet buxom waitress was naturally submissive in bed. I always preferred to be in charge, insisting on taking the role of alpha male, always remaining in control. Even in the bedroom. Especially in the bedroom. Emotionally I didn’t feel as if I was necessarily in control of my clandestine emotions on this particular evening. Making contact with Desirae again would make everything seem manageable.

Time takes its toll, and eventually the simple things like making love in a different bedroom or behind the door of thousands of screaming Aerosmith fans or just whispering a dominant fantasy to some lover for her sake seems to grow less exciting. With everyone we sleep with, we leave a piece of our soul behind until there seems to be little substance left. The desire to chase cocktail waitresses or vice presidents of mega corporations fades, and we just seem to become more and hollow. There is darkness in the debts of hollowness, and the occasional social drug usage seemed to aid the older I became. The drug usage seemed to arrive from nowhere.

This Desirae Scanlin semblance of perfection seemed to have appeared from another world at a time when living had turned meaningless and boring. I had stopped looking for thrills and had begun a search for a new life of sustenance to breathe new fire in my veins. So why was I fighting the urge to run the other direction fast while I still had time? I was predisposed to flee as flight from emotional commitment was an ingrained part of my consistent monotonous heartfelt passion. Nothing about this relationship could really be that good to align all my suspicions into a preternatural. Was there the semblance of probable emotions of falling in love or merely lust with a disaster waiting to happen blinded by her exquisite beauty?

With Desirae the desires of seducing new mates or reminiscing old love trilogies played as a D-grade movie. I longed for a sabbatical from the care free and enchanted yet stagnated life of town-to-town traveling love. Escaping my miserable repast for the first emotional tie in a predetermined eternity of true lowliness, I imagined Big Sexy might truly be the false benefactor love. The orchestrated demigod really did not for the moment have any desire to be with anyone but the girl living in the strategically secluded stately cottage hidden in the countryside just outside little old Battlefield, Mississippi. Battlefield seemed too many to be not so removed from the Civil War days. The Devil, I imagined, was still chasing civil right workers around wearing a KKK robe. There was always something just a little too dark about the town in which I arrived into this world. I departed before the age of eight rarely to return until the irresistible attraction likened to a mouse to baited cheese with double D implants. Living an hour’s drive away, I had very little reason to ever return to my birthplace of Battlefield before Desirae appeared like an oasis in a desolate desert. I had spent a summer in 1990 with the Department of Archives and History excavating Fort St. DuPont, which was the first established French settlement west of the Mississippi. Many died during the attempted establishment of a colony, and eventually in the winter of 1654 the Indians finished them off and discarded the bodies in the Mississippi River. There were no skeletons left to uncover during the summer of excavation. I would soon enough have plenty of my own skeletons to haunt me with nightmares from my little hometown that seemed to have ingloriously disowned Samuel Johnson.

One and a half years since I first met Desirae, my lover would phone requesting for the third time this day as she embellished whispered promises should I decide to make the drive home to Battlefield this night. My lover insisted she did not care that the reunion would be improperly late. I had slept with very few girls that just reeked of sexuality like Desirae. The woman had the most perfect body imaginable, and anything that wasn’t perfect, the good plastic surgeon Dr. Duke’s, outside the capital of Jackson, Mississippi, had nipped and tucked to a work of sexual art. She harmonized with the voice of an angel, perfecting the most appealing Southern drawl that would make indeed make anyone melt.

Lips of an Angel sung by Hinder was the song Desirae’s cell phone tone produced each time my phone number popped up, specific to this appointed boy toy only. According to Desirae the words of the song reminded her of Big J and our relationship. Indeed it was just a hot song on the charts at the time in the spring of 2006. The staff at Battlefield Primary Care, a privately owned clinic in Battlefield, Mississippi, where Desirae was part owner as well as managing nurse. All the inhabitants in the clinic knew the ring well and recognized someone special in Nurse Desirae’s life was calling.

Honey, why you calling me so late? It’s kinda hard to talk right now. Honey, why are you crying? Is everything okay? (Hinder, Lips of an Angel)

The timing of any of my returning phone calls did not matter to this woman. As a head nurse at Battlefield Primary Care Clinic located directly off the Highway Mississippi 666 frontage road even if Nurse Scanlin were halfway into the process of intravenously inserting a syringe in a patient, should I call, Desirae would promptly answer her cell phone, abrogating all else in order to flirt with her lover. I felt wanted as well as in some odd way needed and perhaps loved in some odd way this relationship.

My cell phone rang again as I exited the lobby and headed to my room to grab my bag and load up to hit I-55 South headed for hedonistic ecstasy with the one who subtly begged me so. I had strategically never committed 100 percent to the drive in any of our several lovers’ conversations earlier in the day; however, when my lover positioned me to commit to time of arrival, without hesitation, I enlightened Desirae with a tinge of bravado, 11:00 p.m. at the latest. Prolonged seductive, lewd, lascivious phone sex with her just would not serve my needs this night. The drive time for me would go quickly although the final sexual component with her was never a quick sitcom but rather a major full-length live porn production within the confines in the castle on the outskirts of Battlefield.

The ambiance presented in her domain would be paramount to meet the level of lust. When I arrived, Desirae’s two-story house on the hill would be cleaned spotless and the satin sheets fresh. There would be at least two dozen scented candles lit and flickering scattered around with the latest and greatest erotic music playing, harmonious Enya or Enigma more than likely. Desirae would have spent quality time with hair nails and makeup perfect. The curvaceous goddess’s chosen outfit would be fresh to my eyes as this swimsuit model, to meet my aesthetic visual wants. She constantly shopped for the finest lingerie just for my boy, she would always whisper as she would postpone the evening’s unwrapping. For the exhilaration of the palate would be a fine-chilled Italian wine breathing and bottled water for the breaks on each nightstand. As we engaged in an insurmountable timeless bodily unification, there would be no need for sleep until we finally took non-prescriptive Ambien sometime the next morning to bring us down off our sexual high. All the window curtains in the second-floor bedroom would be closed to the oak limbs hanging over the panes form the forest behind adding to the darkness. Once the decision to sleep was eventually made, two large fans that would be humming away to drown out any real noise and being secluded on a several-acre lot with only distant neighbors, the world would awake unaware of our axiom of perfect humanistic pleasure.

Having grown lazy and bored from the stagnation of a continual fantasy party life, I had first introduced myself to Desirae in the fall of 2004. While I initiated the first step in this computer age in order to test the waters for a possible sexual relationship with this striking redheaded Venus. The woman who advertised for exactly what she craved sexually, and precise qualifications desired, essentially baited the hook. An extremely confident, sexually modern woman, Desirae then took the lead while affirming my charm and wanton reciprocal needs. For a girl more than a decade younger, Desirae Scanlin subsidized her needs for vicarious pleasures with determination to reach any of her utopian goals salivating with cougar mentality of a carnivore twice her age. I loved her imaginative defectiveness and burnished seduction. A woman who finally knew exactly what she wanted and had no qualms about explaining her sexual needs through the carefree dialoged of a Mrs. Robinson of twenty-eight. Instant attraction coupled with hidden class and self-discipline. Had I met my sexual equal, adorned with the most pristine augmented orbs expensive taste had ever purchased, with no strings attached? For our first date in November of 2004, Desirae and I set up a dinner meeting for Saturday night agreeing to meet for only for dinner. Desirae noticed I was a bit overly confident but later admitted she knew she had to have me sexually the minute she saw me walk into Charcoals Italian Restaurant, a rather upscale socially elite setting in Jackson, Mississippi, where people of discrete taste rendezvous. I had heard the confident part continuously spearhead as I aged into the most interesting man alive. Being a gym rat, this Venus of discerning taste urgently craved only for a tall well-built interlocked with an immensely hung below-the-belt manifestation. The other nickname admixture by my friends as Big J or Big Johnson was in no way a misnomer. A true narcissist never has to act anything but humble as confidence reeks, so my whispering but confident incontestable voice would seduce her as it had so many others. I was wearing black jeans around my thirty-two-inch waist, black ostrich boots, black shirt, Rolex watch, diamond ring on my left hand, and a small chain accompanying a small platinum penchant around my neck. Never overdo the trimmings, for over decorating simply shadows retrogressing confidence. Let your dress simply extenuate your looks and not reveal your eclectic insecurities. Yet when Desirae first squeezed into the booth and our unblushing wanton eyes locked for the first time, I knew she knew I knew I would have her. Never a victim of overthinking, I didn’t know she had already claimed ownership of her property after her first appraisal of the real estate.

Our first date and secondary dining went quickly. I would later wind up back in my hot tub breaking the rules for our first meeting. Without hesitation, we rendered ourselves steamy naked only to tease, which, irrespective of the original intention, was killing me for more to come. Patience, patience, patience went through my head as we were not allowed to have sex by the prior guidelines we previously set for ourselves. Desirae adapted, her insurrection mounted as she managed to suck on my thumb long enough to enlighten my wants enough to imagine there would be no crippling set of rules to eventually hold us back from complete sexual freedom the next time we made an appointment. This evening my magnificent lover-to-be consistently gazed through the windows of my eyes deep into my soul with that carnivorous I’d like to eat you up look. Eventually she would, consuming heart mind and soul, hook, line and sinker. Neither of us in a position to commit, had our sexual encounters originally intended to be nothing more than an occasional chemical release session. She and I had originally desired to meet our pandemic lustful needs, but over time our visits had become more frequent and to the point we couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. Many fantasies and secrets were whispered. I drifted in and out of sexual encounters with a number of other women after I first met Desirae, but strangely, all my attention seemed to turn back to the redhead. She was never overly aggressive yet always kept a tempting hook in the water baiting my sexual needs with my favorite temptation: her body. Then there were the flirtatious e-mails and suggestive and not-so-modest accompanying photos arriving via the Internet.

Now, weeks had passed since I had seen anyone else sexually; I was now on the road from Memphis, driving straight down to the exit leading to Harper’s Ferry Road, past the CBS drugstore, which now occupied the space in which many years ago stood Harper’s Ferry Elementary School, my first innocent educational environment. How such innocence passes away, replaced by such carnal desires in life? Now that it seemed Desirae had become more and more available, I had not felt the need for my usual craving of sexual variety. The one redhead would fill my void as she and I were now conversing at a minimum of every few days; however, I was certainly not solely committed to anyone or anything. My lover understood that contrite necessity in our physical relationship. I had no problem confessing to Desirae who or when I had been with another woman sexually. Nor she to me. Yet the story line as of late included Only Desirae for this recent short period of my life. I wouldn’t dare go so far as to say we were engaged in an unsolicited monogamous relationship. However, the infrequency of our meetings had narrowed enough to keep me temporarily satisfied craving only her affections. A confession I made which Desirae was extremely proud of.

My molded independence never appeared to be in danger of becoming addicted to any of the social drugs I was occasionally inclined to dabble with. I had frolicked around friends using politically correct drugs the last few years much more than my previous thirty-six years. In my mind’s eye, I certainly never abused them. Attending so many beautiful, socially acceptable people parties, I had tried them all in social settings but had purchased few. My ego was way too largish to ever be beholden on any chemical, which could knock the pedestal out from under Big J. After all, my ego was big enough I didn’t need anything on a regular basis to take me any higher. Varietal sex with multiple amalgamated, marginalized relationships was my cocktail of choice. That is until Desirae planted her sexuality into my life after her hunt for the perfect boy toy, which is a word she perfected. The odd tag, which annoyed my machismo a bit at first, slowly seemed less invasive to my manhood. Although I was far removed boyish wants and behavior, I had indeed retained my boyish good looks. My vanity and persistent daily exercise program kept my body in the shape any in which any twenty-five-year-old would be envious. If referencing my masculinity to that of her boy toy kept her amused, then let her have her pet name just as long as I reaped the tantalizing benefits. No one woman could belittle my iron will, and many had tried. Each time Desirae called, she would ask in the sweetest mellifluous voice, How is my handsome boy toy today? and When are you going to cum put that huge member in me? just as she had baited me earlier this day. As the web was woven tighter, there seemed absolutely no way I could say no to her again. I needed to regain focus of my life, but I loved being her personal plaything to use as she wished for her pleasure. This woman challenged my dominate nature and would attempt to tame it in a sexual battle. She understood my need to be in control in and out of the bedroom, but Adonis had Artemis; and should I be stuck by a boar to die in the hunt, then so be it. Only you can cool my desire / Oh-oh-oh, I‘m on fire (Bruce Springsteen).

The three-hour mindless journey down I-55 went quickly, passing through Jackson, Mississippi. I hit I-22 West and headed toward Battlefield, exiting onto the downward ramp at the Harper’s Ferry Road exit past where my elementary school was demolished years earlier and now stood a Walgreen’s Drugstore. I continued south until the once-familiar childhood road turned into Hunter Ferry Road. Traveling another winding seven miles, my metallic blue estrogen company Chevrolet pickup entered the secluded neighborhood of King Arthur’s Subdivison proudly wielding my sheath sword of love. The distant glimmering lights of other houses seemed hidden in the spacious wooded lots up the typical delta bluffed hill marking the topographical end of the Mississippi Delta. Wide awake accompanied by my libido, ramped up by my faithful constant companion testosterone, running through my veins, I desperately sought my needed lover. I pulled into the driveway leading to the spacious split-level dwelling off Sherwood Drive.

Every prescriptive detail of the evening would be aligned with detailed mystical ambience with precision. I would indeed feel special and well-kept for the evening. All the needed toiletries preplanned with my familiar bathroom robe awaiting. Every detail meeting my penchant for solidarity with my lover’s lustful needs prepared for Desirae’s Sir Lancelot returning to the decadence of Guinevere’s arms as my loins burned for her. In this fairy tale, damn be the kingdom and the king. I could barely make out the prescribed ambience of candles flickering behind the window shades of the darkened home. Knowing the drill well, I pulled into the driveway and parked to the right in my appointed slot arriving in the familiar yet somehow mysteriously dubious environment. Turning the key while simultaneously exiting my vehicle, reminiscing from my youth, I inhaled that familiar pungent sulfuric smell, which always seemed to come alive at night in Battlefield. Perhaps the smell still lingered from the Battlefield Paper Mill, which closed many years earlier or more than likely it rose up from the old riverbed swamp, which seemed to encircle Battlefield isolating the town from the encroaching rules set by the rest of modern America.

Noah, a beautiful majestic Great Pyrenees, in the enclosed yard to my left would continue with his sobering barking into the sky marking my return to the land of King Arthur. As always, I walked over to visit, reach over his cramped enclosure, and stop to pet Noah. The affection was appreciated as Noah honored my journey before returning to his never-ending vigilance warding off any would-be assailants to the castle. I methodically strutted past the white Lincoln Navigator parked out in the driveway, glanced at the dusty shadow of a remade 2003 blood red Indian motorcycle parked on the side of the garage. I strutted past Desirae’s ‘s dark blue X-type Jaguar fully loaded with all the bells and whistles as would be expected of any prominent physician’s wife. Apparently realizing his wife’s lover had arrived with conquest on his mind, Dr. Doyle Trent Scanlin III, grinning from ear to ear, flung open the back garage door. His stature reminiscent a 52 BC Roman centurion awaiting his general to siege and retake Alesia. Preoccupied with visions of his wife, I managed to charm the gatekeeper with a grain of flattery, yet I barely took notice her of the jovial husband as Dr. Doyle Trent Scanlin Jr. implacably announced, Desirae, has been drooling all day, waiting for you to get here. Come on in, Sam. Despite my self-analysis in the eyes of both man and God, I was in actuality nothing more than a lower caste of a plebian rather than the equivalent of a self-perceived modern-day conquering Julius Caesar. Triumphantly, I handed Dr. Scanlin my conjectured laurel leaf king’s crown for good keeping as I searched the Senate chambers for a sign of my most beautiful and formidable Cleopatra. When in Rome—in actuality, When in Rome there are no fig leafs of shame.

Topic: Work….. What do you do?

Posted by: WeBCute

Date Posted: 3/3/2006 11:51

Doctor & Nurse Also

House calls, anyone?

XOXOXO

Mrs. WeBCute

Proverbs 7 King James Version (KJV)

My son, keep my words, and lay up my commandments with thee. 2 Keep my commandments, and live; and my law as the apple of thine eye. 3 Bind them upon thy fingers, write them upon the table of thine heart. 4 Say unto wisdom, Thou art my sister; and call understanding thy kinswoman:

5 That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger which flattereth with her words. 6 For at the window of my house I looked through my casement, 7 And beheld among the simple ones, I discerned among the youths, a young man void of understanding,8 Passing through the street near her corner; and he went the way to her house, 9 In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night:10 And, behold, there met him a woman with the attire of an harlot, and subtil of heart.11 (She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house:12 Now is she without, now in the streets, and lieth in wait at every corner.)13 So she caught him, and kissed him, and with an impudent face said unto him,14 I have peace offerings with me; this day have I payed my vows.15 Therefore came I forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.

16 I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt.17 I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.18 Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves. 19 For the goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey:20 He hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed.

21 With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him. 22 He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks;23 Till a dart strike through his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it is for his life. 24 Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth.25 Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. 26 For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her.

Chapter 2

And it came to pass afterward, that he loved a woman in the valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah.

—Judges 16:4

What is a proper definition of normal? To a fish water is normal. The fish thinks little of the environment he moves about so freely within; however, should you be a delusional man swimming about imagining with the foresight of a fish eventually you will drown wondering where you went wrong.

Deviance by definition in a social or sexual context describes actions or behaviors that violate cultural norms including formally enacted ones. Deviance, I suppose, would be a violation of social norms. Norms are rules of conduct, not neutral or universal, but ever changing, shifting as society shifts—mutable, emergent, loose, reflective of inherent biases and interests, and highly selfish and one sided. They vary from class to class and in the generational gap. They are, in other words, contextual. Deviance can be described as a violation of these norms. Deviance is a failure to conform to culturally reinforced norms. Another of my nicknames that was accorded to me by one of my African American friend’s from the 940 Blues Club in downtown Jackson, Mississippi, was Captain America as I appeared as the all-American male, great guy, with an apparently wonderful inspiring life of success replete with adventure. I self-aggrandized the persona of a man about town in whom all the women adored. My outer existence appeared normal. I relished in life’s secular overabundance, yet I hardly sensationalized my prominence hidden behind an ironical smile. Unfortunately, my life had few counterbalances to the porportionalism in which I perceived social normality.

Posted by WeBCute

Posted: 6/1/2006 06:16

Well…..

Well I know where one of them is going to be at 8 tonight

NEENER, NEENER, NEENER

LMAO

WOOOOO HOOOOO!!!

(Well can you tell I’m just a little bit giddy this morning!! It’s BOTTOY time ya’ll I got a MFM date tonight and I’m just VIABRATING I’m so excited!!)

Seriously….I know how hard it is to find hot, sweet guys, I actually resorted to placing an ad in the forum last week (see shopping for boytoys lol !) but I’ll tell you what it WORKED!!!

The funny thing was there were 14 girls who posted wanting boytoys in the forum thread and only EIGHT available boytoys responded. Where are all the studmuffins when you need them?

Good Luck and hang in there girls!!!!

XOXO

Mrs. WeB

Appears perhaps the first threesome occurred in the Garden of Eden. Satan somehow interwove himself into the perfection union. Somehow or another, humankind has worked around monogamy with a variety of sexual interest for thousands of years. In theory, swinging invokes the modern age of infidelity without actually having to lie to the spouse. Even the wisest man in the world of biblical times, Solomon, fell under the spell of lust and temptation in attempting to reach new heights of sexual ecstasy while forging bonds with other kings and countries. Solomon had thousands of wives and concubines, but even he in the end proclaimed, All is Vanity. Indeed, it is in the world of wife swapping as all is indeed vexation under the sun. The single woman added to spice up the marriage a diamond discovered; the single man is usually considered and abomination to the sport. Islam promotes mansions filled with young girls upon reaching heaven though not as much as one boy toy is provided for the good wife of the polygamous husband.

Modern swinging or swapping by definition is couples trading permanent partners for sex. It is that simple despite all the numerous combinations and possible scenarios and those who claim to be in the modern-day lifestyle. The term lifestyle was adopted as the more politically correct usage of swinging. Wife swapping has indeed progressed a long way in a short time, propelled exponentially like many of twenty-first-century themes, which blossomed with the advent of the computer age. I don’t suppose I would have ever really been considered a swinger in modern laudatory terms because I never really found a willing permanent partner. Claiming I was a swinger would be like defining myself as gay because I had attended a gay event or while attending Fantasy Fest in Key West, Florida, or perhaps because I had gay friends that I’ve met for a drink in a gay bar on Bourbon Street. No, I was never a real swinger; however, according to my beautiful Desirae and confirmed by her doctor husband, this power couple were indeed seasoned swingers. Seasoned swingers who boasted their entire life seemed to be wrapped up in the swinger lifestyle or better known simply as the lifestyle, or so they humorously often noted.

My beautiful Desirae had posted this aforementioned notice in the forum section of LifestyleCouch.net, which made the claim to be the hottest swinger’s sight on the planet. Desirae Scanlin posted almost daily in the swinger’s blog under the name screen name WeBCute. I had joined LifestyleCouch at her whim under the single male profile JJHavinFun. I rarely perved profiles as the process of scouting for sex partners was commonly referred to on the Couch. Members glared into the sexual lives and fantasies displayed by other real-life swingers with the hopes of a possible future hookup. Along with certified swingers, every other perverted voyeur under the sun was encouraged to join as long as they silently perved. Somewhere after adolescence, along with losing my virginity, I discovered I loved to love women and seemed to crave the adoration of the real thing. Pornography had long ago set the bar. However, now I longed to be