If you ask me what defines my type of man’s man, my answer would most likely be crafted to flirt with a bro within earshot. If I had to go by the infatuations I’ve had in the past, they tend to be short, dark, and strong.
One thing they all shared is that they left me stumbling and infatuated at first sight. Yet because some of them buck the trend entirely, they screw with the stats—which makes me wonder whether my so-called “type” was never really about height, hair, or build at all. Maybe it was simply a raw fucking hunger to defy the shackles of morality and shatter the bondage of social convention…
Someone to share the ride astride the rush of unbridled arousal, who knows how it feels when pleasure and pain are both fucking you over, your body their altar, your cock wet and glistening with nature’s lube. To tangle in sweaty embrace. Ecstatic. Exalted. Sated and spent.
Instead I tend to weave a tangled web of intrigue: justifying my voyeurism, defending my social aversion, or avoiding the raw fear of true intimacy. Besides, the question itself remains a fickle yet curiously enduring one: Does anyone else share my mercurial taste in men?
PS: If any of my vices gets you rock hard and wet — especially the ones where a calm, calculated stud with deceptively strong legs locks his ankles and slowly turns your body into his personal altar, crushing the air out of you while your cock throbs and leaks everywhere — don’t hold back. Tell me exactly what makes you leak. Describe the squeeze, the burn in your ribs, the way his quads ripple when he pulses, the taunting words, or that exact second you break and submit. The filthier and more detailed your confession, the better. Who knows… I might just use every dirty detail against you next time we’re on the mat.
Be that as it may, please feel free to ignore my infernal diatribe, or DM me with your thoughts, opinions, or personal experience.
A reMASTERed vintage wrestling reel featuring the perfect leg to muscle ratio for a scissors — thick veins snaking over slabs of rock-hard muscle, hammies that coil round their prey like chords of steel, flexing so deep you could lose a finger in the grooves.
BEFORE THE PYROTECHNICS AND DAYTIME DRAMA OF MODERN WWE PRO STYLE GRAPPLERS WERE TALENTED VAUDEVILLE ENTERTAINERS IN ADDITION TO BEING MASTERS AT THE ART OF WRESTLING
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