With mouthwatering candy on every Manhattan corner, it can be difficult to find that perfect and oh-so satisfying piece.
What am I talking about?
Lust and love, my darlings, that’s what.
As a single man living on the ultimate island of lost souls - aka NYC - navigating Gotham’s sexual candy counter can give you a cavity, or at the very least, an STD.
First off, I just don’t get cheaters. I mean, I can understand an occasional tasty blowjob on a business trip, but why get involved with that person while still maintaining a lover at home?
Let me explain.
I recently met this cute little guy at Mr. Blacks. He had brown eyes and a furry chest; and while the DJ played vintage Miss Ross, we grinded into each other like two wild cats in heat. We kissed like mad teenagers until our lips were sore. Maybe it was the two vodka & cokes percolating in my brain, but it sure felt like love to me.
As the night wore on, I lost him in the smoke and mirrored crowd. I looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found. For the next week, my thoughts dwelled on him 24/7. As fate would have it, I ran into him on Avenue A; and he inquired about a return engagement with my hips and lips.
Yes, Mr. Fate had paid Mr. Makeup a visit. I had our house planned, the china picked out, the garden etc…and then the bomb dropped: he told me he had a partner and was in an open relationship.
Oh, yes, the open relationship. Fuck that. I hate these men – they want their cake, they want to bake it, and they want to eat it, too. I say, let them gorge on the fucking frosting until their teeth rot.
Thank God I never revealed my real age or motives.
Candy might be dandy, but not when he’s randy.