No mistakes, only now you're bored

21,196 steps I had to take to earn my spot in front of these dual monitors today, but here I am... leveraging time once again to provide insight into a few of those tidbits that inquiring minds want to know. However, instead of sitting across a desk from some HR schmuck trying to assess my qualifications for a job, this time I am sitting across a pint glass from some sleazebag trying to pick me up at a bar. "What turns you on, baby?" he asks me, brown eyes bobbing unevenly on the bubbly surface of an ocean of brewed hops and barley.

My fingers press against you to tell a story of desire, of want and so very much lust.

Of course, what ignites the passion is precisely the thing that leads to the swift extinguishing of it: novelty. Yeah, give me the human equivalent of that new car smell. Supply some flavor I have never tasted before. Offer me a horse of a different color, and I will long to ride it. A glistening mane of purple hair catches my attention as it bounces around the squared circle, and I find myself considering what it would be like to mount a man with quads like tree trunks, wondering if he could be convinced to lock them around me and squeeze until something inside broke.

I could squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more.

And the flesh... the forbidden allure of those special square inches, no more remarkable than the rest except for the fact that they are kept hidden from every other person but you... those private parts that, when exposed in any other setting, witnesses would politely avert their eyes to avoid seeing. But in this setting, with you bearing witness, your eyes can not only linger long enough to see, but they can openly ogle — in fact, it is expected of them.

Oh, but what is there to look at, really? As the landscape of a person goes, the nudity of his body represents the smallest space to survey, and the first to lose its appeal; after all, however attractive it may be to behold, however smooth or warm or moist it is to the touch, bare skin ultimately amounts to nothing more than a decaying pelt wrapped around organs and bone in varying pigments of melanin.

Am I getting you hard yet?

Love of discovery is why I take the boys to bed, yes, but true discoveries are not made by examining what lies under the clothes. No, real revelations are found long after garments have been shed, by continuing to peel away even deeper layers. Dissection gets my juices flowing, keeps me excited for what comes next. What would he do if I reveal this, or hide that? Now what would happen if I lick here, pull there? How would he react to the tip of my nose here, a well-placed knuckle there? What will drive him over the edge of his own awareness, forcing him to flail his way blindly through pure instinct — what will snap him out of it and make him blush? Exploitation of woman has become the easiest exploration of man, and he will almost always tell you more through intercourse than through discourse.

Trouble is, they often have very little to say either way.

When you scratch away the layers, there's nothing there.

Then what? What attraction remains once there is nothing left to be said? I am not much for sexual small-talk. Without substance to entice once the freshness has fled, interest soon follows suit. Therein lies the problem with a libido spawned by a boy's je ne sais quoi... it shrivels and dies in the very instant that je sais quoi.

There's nothing to see here, people, keep moving on. Slowly their necks turn, and then they're gone. No one cares when the show is done.