The online diary of a gay courtesan.

Assholes don’t matter

This may at first come across as a vulgar and gratuitously sexual entry; however, if you will bear with me, I will tell you why I have chosen to write it…

Yesterday I was drowning in one of my pools of emotion. I have climbed out of it much quicker than I normally do when I am mired in whatever mud my rivers churn up within me. I am not apologizing, because my emotions are part of who I am.

I spoke for an hour with my friend Jen, and we realized that I’m getting better at reining in my stallions, but that I need to focus on matching the level of my response to that which is appropriate. That isn’t to say that I am wrong to unleash the cavalry, but that I need to be more careful about when and to what degree I rattle the sabers. Almost a year ago Allen taught me to avoid scorched earth, and now I’m realizing the value of a gradated scale of alert at the airport.

Be that as it may, I then went into the normal tailspin of shame afterward for not having better control over myself; however, this time I did something special to make me feel better. I have commented on the types of touch I perceive, and after a bad day, I realized that I needed some sexual healing. (continues below video)

 

I went to Matt’s house almost too drained to even want to go, despite the fact that if there were ever someone I have met who should be in porn but isn’t… it is this boy. He is a fuck machine. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, a super lean body with compact and defined muscles, a cute face, an exquisite ass, and a huge dick. This 23-year-old boy was made for fucking, and he can do it for for hours. He can’t get enough! Just what the doctor ordered.

I always enjoy watching our sex in the mirror, because he is so responsive to small flicks here and deep kisses there. He writhes and moans, and is generally exceedingly flattering to my ego. But I was still just a tad distracted…

Until I caught my own eyes in the mirror and saw that I had finally connected to the moment. Between trying to suck my cock right off my body (and then trying to rip it off with his butt) I had no choice but to take the plunge… My survival was at stake! LOL

After a very long time he finally exploded into the most beautiful orgasm. His fair skin blushed red and he simpered like a little puppy. He is precious. So it was my turn, and I requested that he sit on my face while I masturbated to finish.

And then, in that precise moment, it finally occurred to me. While the mean-spirited cellar gnomes who had upset me so badly were in their little huts, groveling away over their computer screens about my latest controversy, I had a beautiful boy’s asshole in my mouth while I was jetting cum everywhere. And suddenly… those horrible people didn’t matter. They don’t matter. At all. They. Don’t. Matter.

What matters is the connection you make with people who hold you dear, and that this connection is one that nurtures you. I do not regret defending my friend. I do not regret being upset for what is happening to him. But my friend is the one who matters, not the dickhead who is bothering him. That boy last night who thinks I’m the sexiest man he’s ever met: He matters. The clients who experience joy, because they have spent quality time with me: They matter. My family matters. My cat matters.

Assholes don’t matter (unless they’re attached to the beautiful boy sitting on your face).

2 comments

1 Jennifer { 11.10.09 at 6:19 pm }

Damn, baby. Just . . . damn. lol

There’s only one Devon Hunter, y’all. Just one. If’n you don’t know, ya better ask somebody.

Shakin’ my head and smiling over here . . .

2 Rick/thirdbeach { 11.12.09 at 9:56 pm }

Nice to know that you enjoy sex. I have wondered if sex trade workers are able to go back to just the enjoyment. Although I guess enjoyment depends on who you are with, as with anything sex related.

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