By: Sir Wordsmith.

Okay, now let it out. What is the product? Bueller? Bueller? Hot air? Maybe a trace scent of sugar and a stimulating, but pungent whiff of cayenne pepper too? Mostly hot air that might get you noticed for a moment.  I am talking about “Pussy Power.” The male genre, in which I still insist that I have club membership, are base creatures subject to the juices that coarse through their blood much, much more than slaves to their gray matter. Yes indeed, that smaller, throbbing, blood-red head guides the man to where? To heaven? To hell? To slavery? It is all of those destinations and more.  I feel I have been to each already; so why keep searching, especially when all the sensations are supposed to be fulfilled in the person of my wife?

I will answer for myself only. I started life off real slow and ineffective. I always figure I am about five years retarded socially and emotionally and can be a slow and stubborn learner. During college, my social ineptitude allowed me to build a very nice body.  The pimples popped and I finally jelled into something suitable for sex. Funny, my first woman was a co-ed married to a 6 foot 8, 300 + lb river boat captain. He would be away for two weeks at a stretch and I would be in his bed pounding her pussy. She was a kind, plump, big-tittied, simple, Cajun blonde with a killer smile. I didn’t have the pleasure of experiencing her until after I had graduated. There were lots of missed opportunities during that time; but certain things held me back, mostly fear and uncertainty. Once I got over that malaise, I have refused to wear their hair shirts again. Good thing, too, because my years in Houston were pure chaos; but I enjoyed being on the trapeze without a net.  I learned to fly on my own. I discovered my voice and people responded to my show. Part of it was the shock therapy of being a recruiter and salesman.  Part of it was refusal to perceive anything as truly crushing, not even hunger. Young, brash men always have the solace that some sunrises will truly shine. Not today; but tomorrow was a ticket. I got good at attracting the girls, but could not keep them. At first, I didn’t want to, but then that longing and loneliness kicked in.  I think my gun had fifteen notches and my longest dry spell without was two months. For a brief time I had 3 girls I was banging. Did I lie? Like a fucking jail house lawyer.  Still, in the end I was the one getting dumped every single time. WHY? Because I wasn’t her Mr. Right.  I didn’t take her demands serious or even worse couldn’t even pony up if I wanted to.

My wife was nineteen when I met her. She hopped straight into bed with me. That wasn’t unusual for me. I had it then. But she stayed. Shocked me to no end. Maybe two girls objectively were her physical equal or prettier; but I totally and freely put on her collar and loved it. She kept me fed real good. I loved being her man and took pride in the fact I couldn’t leave her alone for a pee break in a bar without some hound hitting on her. Yep, felt good to assume my place, give her a big French kiss, and flash a shit-eating grin and a “Howdy Dude” at the missing-out male. MINE. She was and is.

Well, somewhat. The girl turned into a mom and then a sister. You know the story. Common as dirt.  A few twists, but my fiery fuckfest turned into a different beast all together. What was once sweet and appetizing served with a smile went stale and stingy. I want to say cold, but there was no malice at all.  No, sex became a weapon as you showered with shame.  It just wasn’t there to give anymore. Some of it was health, but mostly, it was her mental image of Mom. Big mistake when a woman stops using her pussy power on a man. Her assessment, though, was pretty correct.  I would never abandon her or my boys. I love her and consider her still the prize to a pauper even if all the buttons I loved to push were pulled away. She made a good home and a good sister.

I was at war at home and at war at work. The age of 45-something jarred me out of a stupor, and I have been spinning ever since. What’s in it for me? I had no toys and no life of my own let alone the leading man in my own play, just a supporting role. Financially I held it all up, but I felt like a boarder. Loved the little world, but I began to feel very closed off and claustrophobic.<BREATHE>

At first, she tried to strangle that small, feeble feeling; but it still found expression. She turned around and began looking at me. Why? Fear. I did not turn into a snarling punisher to her. I just started seeking out her sisters that were less satisfied and bit hungry. She noticed. Not only that, I got busted because she noticed I was happier and more charming and insistent. I thought my days were numbered; but much to my surprise, she allowed herself to try to be woman again. At first I was cynical, believing it was just her social security program, the she-bear by any means necessary to care for the cubs reaction. Then I saw that smile again.

She was reshaping into something palpable and pleasing. She was getting all of me and getting it good.  I felt something melt and her face just transformed. I didn’t think that still existed. Ahhh, Pussy Power at its finest. She felt me again. There became more of a balance again, a little more independence. Not in your face, but still “fuck you, I own me” attitude from me that she responded to. I put on the harness and did everything I could to please her and be a good provider. Even a sweet girl who doesn’t stomp with spiked heels will take you for granted and devaluate you. Funny stuff. Did I stop serenading the sisters? Hell no. From my point of view that extra energy, that feeding, even if mostly it was me fawning, was all good. Win, Win, Win.

I am out of steam. That is what happens when your power supply is merely hot air.

Until next time,

Sir Wordsmith