Confessions of a Bad Boy(3)

I’m just getting into it when her gasps start to stutter, and her hands start to slip against my back. Her head thuds against the metal of the car, and I take the hint. However much I want this moment to last, I’m not going to get left behind. I let myself gorge on the sight of her ripened lips, run my hands once again along the delicate lines of her open thighs, suck and bite at the shuddering perfection of her breast.

I come seconds after her body goes limp and soft, its last dregs of energy used up in the effort it took her to scream into the sky. I raise my head from between her breasts and smile at how wonderful the sight of a woman satisfied looks.

After I pull myself away, she stares up at me, still stretched out on the hood of the car. She’s smiling at me with a new kind of disbelieving admiration. Little does she know I’m already planning a future vlog – on the pleasures of outdoor f*cking, with some tips and tricks to help out the novice.

Laughing softly, she says, “I guess this is why women like bad boys.”

If she only knew…





1





Nate




I start taking off my clothes as soon as I’m through the door of my apartment. Shirt on the floor, kicking my shoes off, down to my underwear. I go into the bathroom and splash some water on my face, glaring at myself in the mirror.

There’s a rush that happens when I’m about to make a video. Not the cock-stiffening hotness of seducing a woman, not quite the intellectual satisfaction of closing a six-figure deal for work that I had no right to – it’s something else. Something I still can’t figure out. It’s a catharsis and a comfort, a deep feeling of fulfillment I’ve never quite gotten from anything else.

I boot up my laptop and sit on the edge of the bed while I wait, taking out the candles my female fans love and lighting them so they cast an incandescent hue over my body, the lines of my chest coming alive in the flickering black shadows.

I’ve asked myself a million times why I carry on making these videos. I don’t need the money, and all it would take is for a girl to recognize me, or for a slip to happen, and I’d be discovered. If that ever happened I’d probably enter a world of problems. Work would suck – if I could even keep my job – and I’m still not sure if it would help or ruin my sex life.

But something brings me back, something deep inside of me. It’s not quite the ego-boost – I’m self-aware enough to admit that - and it’s not even the idea of helping people – I’m not that altruistic. Again and again though, whatever it is still compels me to sit here, stare into that lens, and talk. And it’s not the kind of bullshit I roll with at work-it’s the truth. Maybe that’s the part I’m addicted to. The part where there are no boundaries, no rules. Where I can tap into the deepest, darkest part of what it means to be a man, to lust and to hunt and to conquer. All amid the liberating joy of anonymity.

I set the angle right with focused precision, just below my mouth, nothing visible in the frame but my chiseled torso, the waistband of my Calvin Kleins, and the blank wall behind me, and then I press record.



Confessions of a Bad Boy #234: The best one-night stand I’ve ever had



It’s the Bad Boy here. Bringing you more illicit confessions from the steamy shadows, tales of torn panties and roving tongues. I’ve got to say, some of the messages I’m getting from you guys are out there – especially the women. I’m sure I’ve met a few of you out in the wild before. Just keep ‘em coming, as I like to say.

A bunch of you keep asking me to tell you about the best one-night stand I’ve ever had, since I’ve got my method down to a science. It’s a tough question. One-night stands are always good if you know what you’re doing. Each one is unique, different, its own little adventure. That’s why I keep coming back, why I keep doing it. That’s why I’ve made so many videos on the topic. But that’s no answer, and you know I hate to leave you hanging…

So I’m gonna tell you about a one-night stand that might just be the best – it was definitely the most unexpected, the most unplanned, and the most dangerous. The one that I still think about sometimes, however much I try not to…



There’s something about a rooftop party that brings out the wilder side in women. Maybe it’s the stars overhead making them feel that nothing really matters. Maybe it’s the warm LA breeze against their bared skin reminding them of what it feels like to be touched. Shit, maybe it’s just the dizzying altitude. Either way, I never turn a rooftop party down. I like my women wild.

I lean back against the railing, take a long sip of beer, and let myself drink in the scene. It’s a big rooftop, big enough for a dance floor, a drinks bar, and a small glassed-in area. Beyond the railing around its edges, the city reaches out in all directions, outlined in places by the dusty orange glow of a sunset. There are colored lights set around the rooftop, shimmering off the giant pool at its center and the toned thighs and glossy hair of the women around it. It’s a typical Hollywood crowd. Everyone looks young, but only around half of them actually are – the rest artificially so. Producers, actors, even a few directors and talent agents like me. All here to network, schmooze, and make empty promises.

The DJ in the corner puts on the latest hit and turns up the volume. Like a war cry it compels some of the girls around the pool to stand up and start moving. I take another sip of beer and watch the parade of beautiful bodies, feeling like a lion thrown in the deer sanctuary. One of the girls catches my eye and I smile as she turns around to show me her best side. I watch her for a while before a tall blonde in a shiny dress struts past me, and puts a little swing into her hips as she does it – just enough for a guy like me to get the message.