Tag Archives: male sexuality

Why Nice Guys DON’T Finish Last (Or First)

We’ve all heard it before. It’s the primary plot of nearly every teen movie ever made. It’s the secondary plot of every underdog movie ever made. It’s also the title of a classic Green Day song. Say it out loud in almost any context that isn’t on the set of a porno and most will agree.

Nice Guys Finish Last

When we look at the world through our irrational, caveman brains and glean our information primarily from movies, sitcoms, and Fox News, that certainly seems to be the case. It’s almost obvious that we live in a world nice guys solely exist to act as toilet paper to the Biff Tannens, Bernie Madoffs, and Kanye Wests of the world.

In a sense, it’s comforting. Being a nice guy means you’ll carry the spirit of a lovable loser and who doesn’t love a lovable loser? Sure, Cleveland Browns fans would probably beg to differ, but it’s that very mindset that makes us content with the status of nice guys and gives us an excuse to scrutinize the concept through the harsh lens of reality.

As I’ve made clear before, I don’t care for excuses that don’t involve donuts, comic books, or nudity. That’s not to say I have anything against nice guys. I too consider myself a nice guy. You won’t find me punching a small animal just to impress a couple of cute cheerleaders. There are far more honorable and pragmatic ways for that sort of thing.

Instead, I’m going to add a little bit of context to the whole concept of nice guy finishing last. I’ve already highlighted how being a nice guy is a laughably low standard with which to base your appeal as a person. Most of the people on this planet are nice. The only reason you know about the assholes more is because they’re the ones that end up with TV shows and professional trolls.

So even if there are mostly nice people in this world, does that mean they finish last? Well, to answer that, it helps to build a story around the context. I could try to cite studies that show that just being likable tends to get you more opportunities in life, but that’s not very sexy. Nobody comes to this blog for scientific studies that don’t involve sex robots. They come here for sexy stories.

With that in mind, here’s the story that every nice guy should learn before they hit puberty:

You walk into a casino with all your life savings and you have to gamble it all of it on just one game.

In some of those games, the risk is high and the reward is high in the short term, but that reward naturally decreases no matter how much you win at other games.

In some of those games, the risk is very low, but for each dollar you don’t bet, you end up losing twice as much in the long run.

Then, there’s this one game in the middle of it all where if you bet on it, you probably won’t win big, but you won’t lose either. The odds are stacked in such a way where that over time, your money increases. It’s slow and tedious, but it does go up. It’s just a matter of patience and playing the odds, which are objectively on your side.

With all this in mind, which game do you play?

If you’re a smart gambler in any sense and don’t have any self-destructive tendencies, then the choice you make in this story is fairly clear. You end up playing the third game because that’s the only game that, in the long run, will increase your life savings.

That third game is basically what it means to be a nice guy. It is akin to investing in an index fund in the stock market. Ask nearly any financial guru, including Warren Buffet, and they’ll say the same. An index fund is the safest, most effective investment anyone can make. It won’t beat the market, but you won’t lose to it. Just not losing to the market is enough to make a lot of money in the long run.

Being a nice guy is one of the best investments you can make in yourself because, on the whole, it increases your value as a person and as a functioning member of society. In general, people want to deal with nice people. People want to work with them. Some even want to have sex with them. It is, by far, the easiest and most effective way to get ahead in the long term.

The main problem is the payoff sometimes takes a while. There is also some element of luck involved, but not in the Vegas odds sort of sense. For those willing to take more risks, being a nice guy just isn’t enough. Being a nice guy just takes too damn long.

That’s how you end up with the professional trolls I’ve mentioned before. These are people who are gambling that being an asshole will help them stand out. It’ll help them get attention, which they understand on some levels is a valuable asset.

That attention may be negative. In fact, it often is negative. Being an asshole in a world of nice people helps you stand out. It makes you different, exciting, and charismatic to some degree. However, all that is a quick short-term gain. In the same way these crazy things get people’s attention, those same people will just as easily get bored or frustrated with it. As I’ve said before, there is a lot of power in boredom.

That’s why a lot of those arrogant, Biff Tannen jocks from high school end up pumping gas, digging ditches, or getting shanked in prison. Being an asshole, in the long run, decreases your value because it hinders your ability to form social connections. Without those connections, there’s going to be nobody to help you up when you fall flat on your face.

That’s not to say that being an asshole doesn’t pay off big for some people. Alex Jones, Milo Yiannopoulos, and most successful YouTube stars are proof of that. They do finish ahead of the nice guys. However, they are the exceptions and not the norms.

Most of the assholes are so far behind the nice guys that they have no hopes of ever catching up. Some just quit the race entirely and cede their rank to the nice guys because they know too many people hate them to hope for a break. It can be somewhat tragic, but it does benefit the nice guys.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, you have the overly careful type people who despise both the nice guys and the assholes. I knew people like this in high school. I was almost one of them. These are people who are so bleak in their outlook on life that they don’t bother being nice or mean. They’re just a walking ball of gloomy nihilism.

Other than grunge rock and Marilyn Manson, you don’t see too many instances of this paying off in the long run. Even if you’re not an asshole who kicks small puppies for fun, people will still avoid you if you’re a pain to be around. If every hour of your day involves whining about how terrible and awful everything is, then nobody will want to work with you, help you, or sleep with you.

As a result, the nice guys beat those gloomy goths with ease. They finish ahead because, and it’s worth emphasizing, people prefer to work with those who are likable. They will help, befriend, and have sex with those who are nice to be around. Again, it won’t happen all at once. It will take time, but in the end it will pay off.

So in a sense, Green Day got it wrong. Nice guy’s don’t finish last. However, they don’t finish first either. Given how few of those who try to finish first ever make it, your best bet is to just make sure you don’t finish last. In that sense, being a nice guy is the safest bet you’ll ever make that doesn’t involve jello shots.

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Awkward Boners And Another (Overly) Personal Story

Brace yourselves because I’m about to get personal on this blog again. Yes, it’s going to be the awkward kind of personal. Yes, it’s also the sexy kind of personal. No, it’s not that kind of sexy. I still save the bulk of that for my novels.

I think it’s important to get personal when building an audience. It helps us relate to one another. I can’t just be some faceless guy behind a computer screen trying to sell sexy stories. I need to be someone with which people can feel a personal connection. That connection is the difference between a passing audience and a loyal one. The sexy stories I sell, as a result, are just a nice bonus.

Now, I’ve already gotten pretty personal on this blog before. I’ve talked about my love of sleeping naked, my own circumcision, and the soul-crushing, four-year prison sentence that was high school. I hope those stories have endear my life and this blog to people. I’d like to deepen that endearment and I intend to do that by talking about awkward boners.

I’m sure I’ve got every man’s attention now. I’ll still give a moment for the women to stop rolling their eyes. I get it, ladies. Awkward boners are one of those things that men make too big a deal of. Yes, it’s a unique experience to a particular gender, but it’s not even in the same hemisphere as giving birth or breast feeding. I’m not going to equate awkward boners with that, but I do feel they’re worth talking about, if only because it’s funny.

In fact, I think it’s because we don’t talk about these gender-specific experiences that men and women have such a hard time relating to one another. For some, talking about the joys of birth is a bit too much. I think awkward boners are a good start, if only because they reveals a vulnerability in men that they don’t readily admit.

This brings me to my personal experience. Yes, it’s about an awkward boner situation that I endured. I admit it. I’m a healthy man who has had at least one awkward boner in his life. Any healthy man who doesn’t admit that is a goddamn liar. While I doubt I’ll start a trend, I can at least tell a story that should brighten everyone’s morning.

This particular story happens in middle school, which is sort of like the sub-par prequel to high school. It’s like a mild soreness that you don’t realize will one day become a stabbing pain in the pit of your soul. I won’t say it was awful, but there were definitely signs that being a teenager was going to suck on a lot of levels.

This was also before I developed a serious acne problem that utterly destroyed what little confidence I had. I like to think that during middle school, I was at least somewhat content. I won’t say I was as happy as a fly in a shit factory, but I wasn’t miserable. For the most part, life was okay.

At the same time, however, puberty was starting to kick my ass, as it does with most people when they enter those fragile years between being a kid and being a walking time bomb of hormones. As a result, unexpected and unwelcome erections were becoming more common.

For the most part, I was able to hide those erections as well as any burgeoning young man. Talk to any man who survived that part of his life and they’ll tell you the same. They learned to be tactful, discreet, and downright cunning at hiding their boners. You might say that men at this age become boner ninjas, which is a lot less sexy than it sounds.

Every now and then, though, our boner ninja fails. In this particular instance, it failed at one of the worst possible times, short of me giving a speech to the entire school while wearing a speedo. I’ll give everyone a moment to conjure that mental image. You’re welcome.

On this particular day when my inner boner ninja failed me, I was in the seventh grade. It was late in the spring and really starting to get hot outside. As such, gym class involved a lot more outdoor activities that turned us from hormonal time bombs into sweaty hormonal time bombs. I didn’t mind this because it made the afternoon go by faster.

However, my body just loved making it harder for me and yes, that means exactly what you think it means. I’d just finished my English class. Gym was the last class I had before I went to lunch so I went to the locker room eager to work up an appetite. I go to change into my gym uniform, as I’d done almost every day to that point. Then, it happens.

I don’t know whether it was the poetry assignment I’d had in English class. I don’t know whether it was because of some cute girl I’d seen who just started wearing a bra. Maybe I’d just read one too many Wonder Woman comics that day. I don’t know, but whatever it was, something triggered an unexpected launch in my pants. It wasn’t a half-launch either. This rocket was going into orbit and staying there for a while.

Now, keep in mind, I’m in a boy’s locker room in a middle school full of immature teenagers. You can’t find a time or place less appropriate without involving clowns, dead puppies, and buckets of expired milk. On top of that, I’m up against the clock. I needed to be out in the gym with the rest of the class within five minutes. For a situation like this, that’s the longest five minutes you’ll have outside a dentist’s office.

I don’t even get a chance to undress before the situation escalates. By the time I get to my locker, we’re already at ignition. By the time I unlock it, we’re at liftoff and we’ve cleared the tower. There are several obnoxious boys next to me, talking about crap that should arouse absolutely no one. All I can do is keep my head down and silently curse my dick for doing this to me.

I know my body well enough at this point to understand that this situation is going to get worse before it gets better. If I start undressing, there’s no way I’m going to hide this. For a moment, I just stand there and stare at my uniform in my locker. At that point, though, my rocket is well into its orbit and re-entry is not possible.

I needed to act and act fast. I had only four minutes left and that was just not going to cut it. Finally, I made a decision. It was going to require some theatrics on my part, but there was no other way.

Tactfully, I grab my uniform from my locker. Then, I clench my stomach as though I’m in pain and head right for the bathroom stalls. From where I’m standing, those bathroom stalls might as well be in the heart of Mordor. Instead of Orcs, though, I have to weave through a bunch of spitting, swearing teenage boys. It was an arduous journey, to say the least.

At one point, a kid next to me that I knew looked concerned. He asked me if I was already. I instinctively said I was fine, but my stomach wasn’t. I might have said something about the tacos I ate for dinner last night, hoping he would fill in the blanks.

That seemed to do the trick, though. He didn’t ask again. I managed to work my way around the crowd of other boys and make it into the bathroom stall. In my first stroke of luck, there was nobody in there. I was able to close the door, lock it, and breathe the biggest sigh of relief I’d felt to that point in my life.

After I was alone in the stall, I was able to settle down and let my penis complete its orbit, so to speak. It still took a lot longer than I wanted. I remember thinking about anything and everything that would get it to settle.

If you’re a healthy man, you know what I’m talking about here. You’ll go through any number of unsexy thoughts and images. You’ll picture your grandmother in a nightgown. You’ll picture your dog throwing up on your bed. You’ll even resort to doing algebra in your head. When algebra is an option, you know your body is working against you.

For me, I don’t quite remember what I thought about to subdue my erection. It still didn’t work as quickly as I’d hoped. I still had somewhat of a quasi-boner by the time I got undressed and put my uniform on. I was still up against the clock too. By the time the warning bell rang, I had to grit my teeth and hope for the best.

I managed to put the rest of my stuff in my locker and make it out into the gym. I still had somewhat of a tent in my pants. Keep in mind, these gym shorts aren’t exactly known for being well-fitted. I had to be very careful with how I carried myself, especially as the girls started making their way out of the locker room. It also helped that the gym uniforms weren’t exactly sexy. Even raging teenage hormones can only do so much.

Once I sat down and waited for the gym teacher, I was able to finally able to complete re-entry, so to speak. In another stroke of luck, the teacher was a bit late so I had a few extra minutes to make sure no more rockets were ignited. It still made for some tense moments, but I got through it.

That, my friends, is the story of my most awkward boner. I’m sure there are other men out there who have had far worse experiences in far less comfortable situations. It is, in a sense, the shared price of masculinity. No one is immune to it. We never know when it’s going to happen. When it does, we learn that we aren’t always in control of our bodies. Sometimes, our bodies control us.

There’s almost something poetic about that. I’m sure plenty of men disagree and just see awkward boners as an annoyance. Well now, you’ve heard my story. If there are any men out there feeling bold, I encourage you to share yours as well. Please let me know in the comments. There’s no shame or judgment. For men and women alike, let’s share this experience and everything it can teach us.

Perhaps I can make this part of my sexy discussions. Boners can be awkward, but they can be beautiful too. Let’s not let that awkwardness undermine that beauty.

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A Handy Trick For Men

It’s true you can’t really know a person by judging them on their looks, their clothes, or who they follow on Twitter. There are so many things that go into making people who they are that, short of reading their minds and hacking their Facebook account, it’s impossible to truly know them.

That said, it is possible to glean a few details about a person based on simple observation. As I’ve said many times before, nature is not that intricate. Nature is a drunk monkey trying to shave itself with a rusty axe. That means there are bound to be a few surface-features that nature is too lazy to tweak.

The results are a few little parlor tricks that you can use to impress others too lazy to look them up on the internet. The human body, in all its flawed glory, has a few peculiarities that you can either laugh at, exploit, or ignore entirely. It doesn’t matter. Nature is so beyond giving a fuck at this point.

One of those little tricks involves your hands. No, I don’t mean that trick that requires tissues and lube. I don’t mean the trick I’ve used to set an overtly sexual tone in my novels. That’s not a trick. That’s built-in happiness that we can all celebrate in our own way.

This little hand trick involves measuring the length of your fingers. Why would you do that? Why would anyone without severe OCD do something like that? Well, for the men out there, I can best sum it up in two words: bigger penis.

Do I have your attention now? Good because short of fireworks and air horns, this topic is sure to interest a certain segment of men, gay and straight alike. It’s called digit ratio. It’s not quite as technical as it sounds, but it effects your penis so you damn well ought to take it seriously.

Specifically, digit ratio involves the length of your index finger compared to your ring finger. In technical terms, your index finger is labeled 2D (second digit) and your ring finger is labeled 4D (fourth digit). Take that length and put it into the ratio 2D/4D and you’ve got yourself your digit ratio.

That’s the basic math. So how does this affect your penis? Well, it actually affects a lot more than that for reasons that are a testament to the eccentricities of biology.

For reasons that I can only assume involve nature being drunk on the job, your digit ratio is a byproduct of the amount of androgen (male hormones) that you were exposed to in your mother’s womb. According to Science Direct, a smaller ratio, which means having a longer ring finger, is a direct byproduct of being exposed to more androgen.

More androgen means more masculine features and masculine traits. Among those many masculine traits includes a man’s penis size. In a sense, nature really does have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old boy. More exposure to manly forces make your manly parts bigger. It’s crude, but oddly fitting when you think about it.

It’s also a great convenience when you think about it. At the moment, it’s not legal to show somebody your penis in public when they ask you to prove your endowment. While that’s a legal battle we’ll surely fight down the line, our hands give us an easy cheat.

Is someone curious about the size of your bulge? Are you in an area where dropping your pants will get you arrested? Don’t worry! Just show them your hand. Show them that your ring finger is longer than your index finger. That should assure them that you’ve got a generous endowment. If they have a problem with it, they’ll have to take it up with biology.

I hope this tip helps men out there who want to flaunt their penis without taking their pants off. I’m sure it’ll help at office parties, bars, and nosy relatives. As a man, this is my way of doing my part and I feel I can do more than just write sexy stories.

Now this is not to say that simply having a longer ring finger makes you a well-endowed man. Again, nature is not that refined. Having a bigger penis is just one of the effects of getting a big dose of manly chemicals in the womb. There are other effects and not all of them are good.

According to the fine folks at www.artofmanliness.com, having a low digit ratio is also tied to higher rates of prostate cancer, higher rates of substance abuse, higher rates of infidelity and risk-taking, and higher rates of aggression. These are all things that can ruin your weekend and limit your ability to enjoy your big penis.

In the end, all we can do is take the good with the bad. I try to focus more on the good so to those men out there with a low digit ratio, do what you can to enjoy the benefits. Show your hands to those curious about the bulge in your pants. Show them that nature has been generous enough to endow you.

On a more personal note, I suppose it’s only fitting that I describe my own hands. I’ve measured them closely and I can confirm it. My ring finger is considerably longer than my index finger. Take from that what you will.

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Male Chest Hair: Sexy Or Not?

I originally had another topic I wanted to discuss today, but then something came up that just felt more pressing. By “came up,” I mean this literally just popped into my head last night while I was working on one of my novels. I admit I tend to think strange, twisted thoughts after a certain hour of the night. A lack of sleep and a couple glasses of whiskey will do that to a man, especially if he thinks a lot about romance/erotica.

However it came to me, it’s something that needs further contemplation. It has to do with a very specific trait pertaining to male sexuality and no, it has nothing to do with the size of certain organs. It has to do with something that we, as a society, can’t seem to decide whether is sexy. So for your consideration, here is the burning question I have to ask.

Is chest hair on a man considered sexy?

It may seem like a trivial detail. There are far more relevant traits and behaviors that improve a man’s sex appeal. We can cook, dance, sing, fight, play sports, play instruments, and shave our asses on a dare. Those are all perfectly valid mechanisms for moistening the panties of women and/or gay men, but what about chest hair?

This isn’t just relevant to my work as an erotica/romance writer where I have to be exceedingly graphic about all those sexy attributes that make a male character want to ditch his shirt. It’s also personal. I come from a family where most, if not all, of the men have a modest to abundant amount of chest hair. For the women in my life, present and future, that makes this somewhat pressing for me.

Yes, I do have chest hair. I’ve actually had some amount of chest hair since I was 19-years-old. I’m won’t I was the first guy in high school to get chest hair, but I’m fairy confident that I was in the top ten percentile. Over time, the amount of chest hair has grown. I’ve never shaved it, nor have I felt inclined to do so, but I find myself asking should I?

It’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer. Chest hair on men is one of those oddly neutral features. Men can have chest hair and be sexy. Men can be as waxed as a newly-minted Ferrari and be just as sexy. Women and gay men in general don’t seem to care either way.

Despite this, the issue of male grooming is still an ongoing discussion. There are no shortage of products and tips for men seeking to shave their chest. Sure, the discussions aren’t as heated as those surrounding pubic hair, but it’s one of those discussions that nobody seems to finish.

We can joke all we want about pubic hair. I’m sure I’ll do a post about that at some point and I doubt that post will be SFW, but chest hair should be less taboo because genitals aren’t involved. Even so, it’s still a topic we refuse to take seriously.

In fact, the closest that recent popular culture has come to addressing this issue was in an old episode of Seinfeld. It’s actually one of my favorite episodes of this show, among many, but it’s a nice metaphor for the issue at hand.

Jerry finds that some women do appreciate a clean-shaven chest, but as he so often does, he finds a way to complicate things. Kramer offers insight, albeit the eccentric type. It’s not entirely relevant, but it is funny.

As a rule of thumb, I think that when a topic finds its way into an episode of a sitcom, then it’s gotten to a point where we, as a society, are stuck on this issue. We can’t figure it out so we make a few jokes about it. It’s immature and goofy, but it can still be funny and that’s better than nothing.

This is also one of those issues where applying caveman logic just doesn’t seem to work. Body hair isn’t so much an integral part of our biological wiring as it is a holdover from our hairy ancestors. For a time, hair had its uses. It provided insulation from cold nights on the savanna. As conditions changed and evolution responded, this just wasn’t necessary anymore.

As a result, evolution basically stopped giving a shit about body hair. It didn’t do a way with it. Evolution is not that efficient. It can be downright eccentric though. Humans are unique in that they’re one of the few primates that lost most of their body hair and science isn’t quite sure why, but there are a few theories.

Whichever theory proves correct, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re still stuck with body hair to some extent. Evolution is basically taking the stance of a dismissive teenager going, “Sure. You want to keep it? You want to ditch it? Do whatever the hell you want.”

That makes for some frustration, but at least it leaves men a bit of flexibility. Hair isn’t like a limb. Cut it off and it grows back. If one lover hates chest hair, you can shave it off and not worry about missing out on lovers who prefer it. As a man, I appreciate and value flexibility in my personal grooming, but I’m still somewhat torn here.

So for the ladies and gay men out there, what say you? Is chest hair sexy? Is a lack of it sexier? Under what circumstances is it sexy? At what point does it cease being sexy? As an erotica/romance writer, I really need to know these things. Any help that anyone could offer on this issue would be greatly appreciated.

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The Moments I Feel Sexy As A Man

People make a big fucking deal about it when a woman decides to be sexy. For reasons that our prudish, uneducated, superstitious ancestors have cursed us with, we’re immediately aghast when a woman dares show a significant amount of cleavage, mid-drift, or ass outlines. We’re still at an immature stage of our development as a civilization where the sight of a pair of tits is enough to stop traffic.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love and appreciate any and all women who decide to be sexy. I encourage every woman who reads this blog or my books to be as sexy as you damn well please. The world will be a better place because of it.

However, I’m also of the opinion that men can be sexy too. I’m also of the opinion that both genders have an equal right to be sexy. Whether you’re gay, straight, bi, or something else altogether, you should take some time to act, feel, or be sexy. You may not always have a lover to do it with, but sometimes just being sexy on your own is good enough.

For me, it kind of comes with the territory. When you’re constantly conjuring new plots for erotica/romance novels, you can’t help but get into a certain mindset. Since our caveman brains are so crude, it tends to be a side-effect of sorts. You contemplate sexy stories so you feel inclined to act sexy. It’s too damn logical.

For a man, I think it’s a bit harder to be sexy. We don’t have boobs and that immediately puts us at a disadvantage. However, we men do have assets. We do have quirks that make us feel like we’re James Bond in a speedo. They’re different for every man, but I’d like to share a few moments where I’m at my sexiest. If you don’t have a spare pair of panties handy, you may want to skip this.

One: When I Lay In Bed Naked After A Long Hard Day

This one should come as no surprise to anyone who follows this blog. I sleep naked. I enjoy sleeping naked. I encourage everyone, male or female, to sleep naked if it’s an option to them.

It’s not just good for the body and the soul. Laying naked under the sheets, you feel like you’ve returned to a more primal state. You’ve completed the hunt. You’ve done your tribe proud for the day. Now, you celebrate by enjoying a well-deserved rest.

Two: When I Put On A Suit And Tie

As a kid, I didn’t like wearing fancy clothes. They were itchy, cumbersome, and my parents always got upset when I spilled hot sauce on it. That’s to be expected. When you’re a kid, you don’t think about being sexy. You just think about candy, cartoons, and avoiding homework.

As an adult, I’ve grown quite fond of men’s fashion. I’ve found that when I put on a suit, even if it’s a cheap suit I bought from Walmart, I feel pretty damn sexy. I stand in front of the mirror, look at myself, and think, “Damn! Now that’s a guy who will get shit done.”

It helps that I look damn good in a suit as well. I know this because others who aren’t relatives have told me as such. Women definitely appreciate it more. They treat you very differently when you walk into a restaurant wearing a suit compared to jeans and a T-shirt I haven’t washed in three weeks. It doesn’t just show you take care of yourself. It shows you want the world to know how goddamn sexy you are.

Three: When I Finish A Novel

This one is specific to me, an aspiring erotica/romance writer. It has nothing to do with my physical appearance. It doesn’t even have anything to do with what I’m wearing or not wearing. It’s just one of those powerful moments that is unique to me.

When I finished my first major book, “Skin Deep,” I felt like I could get a date with Jennifer Lawrence. I felt like I really accomplished something. I completed a piece of art that I put a lot of heart and soul into. I contributed to the world of sexiness by telling a damn sexy story. To say I had a little swagger in my step would’ve been a gross understatement.

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Four: When I’m Exercising Or Finish Exercising

I don’t think this needs much explanation. It actually wasn’t until my late 20s that I began exercising regularly. Before that, I had a pretty unhealthy, pretty unsexy lifestyle. I avoided exercise whenever I could. I ate like I was still in college.

I eventually realized that this was not a healthy way to live my life. As such, I began eating a little better and working out. At first, it was a chore. I did it only because I had to or because I basically pushed myself to do it. Well, it turns out there was another reward that I didn’t expect.

Getting all hot and sweat, pushing my body and muscles to their limit, makes me feel sexy as hell. It makes my muscles bulge. It makes my skin glow. It makes me feel energized, like I could wrestle a bear and sing Metallica songs every step of the way. I may be dirty, disheveled, and smelly, but I feel like I maximize my manliness.

Five: When I Win An Argument Against An Asshole

In general, I try to avoid meaningless arguments. I’ve learned over the years that some things just aren’t worth arguing about because some people have their heads too far up their asses to see they’re wrong. I’ve been among those people. I admit, I’ve been laughably wrong at times and that’s not a good feeling.

However, on those rare occasions when I know I’m right and there’s an asshole on the other end, I make it a point to expose the bullshit. When I do, I can’t help but feel a little extra swagger. We live in a world where truth and honesty are at a premium. That makes them precious to both men and women alike. Possessing something that is precious can be damn sexy. Just ask any man who has a Lamborghini.

These are just some of the moments where I’m at my most sexy. These are the moments in which women have the best chance at seeing just how great Jack Fisher can be as a man, a lover, an erotica/romance writer, and everything in between. These moments can be fleeting, but they’re worth pursuing and cherishing at every turn.

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