The Problem with Beautiful Men

I once fucked a beautiful man. Actually, I fucked him 4 times: twice in my bed, once in his, and once in the back of my car outside a pub (our first date). 

I didn’t know bodies could be that firm, that sculpted, in real life before fucking that beautiful man. His had been honed lean by semi-pro football, PE teaching, and fucking other beautiful people. He had that chiseled face that still managed to seem boyish and full of charm. I remember tracing a finger across his beautiful collarbone and down his bicep. I regarded his virgin white-blonde haircut with androgynous envy.  

The problem with fucking a beautiful man was that he fucked like a beautiful man. He fucked like a man who didn’t have to try. He fucked like you should be grateful for having the opportunity to fuck him. He fucked like he was in awe of himself. When he drew his cock back I could tell he was looking at it, rather than me. He didn’t once touch my clit. Not even once. The arrogance of beautiful men tells them that being fucked with their beautiful dick is all the pleasure a woman needs and they believe it. 

The problem with fucking a beautiful man was that you felt lucky. That’s why I fucked that beautiful man 4 times; you feel as though you shouldn’t waste the opportunity. You hope that the more you fuck them, the more you might become like them; beautiful, popular, desired. You hope that the more you fuck them, the more they’ll want to fuck you back. You hope that they begin to soften and unfurl and reveal. You hope that the beautiful man will want to date you, rather than simply fuck you. 

The problem with fucking a beautiful man was that he fucked well. It seems too cliche for a beautiful man to have a beautiful dick, but there it was. Long. Straight. Thick. Cut. Firm. Beautiful. His dick was so beautiful I squirted over it in celebration. Perhaps because he hadn’t been distracted by clits, that beautiful man sure could fuck. Or perhaps his beautiful dick simply fit inside me perfectly. Whether face to face, or from behind, or with me on top, his long, determined strokes hit the spot every single damn time. And his stamina, sharpened by his athleticism, meant that he hit the spot a lot, over and over. 

The problem with fucking a beautiful man was that I’m not beautiful. I was made to feel grateful but not at all worthy. On our first (only) date, he requested we move so we weren’t sitting so close. The problem with fucking a beautiful man is that they can’t be seen to fuck someone who’s not beautiful. The fucking was driven by fetish, his. I was his novelty. But a private one, a shameful one, one to be admired only in the back of darkened cars.

The problem was that I fucked a beautiful man not once, but 4 times. His problem was that his beauty was skin-deep.

A black and white close-up image of my breasts and upper stomach, dressed in a black lace body.

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