Three Men Who Get a Lot of Pussy

Now the four naked women rearrange themselves, all with their arms around him, pressing their breasts into his body, looking up eagerly into his face. His little dick begins to stiffen.

"Are you sure four will be enough, Mister Jackson?" the attendant asks.

He nods happily, forgetting for a moment to keep his lips shut.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

We worry that some readers will accuse us of a bait-and-switch when we introduce Blake S. White, pastor of the First (and only) Southern Baptist Church of Ulysses, Montana, but hear us out:

Sure, Blake only fucks one woman, but he fucks her constantly. They fuck far more often than most married couples because he's just randy as all hell and his wife — we kid you not, her name really is Candy — is (at the very least) happy to perform what she sees (or justifies) as the duties of a Christian wife. She performs them to the best of her ability, and, more frequently than most husbands, Blake does his best to make sure she enjoys them too.

This is one of the easiest ways to get a lot of pussy. Tried and true. That's why most men eventually go this route, although usually not putting as much work into it as Blake. Sure, it can be boring sometimes, but at least there are no long droughts, and if a man can find a good woman and persuade her that she really wants to keep him, they sometimes get to know each other well and do things that rarely happen in less committed relationships. Some things get better with practice, and some are much better when a woman means them.

In fact, if you opened the door of the nightstand on Blake's side of the bed and looked around at the contents, the word "Christian" would not immediately spring to mind. They didn't have faux fur in the 1950s!

Psychologically and emotionally, Blake is pretty much a normal wholesome guy. He loves his wife and knows she's too good for him — she's one of the prettiest women in their town, actually, and she keeps herself in good shape for her age, while Blake had a "dad bod" before he was even a dad. He loves their four children more than anything. He thinks of himself as a good person, a patriot who served his country as a chaplain, a hard working man, a good husband and father. Yes, a sinner saved by grace alone, but a man who tries to follow the Lord.

Barely even aware of most of the things he can't afford to do, he's content with who he is and the way his life is unfolding...

... probably in no small part because he has a fairly hot wife who sincerely loves and respects him and she fucks him, simultaneously submissive and eager, nearly every night, often in the morning, sometimes even in the afternoon.

You can't say that's not a lot of pussy.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Wearing a white bathrobe and boots, Dick greets Lon at the door, offering a firm handshake. Lon looks up at him, involuntarily showing how intimidated he is.

Because Dick is a big, big, man.

"Come on in. That's your Camaro in my driveway?"

He speaks with the kind of bone-rattling oktavist voice you would expect a man his size to have, and the kind of formal good-cheer that would precede a brutal ass-beating.

"Yes, I, um...."

"It's a nice car," Dick says, closing the door as Lon finally steps inside. "How long have you been fucking my wife?"

"What?"

Lon's head turns toward Dick just in time to receive a shockingly hard open-hand smack square on his cheek.

Richard Hardman has been known as "Big Dick" since his childhood, and for several reasons:

1) He's big. Six feet six inches tall with the brutal body of a man who works out for strength and power rather than for looks, he intimidates nearly everyone who sees him — and usually they look two or three times before they believe their eyes.

2) Known for aggression and bluntness, he's not the kind of guy you want to ask something like, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" But if you do, you'll quickly find out that he's a big dick.

3) Though it's not quite what you see in your pornos, an impressively long and even more impressively thick pendulum swings between his legs. In the Marines, they nicknamed him "Kanamara," Japanese for "iron dick," and his men still call him that.

To see a man like that smack someone, or even merely to hear it, is pretty shocking. It's literally like an adult smacking a child.

Lon stumbles backwards, just barely managing not to fall down, but he doesn't recover in time to avoid a brutal kick to his groin.

Now he falls forward, catching himself with his hands.

"Being such a large man," Dick squats down to speak to Lon as he throws up on the carpet, "I have to wear bespoke clothing. But it enables me to craft a personal style, and I'm particularly proud of my boots. Cap-toe oxfords, full-grain leather tops, dressy enough for most occasions, cushy midsoles for comfort, Vibram outsoles rugged and tough enough for most adventures. And of course steel toes, which come in handy when I have to kick the shit out of someone."

"I'm sorry, mister."

"I imagine so, but at least take a moment to appreciate my fucking boots."

Then Dick stands back up and kicks Lon in the kidney so hard that it flips him over. He's unconscious before he hits the floor.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

Blake grew up nicknamed Fatty McFatface, which sounded rather like his actual name and described him fairly accurately. He was a hopeless loser, as ugly as he was fat, bad at sports, below average grades, abused at home and bullied at school, ashamed of everything about himself. Even the girls bullied Fatty. He hadn't committed suicide only because he didn't know how to get or use a gun and was too cowardly to do it any other way.

His parents had never married. His dad ran a trailer park outside of town and kept having kids with women who struggled to make rent.

His mother was one of them. Fatter even than Blake, she taught him that sex was sinful and disgusting, an offense against God and women. Men wanted it because they were sinful and disgusting, and women who seemed to want it were actually just lonely, weak, confused sluts, probably on their way to hell. No woman in her right mind would ever want such a thing, although perhaps they might let a man do it sometimes, just to be nice, or out of sheer desperation to have their bills paid.

But one of his mom's bill-payers was a white man people called "Ace" who lived with them from Blake's sixth through tenth grades, so long that Blake almost thought of him as a step-father.

Ace had one of the all-time great porn collections. Thousands of hours of vintage pornos transferred from video to digital storage, thousands more downloaded from the internet, decades of issues of pornographic magazines both famous and obscure, American and foreign, and posters and books and calendars and playing cards and coffee mugs and keychains and dice and decorative figurines. He had pornography from all over the world, reproductions of pornographic statues from ancient cultures, pornographic silent films, and a multiracial collection of sex dolls.

At first Blake had been merely curious. It was interesting to see women's breasts, and no matter how many pictures of vaginas he saw, they remained a mystery to him. A lot of details he didn't understand, and for a very long time he wasn't even sure where the hole was.

Of course his mom sometimes caught him with Ace's porn, but she didn't really try to keep him out of it.

"You're just a boy," she'd sneer. "Like all the others. Go on. But don't ever touch me again with those filthy, disgusting hands."

Blake wasn't clever enough to wonder why she let John touch her.

"Don't listen to her, kid," Ace would assure him. "Ain't nothing on earth wrong with it. Until you get a girl to do it with you, you gotta beat it yourself."

Beat it? Blake wondered.

Then puberty hit him like a damn train. What had been merely curiosity became an overwhelming desire.

He discovered that he wanted all that disgustingness, wanted it bad. More disgusting and horrible than his mother would ever imagine, his body ached with it. His mind became almost unable to think of anything else. He probably still holds the records for masturbation, whether measured by the number of times performing it or the number of hours engaged in it.

But deep in his bones and guts sat the painful knowledge that he was never, ever going to get it for real. Even the ugliest, loneliest girl was not going to spread her legs for him.

When Ace finally left his mom, taking all that porn with him, Blake just dropped out of school and moved into a van to get away from her too. He worked at a truck stop for several years, adding smoking and drinking habits to go along with masturbation.

He showered in the truck stop during slow hours, using personal hygiene products left behind by the customers. He often ate for free from the sandwich shop, or whatever had expired.

Blake began to feel good about himself because he was good at that job. His boss appreciated him, his coworkers respected him, and he had (by his standards at that time) plenty of money.

Then the day that changed his life.

A customer asked if he was saved.

"Saved from what?" Blake asked, apparently the last person in flyover country who didn't know what that meant.

"Why, from hell," the customer said. He was a tall skinny black guy with a big wavering Adam's apple, an insecure smile, and excessively sincere eyes.

"I don't know," Blake said.

"Would you like to be?"

"Well, I've got a lot of customers to deal with right now."

"That's fine. Why don't you come see us at church this Sunday?"

"You want me to come to your church?" Blake asked. The idea that anyone really wanted to include him in something seemed suspicious.

"Well, sure."

So he went. He went to Wal-Mart, got himself relatively good-looking new clothes, and showed up at church the following Sunday, just as clean as he could get himself.

His town was just big enough to have one black church, and here Blake S. White, right there in it. The man with the big Adam's apple, Deacon Glenn, took Blake under his wing, and everyone welcomed him. After the service, Deacon Glenn invited him to dinner, and Blake learned that even the worst vegetables can taste good, if you add enough salt and fry the hell out of them in butter.

Pretty soon he was playing in their softball league. They didn't keep stats but Blakee batted approximately .000 and grounded into more double-plays than a charitable narrator would mention. However, he managed to get walked with the bases loaded in the ninth inning of a tie game, and his teammates carried him off the field.

And before long, sure enough, he was saved.

With their encouragement, he got his GED and started taking classes at Prairie Baptist Bible College.

That's enough of that. You can guess how it went. His acne cleared up, he found himself in possession of a tear-jerking testimony, he discovered a talent for delivering a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon, and so on.

Pretty soon, there was Candy. He thought he was the luckiest guy in the world, and maybe he was.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

As John remembers it, he lived in Normal Rockwell paintings until he was twelve. Then his dad (who was over seventy) died, his mom sent him to boarding school and spent the rest of her life playing with pretty boys on island beaches.

John did well enough in school to get promoted from grade to grade and finally graduated. He made friends exclusively with the bad kids, rich and angry like himself, scornful of the bourgeois ambitions surrounding them.

When he turned eighteen, he took over his trust from his mom. He put her on an allowance, told her to fuck off, and started blowing his money.

Being shy, he'd never done well with girls, but once had sports cars, he found that pretty girls wanted to ride them; once he had champagne, he found that pretty girls wanted to drink it; once he had Italian suits, pretty girls wanted to put their hands on his body.

To John, the original appeal of prostitution was what he saw as its honesty. He'd learned to see everything, including sexuality, through the lens of a certain kind of economic thought. People maximized utility. Love, ethics, patriotism, anything like that was either idiocy or a synonym for maximizing utility.

He managed to be honest about his beliefs with one woman, one time, on a Valentine's Day date. A handsome celebrity had been busted for soliciting prostitution.

"Why would a man like that want a prostitute?" his date had spat.

"Aren't all heterosexual relationships prostitution?" John asked.

"What? No. What do you mean?"

"Like this. Would you be here with me now if I weren't rich?"

"But that's not.... Do you think I'm the same as a prostitute?"

"Don't take it personally. All women are."

"No, we're not. It is personal. What are you saying? Do you think you are paying me to do something?"

John went silent. She was loud, indignant, and he could barely bring himself to talk to a woman in a good mood.

"No, John. Talk to me. Tell me the truth. Do you think that I am the same as a prostitute?"

He nodded.

"If we're being honest, why am I buying dinner?"

"I thought it was because you liked me."

"Well I do, but what difference does that make?"

"If you buy me dinner because you like me, and I have sex with you because I like you...."

"What difference does 'liking' make?"

"What difference does it make?"

She said some other stuff before she walked out, but it didn't matter to him. He went home, composed an email, and sent it to all the women he saw regularly.

"Happy Valentine's Day," the subject line read. "You are all prostitutes," the first line informed them. He told them he'd been spending time with prostitutes he'd met online, comparing how they treated him to how his dates treated him, and the only significant differences he could see were that the prostitutes were both nicer to him and more honest.

"So from now on," he wrote, "we're going to have honest relationships. I'm sick of these lies about love and so on. I have something you want, you have something I want, we can make an honest trade or we can leave each other alone."

It turned out not very many of those women were interested in honest trades.

One of his old friends from school tried to reason with him. "If you really feel this way, why are you even in America?" she asked him. "You can get better deals in other countries."

That was a good point. It had been a failure of imagination on his part.

Now he can't even remember all the countries he's visited over the years. He stays in expensive hotels, enjoys expensive food and expensive drinks, wears expensive clothes, gets driven around in expensive cars, gets high on expensive drugs, and fucks lots and lots of expensive pussy.

It's easy to envy John, for now at least, and interesting to reflect that he spends so much of his time contemplating suicide and marriage. As for marriage, well, he's a little better-looking now — plastic surgeons and dentists have fixed what they could fix, image and fashion consultants have done what they could do — and a little smarter, and travel has made him a little classier, but he knows that no woman would want to marry him for anything but the money, so what would be the fucking point?

Still, he thinks about it.

As for suicide, well, he assumes that will happen someday, but he might as well fuck a few more whores first.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

So who do we have to thank for giving us Richard "Big Dick" "Kanamara" Hardman?

First, his biological father, a strongman competitor from (of course) Iceland, for raping a young Samoan woman early one morning when they were alone in a gym.

Next, that young woman's brothers, cousins, and uncles, who actually owned that gym — it was one way of investing the money that several of them had made playing professional American football. They began by persuading the daddy to leave the country forever, and continued by persuading the young woman to deliver the baby and give it up for adoption. (They were devout Mormons.)

Finally, his adoptive parents were two amazing individuals. His father, a retired Marine on his second attempt at having a family, owned a martial arts gym and a Jeep customization shop, but he hunted and fished so much that they needed three freezers to keep all the meat.

His mother, trained as an anthropologist, had studied masculinity and violence, and not as critically as you might expect. When enemies at her university forced her out, she opened a "natural foods" shop, selling food to hippies. Her hobbies included gardening, foraging, preserving, and homemade cooking. They had a fairly nice place in Duluth, but they also had a cabin on a lake about two hours outside of town, to which they went as often as possible.

No one grew up eating better than Richard Hardman. In fact, his mom even paid (at various times) about two dozen women to sell her their breast milk, and she kept giving it to Richard as long as he wanted it, so he wasn't fully weaned until thirty months.

Skeptical would be a euphemistic way of describing their attitudes toward American public education, so they homeschooled Richard, believing that he would be better socialized by activities — so he played all the sports and did all the activities, starting swimming on his first birthday, tumbling on his second, riding a bike at three, t-ball and soccer at four, graduating to Little League and Pop Warner and gymnastics (and Cub Scouts) at five, then to karate and taekwondo (and guitar lessons) at six, dance (and voice) lessons at seven, Brazilian jiu-jitsu and wrestling at eight, boxing and Muay Thai at nine. He was pretty good at most sports, but he really excelled at the fighting ones. And as kids who crossed him found out, he was even better when there were no rules.

A devilishly handsome boy who wasn't one tiny little bit better than he absolutely had to be, Richard got better as he grew up at not getting caught doing bad things, or getting away with them if he did get caught. He was brilliantly manipulative, so people liked and trusted him, and forgave him readily, but secretly he was ruthlessly ambitious and shockingly cruel. His parents saw what was happening, but felt helpless to do anything about it — especially since, in their own secret hearts, they were proud of him exactly the way he was. When he had a girl (or girls) in his bedroom, they figured it was good for him.

They were loving, attentive parents: dad always pushed him to be better, work harder, never give up, teaching him how to survive outdoors, use tools, win a fight, pump iron, anything he might need to know to be a man, and mom always provided a safe and unconditionally loving refuge from the challenges of the masculine world.

He grew into a star athlete, an Eagle Scout, and straight-A student in high school. Then he played football at a military academy, breaking some of their weightlifting records and impressing everyone who knew him. He enjoyed studying history, political science, and anthropology, and he loved martial arts, but he applied his considerable intelligence and charisma primarily to the problems of military science and leadership.

He got off to an early start reproductively, marrying twice and divorcing twice, having six kids with four different women by the time he finished college. You can infer what lessons he learned from those experiences.

As an officer in the Marines, the kind of man who loves war and excels at it, he received a below-the-zone promotion (despite his "interesting" family life) for some really amazingly good work, continually impressing the right people and making the right connections, enabling him to found a private military corporation, capitalized, you might say, by the Lockheed Grumman Dynamics corporation, headquartered in the Pentagon.