I’m So Sexy

I like to fuck. I don’t see it as my fault that I’m packaged to find it easy to do that—for men to readily accommodate me.

I can feel the student guide, Tim, tremble as I touch him on the arm to stop his progress so that he can explain to me what is going on in one of the labs below. He turns, sweeps strands of straight, golden-blond-dyed hair out of his face, and smiles a shy smile for me. I can tell from that and his trembling that I can have him. In fact, just from the way he made sure I knew he was twenty, a college senior, I knew he was available.

He wouldn’t be my first choice, really. But I’m just visiting and he is obviously available and willing. I’m not sure I feel energetic enough to put the effort into acquiring better.

I’ve found I can have almost any man—and woman too, if I was so inclined—with them pursing me rather than the other way around. It’s just the way it is. A science colleague and lover once told me that, in addition to the look of me, it was pheromones—something I exuded that made others want me. I scoffed, but he claimed to be serious, and it certainly worked with him.

Tim answers with surprise. “I understand you’ve devised the Tristan Variation, which uses. . . .” Rather than listen to him rattle off what I already knew so well, being the “Tristan” of that variation, I concentrate on his expression, which is as much one of admiration—almost worship—as surprise. He seems to realize that I’m not really listening to what he says but am concentrating on him—personally. I give him that special smile, and he melts into the walkway. This is going to be very easy. I hadn’t wanted him at the start; he was a bit too effeminate for me. Now, feeling myself harden, I do.