There was a man! He was big, hard-muscled, hairy, gorgeous. He had the perfect bad boy fuck-you sneer, except when he was being the sweet boy looking up through Princess Di lashes, all dewy and gooey and please-hold-me-Daddy. He had a cock a mile long, at least it felt a mile long when he was plowing your ass. He came like a volcano. There was a man.

I mean, a red-blooded numero uno mean bad ass motherfucker of a top man. His growl was legendary. His belt was well-oiled. His cock never needed Viagra, and the rail-spike unbelievable length of it jumped and hit his belly when he heard the sound of another man being smacked around. It jumped when he heard the rasping groan of a bottom man say, “please, sir. Please.” It started oozing pre-cum when he smelled the smell of man-sweat and motor oil and month-old gym socks. It shot buckets of hot ropy jis down the waiting throats and up the hot tight holes of many a drenched and heaving cum pig. And it splattered goblets all over his own canyon-cut pecs and abs, glistening droplets in his glorious blond chest fur, with the right magical top man’s fist embedded in his gaping greedy ass.

Oh, there was a man. A man who could take it like a man. A man who could take a bath-house full of hard aching cocks down his throat and up his chute and jerk off one in each hand and never lose his hard-on until the big man Daddy boss ordered him to come, and even then, it was a long time shrinking, and in its flaccid form was still the envy of  Syracuse, Santa Monica, and  Churchill Downs. His was a show-er and a grower. He could take ten pounds on each tit and  twenty on his balls and momma did that boy have rhythm. Hooded and shackled and cuffed and striped, he was the sexy Christ to swallow any centurion’s sword. He was the second coming and the third and the fourth, oh, Jesus, yes. Oh, man, was he.

He was the man every man wanted or every man wanted to be, and when he wanted, he could be the woman they had wet-dreams for. He was so much of a man he could tuck his cock between his legs and shimmy a pair of falsies in a push-up bra, and  have every straight man-tongue west of the Mississippi hanging out, following his sashaying pert bubble-butt behind down the garden path and back, all the way to perdition. His hair was platinum and his cheeks were baby smooth and his ruby lips were sexy pouty bee-stung perfection, and every man jack of a horny het bastard, from Texas Ranger to Roto-Rooter Man  to the pin-striped President of the Savings and Loan, every one a good Christian Republican would follow him home, even after he growled his Rock Hudson voice in their ear, “Do you know what you’re getting into, little man?” Because they did. Yes Sir. Please Sir. With his cock down their throats and his lipstick on their puckered waiting holes, they knew he was a man. And how he was. 

Oh, he was a man, a man’s man and a lady’s man, and the girls not only loved his dick, they loved watching him suck dick, and they got so hot watching him take it up the ass that they didn’t mind taking it up the ass, either, even if their juicy dick-loving pussies never got enough of that magnificent rod of steel. He was the kind of man who could make a woman’s pussy, ass, and mouth all go to war with each other, battling for which one would get the prize. And he was the cocksman who could make any girl come, even the frigid dried-up Miss Grundys who had never had a climax in their lives and never wanted to, before him. He could stay hard all night and fuck so thunderously that a hundred screaming orgasms and brains dribbled out on pillows were not unheard of; he was the kind of man who ought to have a warning label. He was a silver-tongued devil (oh Mama! His tongue!), a sweet-talking romancer slow-dancing his way into any bed he pleased, who not only had a girl in every port, but they knew about each other and were happy to share. He was a man of the world. He was a man with a mission, and if there was an unsucked cock or an empty hole of any size, shape or gender waiting desperately for fulfillment, he was the man of the hour. He was the man of the year. He was the Man.

And you know: every Tom of Finland leatherman, every video-streaming porn star, every GQ model, every gym bunny, every superhero in tights is but a pale shadow of him, a half-remembered daydream of desire no fictional creation could ever match. You see him when you close your eyes, one hand stroking. You hear his smoky baritone in your secret fantasies, saying oh, yeah, oh, baby, you know you want it, give Daddy what he needs, sugar.  You smell his aftershave, his soap and toothpaste on strangers in the train station and ache for someone you have never met.  He’s the one you caught a glimpse of on the airport escalator; he’s the one in the next building you stared at through slitted blinds. Secretly, you watched him from across the high-school gym, careful that he would never catch you looking, hoping that he would, hoping that you would see a hunger in his eyes to match your own. Always, always, he’s the one who doesn’t seem to know you exist.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. When you finally find him, you might discover that he doesn’t look anything like what you expected. He might be the living image of Charles Atlas’ 98-pound weakling. He might be dressed in polyester. He might, in fact, have love handles and a micro dick. It doesn’t matter. He the one who kisses you, and time stops. The other half of you. He’s the one for whom every lover before was merely practice and every lover after will just be to forget. He doesn’t have to be a sex god, because he’s the one who looks at you like you are.

He might not be yours forever. He might not even be yours for long. But he’s the one you will look at through the misted-over film of years and say, oh, him. Him. He was the Man.

And they don’t make ‘em like that anymore!