Donut Deployment

I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell lately. A few months without having sex with anyone but myself, especially now that things between me and X have cooled completely.

And, it seems, even a little bit of deprivation can do funny things to the senses. Like being on a diet – whenever I can’t indulge in, let’s say, donuts, it seems like I can pick up the scent of puffy rings of dough bobbing in vats of hot grease, at five o’clock in the morning, from the nearest Crispy Crème which is about two miles away.

Lying in bed, I can practically hear the oil sizzling. I imagine mounds of crème-filled delights being glazed and then double-glazed with sweet, sticky layers of sugary white icing and what it would be like to be shoving one in my mouth, plunging my tongue into the middle and sucking out all the warm custard inside.

Mmmmmmm. Then, I get up and have scrambled egg whites for breakfast.

In terms of sexual appetite, maybe it’s because I’m getting older. My rampaging hormones have laid a fuse straight from my brain to my pussy; the timer is counting down and sparks are sputtering.

My libido, like a desperate kidnapper, is holding my common sense hostage with a penis-shaped pistol to my head. Whole days go by when I can’t remember where I put my car keys or if I mailed the cable bill. Sitting at my computer, secret sex agents are lurking in the shadows of my imagination. They all have great abs and huge, glistening cocks.

If I don’t kill them, I’ll never get any work done.

I try to pay ransom with self-induced orgasms, delivered in the dark of night by fantasy lovers armed with Hitachi Magic Wands, silicone dildoes and plenty of lube – but it’s never enough. The terrorists want to see some action. They want to feel the earth move when the bomb finally detonates. Pretty soon, my common sense will be brain-washed, too. Dressed in combat fatigues and one of those cute commando berets with a strap-on slung low across my hips – that’s when the real mayhem begins.

Of course, being on the fringe of the adult industry adds to the tension. Just when I manage to reach hormonal détente, the ceasefire is interrupted with a blast of sex bomb pornography.

The other day, I was with my friend Tina Tyler, looking at photo sets from her solo male masturbation epic, “Handyman 2.”

Ten guys, all in great shape and hotter than hell, jacking off and talking to the camera as if it were a woman they’re dying to fuck. I’m lined up in front of the firing squad, so to speak, with no blindfold.

“Look at this one,” says Tina, her granny glasses perched on the end of her freckled nose. “That’s Johnny Castle – he’s new, but really fucking hot, eh? Look at that…” She runs her fingertip down the screen over a photo of his eight-pack and pecs chiseled out of solid muscle and smooth skin. His abs remind me of a big, tasty bear claw, sprinkled with sugar.

“That’s fucking amazing,” I agree.

In another photo, Tina points out Castle’s particularly large scrotum and how some women like that.

Aesthetically, it does set him apart from the other performers. I ponder for a moment, not having given much thought to scrotum size.

“I’m not sure if I’m into that so much,” I say. “But he has kind of a thug look – you know, that whole bad boy thing…”

She’s turned-on by each set of photos because she shot them and is proud of her still photography. Tina is a workaholic and an excellent director. Her keen eye is able to pick out what is characteristic of each model and then use it to the best advantage.

Me? I’m just looking and thinking and getting horny.

There’s Jack Lawrence, who has a reputation for being the best pussy-eater in the business. He knows just how to pose, with his face turned slightly downwards, pouty smile and big, hazel eyes that say, “I’ve been a very naughty boy.” His bulging, vein-y dick is so big; he needs two hands to “jack” off with. If he were a donut, he’d be a glazed twist. Mmmm, yummy.

We both agree Cheyne Collins is a little bit thick; Tina explains he’s just back from vacation and hasn’t worked out in a few weeks.
But I kind of like that; much better than being too lean. There’s a momentary mind flash of Collins between my thighs with me having all that to hold on to. He’s a cinnamon roll; no doubt about it. Plus, he has very pretty eyes.

Then, Tina pulls up the file on Herschel Savage. He’s a classic star that’s been around since the 70s, handsome and charismatic.

Hersch’s segment was set up as a business man coming home from work to his video-camera wielding wife. Dressed in business clothes, he’s never fully naked throughout the whole scene.

But something about the contrast between the crisp linen shirt with his erection straight up out of the open fly of his dress slacks makes the scenario even hotter. More than that, it’s his facial expression.
“Goddamn,” I tell Tina. “Herschel looks fucking awesome!”

Staring straight into the camera; the look on his face, simply put, is just plain nasty. His eyes, half-closed and sensuous, one half of his upper lip curled up in a snarl – he is the portrait of a grown man, hard and hot, that would fuck you like a wild animal if you let him anywhere near you.
“Yeah? Doesn’t he?” she says. “He was so horny through the whole shoot…”

With his experience, Herschel is a pro. He knows how to unleash raw sexual heat and gets it on the video. Using all his charms to flirt with the camera, he knows it’s the small details that make a big difference. And that’s something younger guys sometimes don’t understand.
He may be an old-fashioned, but he’s loaded with delicious spices.

Of course, one of the advantages to being an older woman is there is a larger and larger pool of young hotties to choose from. And my lust is not always so hardcore or limited to porn stars.

At my day gig, there’s a young guy. Twenty-three, blonde, built, from the South, fresh out of the military and loaded with that sort of sweet, down-home hospitality. And he’s a terrible tease, made even more terrible because he seems nearly oblivious to it. Like a big, ten-month old puppy that keeps trying to hump your leg.

So obvious, you want to laugh; wondering if it’s possible for even a young man to be so boyishly naïve – feeding you some ridiculous line while he’s batting his big, blue eyes at you with a goofy smile. And you’d swallow, hook and sinker, despite yourself.

He has no idea what was going on in my head; about the smoldering fuse or the drip-drip-drip of Chinese water torture games that leave me soaking wet.

One day, I was wearing a new pair of jeans and a couple of the girls were commenting on them. Jumping into the conversation uninvited, he stopped to ask what we were talking about.

“We were just checking out Joanne’s pants,” one girl replied.

“Really? I check out Joanne’s pants almost everyday,” he chimed.

I felt myself blush and my ears starting to ring. Or maybe that noise was the alarm bell going off in my head, warning my common sense that rampant terrorist hormones had escaped and were on the loose. Stunned and immobilized, all I could do was stand there like an idiot, as he be-bopped out of the room.

Sometimes when he walks by I can smell, from somewhere off in the distance, fresh donuts being scooped out of a deep fryer into wire baskets. I imagine myself rolling around in a cloud of powdered sugar.
And then I imagine him licking it all off of me.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s my private paratrooper. Laughing, he flirts with danger and is able to disarm even the most diabolical libido with his bare hands. In my fantasy, he’s covered in grime and sweat, wearing torn-up camis and sporting a big gun. He’s kicking in the door of the room where the terrorists are holding me prisoner.

Help me, baby! I need help!

One of these days, I’m going to ask him if he likes chocolate or jelly-filled, with or without sprinkles.

(Tina Tyler's "Handyman 1-3" is available at the Mercenary website. Also, check her other series for Mercenary Pictures, "Superwhores," "Black Moon Rising," "Fresh Out The Box" and "Ironhead." )