Warning: contains explicit sexual content, foul language and adult themes.

Dedication: Jaden Anderson who came up with the title!

Synopsis: Wining, Dining and Sex. What else do you need to know?

Wining, Dining and Sex: Prologue

I know it’s not very lady-like to say it, but I like sex. No, I love sex. My friends tell me I am a man in a woman’s body. But what can I say? I love the down and dirty, the horizontal boogey, doing the nasty, riding the pony, getting the nookie, the getting’ jiggy wit’ it.

There is no other time of my life that I feel so free. I am myself and no one else. There is no façade, or posturing, or striving to please. It’s just me and the man and that sinuous, muscular, hard, pulsing body. No words are needed. No excuses need be made. It’s just heavy breathing, sweaty bodies, rumpled sheets, and unhappy neighbors.

Needless to say, I have never been long between boyfriends.

I don’t like being alone.

Being alone allows much too much time to think. I feel useless, purposeless. Wrapped up in someone’s arms, moaning, writhing, sharing the most primal and carnal of acts, I don’t have time to think, to reason. I don’t like waiting for sexual oblivion.

I don’t like being alone.

The physical contact is how I “feel the love”. I don’t do that “I-only-fuck-my-boyfriend-on-the-weekends-after-my-homework-is-done”. I don’t hold out to make him do my will. He does my will because I “do” him good.

I have a three-step process for prospective partners, err, I mean, boyfriends.

1. Wining

2. Dining

3. Sex

Wining usual includes a fair bit of “whining” as well. Men bitching about how hard life is while I pretend to care. It’s incredible how quickly they forget about the woman they’re talking to when they blather. They go on and on about themselves and never once think to ask you how your day went. Fabulously. I still haven’t gotten laid because you haven’t shut your trap.

Anyway, step two, dining, includes a highly inebriated fellow and large quantities of food. Does he pay more attention to me or to the food? I look for the signs. Is he staring at my chest? Good. Did he make a move to be closer to me? Check please!

Then, of course, comes sex. This is always at his place. I hate doing laundry and there’s no way I’m messing up my sheets. If he can go longer than one round, I keep him around a while. If he can’t. I quietly slip away before morning. No harm, no foul.

This process has worked marvelously for me since the tender age of 18. You may call me a slut. Fine! I like it. Hell, I love it.

But one day, one man threw my "three steps" out the window. And that is where my story begins.