I was spat out by a She-Wolf. I sit in this dilapidated manor, the Lupercal. Vines curl their way up Corinthian columns. Sweet palms sway on the sides. Inside it is dark, and antebellum culture clashes with modern taste. I have deep purple, gold and green lights strewn about, wrapping around marble busts of ancient Ciceros and Forrests. Books and panties lay intermittently on the floor, chairs, couches or desks; every now and then one can find a torn strip of lingerie used as a bookmark in a tome of Gibbon or an art-book of Beksinski; tell-tale signs of the lazy aristocrat, enjoying her numbered born days before he’s gone forever.

The Lupercal served as my wicked den of vice and sin. In the beds, on the couches, under the desks, up against the walls, up against the tall windows, on the balconies. Exemplum licentiae sum. I’d make Julia blush. I’m pretty enough that I can usually have my pick of partners. Honestly, I prefer black men. When pickings are slim, maybe the odd autistic white boy with a nasally voice, who just so happened to come out with a fat cock. They’re one in a million. I am like Byron, drunkenly whoring through the canals of Venice, without a Shelley to pry me from an orgy-induced early grave. Often I have to tie back my long cavalier locks so that they don’t impede when at work on my knees. Though just as well, I have to untie it once again so that my lover(s) may enjoy pulling at it when behind me.

It’s odd to think that in these same rooms, when I was a child and my parents were alive, I suffered things that I find difficult to admit, and I’m sure you’re well aware by now that I’m hardly bashful. I was beaten viciously by my mother; I really don’t remember some things, I might’ve subconsciously blocked it out. Maybe those things are why I’m like this now. When a lover has me stripped, bent over some desk where he can control me as he pleases, it’s only then that my heart sings. Like the Nietzschean thing. Every spank is affirmation. Every pull of my hair, every time he pries the word “daddy” from my lips I get to take one step north from this place south of Heaven, and it feels as if I’m walking atop the waters of the swamps of Acheron, where I once had to wade through that bilge and grime, now my nose turned up to the sweet smell of providence.

I also enjoy a decent Internet following from posting nude or lewd pictures of myself. I get long winded diatribes from men 20 years older than me about this or that, with a confidence that I know would shatter at first contact if only the gentlest breath fell from my soft, pink lips onto their fat necks. It’s kind of flattering, I guess; the attention is nice. I do enjoy getting pictures from guys who’ve actually got big dicks, though. Often one can find me lounging on a Grecian bed, beneath the fine sheets hanging above, scrolling through my phone, sometimes a hand slipped down my pants to enjoy myself. I live like a Southern Cleopatra. I’ve had lovers show me off before; once a few girls were astounded at pictures of my figure, one remarking that there’s no way a guy had such an ass.

I guess I’m not too far off from my mother in some ways. In the sense that I always crave my high, I just never got into cocaine. Closest I got was when my dad caught her huffing it off their bathroom counter while she was pregnant. And that one Johnny Cash song I like. But I’m not different, just a junkie for a different high. When I’m on my knees or laid down on my back, looking up at a guy like he’s God, it makes my heart race and makes me finally really feel alive. Whether parting my legs or parting my lips, my eyes roll back, my spine arches, and my body shakes. I’m overdosing, and it feels amazing.