Letter From Milo: Ladies Man

March 8th, 2020

I hate to brag, but I’m a real pussy magnet. Even though I’m past middle age, balding, cranky and prone to farting at inappropriate times, I still have equipment that Man ‘o War would envy. Other than that, I’m just a regular guy.

Now, a lot of you may think that being a pussy magnet is all fun and games — lolling around on an oversize bed, wearing silk pajamas, sipping fine brandy, surrounded by adoring women eager to satisfy your every whim. Although in many cases – including mine – that is absolutely true, sometimes being a pussy magnet is just plain hard work.

Take a former acquaintance of mine named Charles. I used to run into him on the North Side Gigolo Circuit. I didn’t know him well. In fact, the only thing I knew about him was that he was the hardest working pussy magnet I ever met. He was the James Brown of pussy magnets. When Charles wanted to get laid he would walk into a bar and hit on every woman in the place. He had no shame, no technique and no taste. If there were a hundred women in the joint he would approach them all and ask each one if they wanted to go home with him. It didn’t matter how often he was turned down, laughed at, ignored or had drinks thrown in his face. His skin was as thick as a water buffalo’s hide. He was as single minded as a junkie, moving from woman to woman until, invariably, he found one who said “Yes.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t the approach that legendary pussy magnets like Errol Flynn, Warren Beatty or the immortal Porfirio Rubirosa would have used, but it worked for Charles. I haven’t seen Charles in more than 20 years. Word on the street is that he found Jesus and now chases salvation with the same fervor he once chased pussy.

I never had a problem hooking up, as the young ‘uns say. I would stroll into a fine watering hole and in 15 minutes I would walk out with two or three of the best looking women in the place. We would then retire to my bachelor pad where we would frolic on an epic scale, engaging in debauchery that would have boggled the mind of the Marquis De Sade.

People often confuse pussy magnets and gigolos. The simplest way to explain it is that pussy magnets fuck for fun, gigolos fuck for money.

I once considered becoming a gigolo. With my devastatingly good looks and awesome God-given physical attributes I would have been a natural. Women would have lined up to have mind-blowing sex with me. As a young man growing up in Gary, Indiana, I knew that I would eventually be an extremely handsome man. I also knew that my looks would be my ticket to fame and fortune. After considering my career options at the time – grave digger, washroom attendant, school janitor, ice cream truck driver or gigolo – I decided the latter was the way to go.

I had always imagined gigolos to be glamorous, suave, polished men who escorted wealthy, older, but still attractive women to theaters, fine restaurants and glittering social events. And after the play, restaurant or party these graceful, refined men would take their escorts to a luxurious penthouse or fine hotel and give them a thorough, professional-grade fucking, leaving them limp and exhausted, with barely enough energy left to write out a handsome check. Sounded real good to me.

As soon as I had settled on my life’s work, I decided I needed to get in a little practice. Unfortunately, there was a severe shortage of wealthy, older, but still attractive women in Gary at that time. In fact, I doubt there was a woman in the entire county who fit that description. I had no choice but to put my gigolo aspirations on indefinite hold.

Like most kids who never realize their childhood dreams of becoming cops, firemen, or cowboys, I never became a gigolo. Life intervened. Something always got in the way. There was the military and college. Later, there were drugs, booze and rock ‘n roll. I was always a lazy bastard (see my earlier post about the Bum Gene), and, from what I understand, being a gigolo can be time-consuming.

Still, even though I never became a gigolo, I became a first class pussy magnet. I cut a swath through the North Side that made General Sherman’s march through Georgia seem like a stroll through the Botanic Garden. Wilt Chamberlain had nothing on me. Even the great Bruce Diksas, a legendary pussy magnet in his own right, was envious of my skill with the ladies. I became so well known for my amorous exploits that aspiring young pussy magnets would come to me for advice.

“Milo, why do women fake orgasms?”

“Because they think men care.”

Once a pussy magnet always a pussy magnet. Even though I’ve been married for more than 25 years and not quite the #2 pencil I was in my heyday, women still find me irresistable. They know that when they have the great fortune to find themselves in bed with me that they are in the hands of a master.

Like I mentioned earlier, I’m not the active pussy magnet I used to be, but I still like to keep my hand in. Every one in a while I’ll sneak out, visit a night spot, pick up a couple of the finest women in the place and proceed to satisfy their wildest…

HOLD IT! I’m Mrs. Milo. I saw what my husband was writing and chased him away from the computer with a can of pepper spray. The whole blog is nothing but a pack of lies. To be honest, he’s not even close to the stud he claims to be. In fact, he’s a pretty much of a dud in bed. He knows as much about sex as he does about quantum physics. The only reason I married him was because I felt sorry for him. And that nonsense about his “God-given attributes” is just pathetic. At best, he’s below average in that department, even on the rare occasions when he’s sober.

I’ve already made an appointment with a marriage counselor and I’m checking into some sort of therapy. Rehab is not out of the question, either. Plus, I’m considering talking to a lawyer, just to see what my options are. Believe me, if I had known what I was getting into when I married him I would have stuck my head in an oven a long time ago. God, what a loser he turned out to be.

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