I've developed a fetish for disarming one's instincts, namely my own.
Some animals smell fear, some pick up the scent of blood; my nose is keen on curiosity. You've been wanting to touch me since the 70's. You've been stripping me naked with your imagination since sharing a locker room with my Daddy. For decades, you've dreamed that I was designed to deliver a dose of powerful...primal...passionate...pleasure and pain. Just like my music.
Today, curiosity begats courage.
A moment of eye contact translates the truth: I see you. I've had hundreds of your kind leeching off of my dick...Encountered enough of you begging to be fucked harder...I've broken enough backs to see you coming a mile away. Your offering winks at me from the seat of your pants, both your asshole and your wallet. I'll accept both. For, let's face it, I'm out of your league. I'm young, black and big...you're quite the opposite.
You used to make me nervous. Confused. I'm no thug or savage. I'm no machine or stud. Yet, you beg me to fuck you heartlessly and brainlessly...Beg me to fuck you detached from mercy and sympathy...Beg me to fuck you like there's no tomorrow or yesterday...Until you gulp the next generation thirstily down your throat. Ironically, my ancestors prayed for the day their babies would choke you. Today, I'm impressed you can swallow them so smoothly.
Your fingers reach down to touch your sore offering, you smile as if a dark debt's been paid. Was it all that you've imagined? Was my stroke strong enough to break through? Was my dick long enough to reach your heart? The tears in your eyes suggests that it was.