Hair Cut

Recently I was told that, given my numerous stories of sexual encounters here in The McVie Show, some readers think that I am any of the following: [1] lucky with sex; [2] skilled at snaring guys for sex; or [3] drop-dead gorgeous and fucklicious.

Let’s get number three out of the way first. My photo is present here in The McVie Show, and I’ve also posted other photos of me here. Brad Pitt will definitely not feel threatened at all by me. Heck, not even Brod. Pete will be perturbed. In the Male Physical Beauty Bell Curve, I am lost somewhere in the mass middle. So to those who think that “ang haba-haba ng hair ni McVie!”, I say to thee: Kulot po buhok ko; at maraming puting buhok na.

As for number one, I can count the number of times I got to hook up with an Adonis-like hunk: a grand total of zero, ziltch, zip. I must say that I do get “lucky” in a sense that I get to have some action in places or at times when it seems least expected. But I do not consider that as all-luck. Rather, it’s a combination of luck and that quality mentioned in number two: skill. It’s skill that’s honed by experience (yes, I admit I’m old). It’s really more about reading signs and seizing opportunities rather than forcing events and people to conform to what you want. Remember, the universe will not bend to your will, “The Secret” be damned. Rather, you ride with the waves of the Fates, and always be on the sharp lookout—a glance held a second too long, a double-take, a towel slung dangerously low, a lifting of an eyebrow.

And most important of all is this: For every one successful sex story in The McVie Show, there are four (or more) unsuccessful attempts that go unmentioned. Of course I don’t write about them; there’s nothing to write about! (And there’s nothing funny about rejection. Well, maybe there is, and one day I’ll be mature enough to not only laugh about it but also blog about it.) It’s knowing what to cut.

So, don’t think I’m a larger-than-life sex machine when I tell you that I hooked up with a hot daddy yesterday afternoon at the bathhouse, and that he silently closed his eyes and moaned in quiet ecstasy while I slowly pushed my cock into his willing ass. Because before that, there was this sizzling hot young Chinoy stud (possibly in his early 20s), all lean yet ripped, with the smoothest, lick-able skin, wearing a red cap that slyly covered his eyes—I saw him look at me and ignore me and, in quick succession, hooked and dragged into his room (which was right beside mine) three of the hottest men in the crowd at that time. And I could hear every creak and squeak, every moan and groan bouncing off the walls and ceiling and torturing me as I listened from behind a thin wooden wall. And much later, when he actually stood beside me along the corridor, and I looked straight into his eyes and moved inches closer to him and then reached out and caressed his right nipple, he just looked bored at my hand, turned and walked away.

Last I checked my hair is close-cropped, not long and flowing.