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She hasn’t let the L-word out of her mouth other than to say that she loves my cock… She loves the way I fuck her… She loves the way we feel… She loves how I fill her up, so deep inside… But not that she loves me. A week ago we were in New Orleans, partying and bootlegging music at Jazz Fest. Popping into a voodoo shop on Bourbon Street, I ask the man behind the counter for a love potion. “You want a love potion?” he said calculatingly. Then he pointed to a short, trim black man with a graying beard and red vein-streaked eyes, a guy just seemingly hanging out in the middle of the store. We step over to the little man and I ask, “You got a love potion?” “Do I got a love potion?!” he chirps brightly. “Come with me!” He drags us both by the arms out onto the street and around to the front window of the store. “Look at that picture!” he says and points at a 5x7 color photo plastered onto the window pane. A picture of him… In some kind of African tribal costume… And written in blood-red nail polish across the top of the photo, the headline “Modaddy, Prince of Love.” My eyes bug wide as I read the words aloud, then look at Cheryl for her reaction. “Oh my God!” I exclaim in shock. “It’s the Prince of Love! I found the Prince of Love!” “Holy God!” Cheryl breathes, the words escaping her hidden consciousness… Modaddy’s eyes flick between our faces wild and charged with electricity of Bourbon Street night as I inspect his features for authenticity and see it there pure. “You want a love potion, man?” he says with a big cracked yellowing grin. “I got your love potion. I got love potion number 9!” [Continued Tomorrow] Have YOU tried New Sex™? |