I know a lot of guys like to get pumped up before they come to places like this, and I don’t mean they give themselves a pep talk in the mirror. I mean, what do I know? They could be jerking their cocks in the mirror, that might be their thing.

I’m not judging.

When they come to a sex club, they want the goods to look as big, as eye-catching, and hopefully as mouth-watering as possible. After all, if we’re going to be walking around in our tighty-whities, they want to make sure they have something to fill them up with.

That’s not my game. I don’t need to give myself a painful set of blue balls before I show up. My confidence might have been shaken when they pieced me back together after our Humvee hit an improvised explosive device overseas, but no one is looking at my sewn together face when they see what I’m packing.

I walk past the familiar faces crowding the different parts of the club. As I strut by, I glaze over the usual bunch of women out tonight. My white, almost translucent, underwear reflects the lighting in each area as I walk through. They glow an eerie purple and the ridge of my cock’s helmet and all the veins seem to pop as I make my way through the seated section under black light where women are taking things slow, engaging in the art of seduction, dragging it all out. The walls flash in erratic shades of gray and white as I look like I’m choppily hopping over the floor under the strobe lights on the edge of the dance floor where some women are already completely naked and having their bodies sucked, licked, squeezed and teased by more than one guy.

I take a look as I pass them, but seeing them exposed like that, it just doesn’t have the same effect. I’ve been doing this circuit for over half a year now, and I’ve met all the women who come here. I’m not sure what I’m looking for anymore. When I first showed up, it was obvious, I just wanted to feel wanted again. I wanted someone to look at my body, at my fat cock, and give me a chance for the night. No conversations about the military. No pitying glances at my scars. No discussions about how many surgeries it took to put me back together. Just pure passion. It gave me nights where I could feel normal again. It took stripping off almost all of my clothes to feel less naked and less vulnerable than my deep scars down the side of my eye make me feel in the day.

I stop at the bar and Mitch nods at me. He finishes mixing some girly cocktails and hands them off to a couple of ladies wearing leather bodysuits with holes for their tits to peek out. They wrap their arms around each other and hold their pink drinks in their free hands, walking off toward the dance floor. I’ve met that duo before, they’re broken.

All the women I’ve met in places like this are. They might not have the same physical scars I do, but when I’ve gotten to know them, when they’ve spent the night here drinking and getting fucked, I’ve heard the sad stories. Sure, I’ve seen the girls who come out just because they’re in Los Angeles and they want to have a crazy story to tell their friends back in Wisconsin when they get back from their vacation. But the regulars, the ones I see every single time I’ve been here, they’re just as damaged as I am.

Mitch walks to my end of the bar, his eyes shamelessly travel over my body, just like he always does. I don’t mind that he flirts with me or checks me out. He knows that I’m here for the women and he’s always respected that. I’m putting my cock out on display, if he wants to soak it in, I don’t really care. Besides, he always mixes me doubles, on the house. It must be how chicks feel when they go out for the night and just have to suggestively smile and have ten guys falling all over themselves to buy their drinks.

“Hey sailor,” Mitch smiles, he loves calling me that. He started when he found out I was in the SEALs. “Rum and cock? Oh, I mean Coke,” he smirks and gives me a wink. I can’t help but laugh. I was starting to feel too jaded being here tonight. It’s nice to have him lighten the mood.

“I will take the latter,” I lean against the bar and relax as he mixes my drink. Mitch doesn’t overdo it on the ice like some of these bartenders do, so that when it melts, you have a tall glass of rum flavored water. Instead he only plinks a couple of cubes into the glass and then liberally coats them with expensive rum. After a dash of Coke is sprayed on top, he hands it to me, making sure our fingers touch when he does.

“What do I owe ya?” I smile.

Mitch takes his time looking me up and down, the corners of his mouth twitch up and he pushes his shaggy hair back, “Don’t get me started,” he teases me. “You know drinks are always on the house for you, unless you piss me off, then the drinks are singles and the price is double,” he tosses his hair back and laughs at his own joke loudly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I smile back and let my eyes wander the room lazily. Nothing out there has changed. More women have gotten naked on the dance floor. One lady with long platinum blonde hair has her lingerie pulled down over her tits and is clutching onto a redheaded woman who is sucking on her nipples from the front, while a black man who looks like he probably competes in bodybuilding has her panties slid down her legs and is nailing her from behind. I watch for a minute, the way her face is contorted with pleasure. The way the three of them are simultaneously enjoying putting on a show and enjoying each other. My cock doesn’t twitch. I don’t get hard. I might as well be watching a truck paint lines on the road. My eyes are drawn to it because it’s something to see, because it’s a curiosity, not because it’s doing anything for me.

“You look bored,” Mitch draws my attention back to him. I shrug. It’s not boredom, more like apathy.

“Maybe I need to take a break from all this for a while,” I take a mouthful of my drink and swallow the boozy trail of heat. “It’s just not doing much for me these days,” I admit.

“Well, I think I can change that for you,” his eyes twinkle and I snort.

“Yeah, well, thanks but you know that’s not how I roll,” I shake my head and take another drink.

“I’m not talking about me, God, full of yourself much,” he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “I mean, I know you’re… cocky,” he sneaks a look at my tight, white underwear, “but you’re not even my type,” he puts his hands on his hips. “But that little lamb over there, the one who looks like she took a wrong turn and fell down a rabbit hole into Wonderland, now, I know she’s your type.”

I slowly turn my head and peer over my shoulder to where Mitch is nodding and I freeze.

He’s right. She is absolutely gorgeous. Her long brown hair flows down her back in a waterfall of cascading curls, while a few strands hang down over the front of her shoulders and hug her plump breasts. Her milky skin looks like she has never seen the sun, which you never see in LA. Out here, everyone looks like they spend their eight hours of shut eye sleeping in a tanning bed. With her wide doe eyes, I can see what Mitch said about her being a little lamb. That and the fact that she’s wearing more clothes than almost all the women in this place put together. Did she take a wrong turn? This isn’t an easy club to get into, so I can’t imagine she did. However, from her innocent, fear-tinged gaze, she doesn’t look like someone who has been to a place like this before. I feel like I’m struggling to breathe enough oxygen into my lungs, like just watching her from across the room has somehow knocked the air out of me. Every muscle in my body coils up, my fingers grips the dew-covered side of my glass and I don’t take my eyes off her as I tell Mitch goodbye and begin to walk away.

“Go get her tiger,” he calls out, but I don’t smile back. I don’t risk losing sight of her. Tiger is right. I feel like I’m prowling across the floor, moving in on her, stalking her. It’s as if my body is magnetized to hers. As if something inside me is being pulled toward her, like I’m not completely in control of my feet right now, but they’re taking steps I’m destined to take.

I slide past the nuzzling couples and ignore the half-naked women grinding on each other as I focus on only her.

I need her.

She stirs something inside me, something deeper than the desire to fuck. Sure, that’s there too, I am a man after all. But beyond that, I want to talk to her. I want to get to know her. I’m already drawn into her story and I haven’t even met her.

Yet.

“You look a little lost, need some help?” I slide up behind her and murmur in her ear.

She jumps and whirls around too fast, her nerves are tattooed all over as her beautiful brown eyes flutter open wide and her arms jostle against my abs.

“Oh my!” Her elbow bangs against my stomach and her glass of bubbly gets knocked sideways in her hand, dumping empty over my body and traveling down my treasure trail to my cock. The flimsy fabric of my underwear soaks and loses color, revealing my fat, fleshy dick underneath.

“Oh shit!” She starts to run her dainty fingers over my skin, attempting to wipe away the champagne. My cock moves a little as desire begins to flood my body. “Oh … shit,” she repeats slower this time, her large eyes soaking in the beginnings of my erection and then traveling up my body until they lock on mine.