Death of a Boytoy

Death of a Boytoy

by Samuel Jesse Johnson


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The problem? I ain't getting enough! (It's flat-out addicting, y'all!)

I already have a boy toy, y'all, and he really is gorgeous, funny, charming, great in bed, well-hung (I saw that thread, LMAO), and is totally respectful of Mr. Web and our relationship. He is pretty much perfect in every way except one: he travels and is pretty much gone all the damn time. When we do get to play, it's awesome, but I think I'd like to have it a little more frequently.
OK, OK, I would like to have it a lot more frequently (LOL). What can I say? I'm a freak! So I am actively looking for another boy toy . . . or toys. Which brings me to my second problem: we are in the middle of freaking nowhere in the freaking Bible belt!

What is a horny (but fairly picky) chick to do? I think I'm screwed (or not screwed in this case).

Any suggestions, comments, and just plain ol' sympathy will be welcome (LOL).

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781490753003
Publisher: Trafford Publishing
Publication date: 02/12/2015
Pages: 822
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.82(d)

Read an Excerpt

Death of a Boytoy

By Samuel Jesse Johnson

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Samuel Jesse Johnson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-5300-3


And Samson lay till midnight, and arose at midnight, and took the doors of the gate of the city, and the two posts, and went away with them, bar and all, and put them upon his shoulders, and carried them up to the top of an hill that is before Hebron. —Judges 16:3

"In the arms of the angel / Fly away from here from this dark, cold hotel room / And the endlessness that you fear" (Sarah McLachlan).

I was born Samuel Jesse Johnson on August 20, 1960, in the independent Civil War island of Battlefield, Mississippi, in this isolated defiant Confederate rebellious town that refused to celebrate the re-union of the States until 1950. Even today the hilltop town still recognizes the Honorable Robert E. Lee holiday proudly aside an ever-present lukewarm recognition of the Fourth of July celebrated on the same date. Some in-town homefolks still wonder if the emancipation should have been rightly named "proclamation [gate]" as the "good ole boy system" is still alive and well. Dr. Burwell Mitchell delivered me in the hospital requisitioned by the nuns. As my mother who barely made the sprint to Mercy Center Hospital in time claimed, I "popped out" a solid ten pounder ready to tackle the world an hour after notice. My enlightened grandmother used to state while shaking her head and standing on her now-dilapidated family Antebellum Mansion facing North State Street in Jackson, Mississippi, on our monthly visits, "That boy's not afraid of the devil himself." How prophetically right she was.

My childhood years were spent at the bottom of a steep cul-de-sac circled with seven humble starter houses surrounded by woods and creeks. Westbrook Circle was located directly off Harpers Ferry Road, which was a main Battlefield, Mississippi, and thoroughfare in 1960. As a child, I was fascinated with life and constantly explored the surrounding forest searching for adventure and catching hard-shelled spiders, box turtles, frogs, and snakes. I feared nothing other than my raucous father's marine-inspired discipline. Though punishment to his favorite son was little, to my defiant brother, life was hell. We were regulars at St. Amos Episcopal Church. However, introspectively our family was acclimated to the understanding of little of God's true love, yet somehow I knew I was his child from the tender age of four. I remember the moment and time with amazing clarity even to this day. It was fall afternoon in 1964 when I understand there indeed was a divine presence. Highly amused, my brother and I were playing hide-and-seek in the courtyard behind the Episcopal church up the hill off Main Street, entertained by a kind priest who obviously held an incredible degree of patience as after discovery I always returned for another round. Reflective of my life, every journey in Battlefield seemed an uphill walk as we socialized with the congregation who could barely mention Jesus Christ outside the church walls. I do still remember vividly to this day playing hide-and-seek with the priest who had the spirit of a good man, and as evening faded away, I knew that somehow at that moment there was indeed a God and indeed I was his: a man after God's own heart so to speak. I knew I was special. Not any more special than any of his other children, just special in God's eyes.

One of my most vivid neighborhood experiences was the innocent adoration of my first girlfriend. While I can't remember the names of the majority of the many women who bounced in and out of my life, I can still remember my first-grade classmate and first girlfriend, Kim Wissler, who would take my hand and lead around the corner of the house and kiss me innocently on the cheek. I have little doubt that I turned three shades of red, heart pounding, longing for the embarrassment to end so I could dash to my escape. Her family moved up north in the middle of my second-grade year, perhaps disappointed her first handpicked boyfriend never got up the nerve to return the innocent kiss. We moved to a wooded neighborhood located outside Jackson, Mississippi, the summer after my second-grade year. The new junction seemed like another world. I would rarely over the years find any reason to return to that isolated hometown seventy five miles away in which I was born. My sweet, caring mother handpicked a neighborhood surrounded by woods once again, knowing my longing for adventure. I quickly made new friends. Samuel was forgotten as I was christened with a new abbreviated nickname: JJ, short for Jesse Johnson, which would stick throughout early adulthood innocent years. JJ was soon back zealously exploring the woods; examining insects; catching turtles, frogs, and lizards; and forever reviving my fascination with snakes. As life went by, I grew older; and my life eventually spiraled much, much deeper into a wilderness of darkness. Sadly how life would change, the innocence lost—so much potential, so much waste. C. S. Lewis once stated, "When a man knocks on the door of a brothel in essence he is actually looking for God." I was always searching, but rarely was my seeking quenched.

Sometimes you have to raise a snake to save others from dying from the venom.

The LORD said to Moses, "Make a snake and put it up on a pole; anyone who is bitten can look at it and live." So Moses made a bronze snake and put it up on a pole. Then when anyone was bitten by a snake and looked at the bronze snake, they lived.

March 2006. "See you tomorrow, Hollywood," my little Cajun buddy Felix Rabelais shouted as he belted down another drink. I excused myself for the evening from the rousing group of coworkers and customers, half of them so imbibed they would stumble back later to the Peabody bar drinking well into the morning, rarely straying from conversations of business or sports and later to the evening celebrations at strip joint named Platinum Plus.

The guys would be discussing boring subjects when cornered I would enthusiastically participate in yet in reality rarely held my attention. I parted from Texas De Brazil Restaurant around the corner from the world-famous Beale Street, a five-star meat lover's experience fit for the finest of our primeval Neanderthal taste, yet I was barely filled and walked outside headed toward the Peabody Hotel. I patted my counterpart Woody Douglas on the shoulder as I quietly strutted by him standing outside on the corner. I thought, "Why does the guy do it?" While several were lingering inside, prepared to head to the nearest strip joint, that self-disciplined goofball would be talking to some customer about pesticides. The guy was the hardest-working individual I had ever seen in my company and perhaps got the least notice than anyone. He didn't drink, cuss, and made no bones about being a "Christian" first and foremost. The oddball out, Woody was an overworked outcast, yet somehow I admired and envied the simplicity and honestly of his lackluster, pathetically boring "religious" lifestyle.

I was Woody's polar opposite. The guy who could pull off the business deal or otherwise without effort anyone ever noticing. The sales dollars did my talking, and I always hit my mark with little effort. Seemed the same applied to all the acquaintances in my life. More true heartfelt motivation in my career and I could have been president of DuFonte, but then I preferred the anonymity of "living life my way." The temporal self-indulgent perks of this job were invisibly priceless.

Diamond nights and ruby lights, high in the sky. / Heaven help him, when he falls. (Sade, "Smooth Operator")

Practiced to perfection, I attempted to remain cool when my latest lover Desirae phoned to whisper, "Please come see me tomorrow evening. I just need to play with my sweet sweet boy toy sooooo bad. I promise I'll make it worth your while and you won't be disappointed." The "boy toy" moniker—her terminology, not Samuel Johnson's. The label was indeed pragmatic as I held no macho hang-ups using or primarily being used by this woman with her ravenous sexual appetite. Though I had just spent a lurid night in her bed two weeks hence, I agreed to rendezvous. My suave predisposition transformed over the years understood that Desirae Roper Scanlin, I assumed like most women, would pour her heart out to me yet never really be as sympathetic to "my" emotional needs. I hid them well. After two failed marriages due primarily to my infidelity, I never stuck around in relationships long enough to feign the pain. Thus, being the quintessential hubris stud I perceived myself to be: never show any untenable weakness, always play it cool, and don't be too ready to commit even for a night. Desirae was no different in this area than the typical sex goddess. Mrs. Scanlin loved the ostentatious bad boy yet somehow wanted to own a little bit more of my mind and body without taming me. This sexual, enlightened woman never truly understands the primordial hidden need to breed with the strongest hunter.

I preferred "Hollywood" or "Iceman" as my friends anointed me and had never imagined I would have any woman refer to me their "boy toy." I was told from time to time I looked a bit like Val Kilmer or Iceman when Top Gun debuted on the big screen. I would be compared a number of times over the years to the handsome actor, only I was bigger and stronger. I was cool enough; hence, the first-ever "boy toy" innocuous tag was simply amusing. Never reveal any insecurity and always be in control. Much like the biblical Samson, I was arrogant, filled with riddles, imbibed in earthly forbidden delights, feared nothing or no man, and had that constant wandering eye for the seductive woman.

A plausible specious argument, only to my soul as I had pretended to be a bit reluctant to go rushing down that evening to love my latest lover. Eventually I agreed to drive down to Battlefield, Mississippi, the next evening. Delayed gratification would keep me alert during the number-crunching sessions as I daydreamed in the meeting room the following morning feigning attentiveness. In reality my night, day, week, or month was made knowing this woman voiced her cravings for my body so badly. She had revived my soul, so it seemed from the realm of lifeless boredom. Too many women over too much time, but then there was something so different about her. I questioned whether or not I should depart from my company meeting early and make the four-hour drive. There was always a bit of guilt when I was shortchanging my company; however, with my thoughts elsewhere, I would dissociate form that fleeting feeling soon enough. Guilt had been a cold foe hidden deep inside for much of my life, and sex always warmed my soul. I had probably been this sexually attracted to other women before, but driving instinct accompanying the Delphic lust had long since vanished. Any shame from lust and infidelity had slowly dwindled years ago along with the true insecurity that I had been hiding inside from an insecure youth who had to constantly prove his worth through competition. Never allow the insecurity to show. Desirae was slowly working me into her web of lust. I had firsthand witnessed this lover's game play multiple times. I knew the moves to avoid tweaking the web in lieu of being consumed. I had no doubt my twenty-eight-year-old Desirae Scanlin invoked the greatest sexual appetite I had ever willingly been drawn into. This night would be a good night to once again fulfill my empty soul.

The week always started with some manager standing up and giving a diligent salute to our core values, which included safety, business conduct, mission statements, and, above all, ethical treatment of people no matter what belief, religion, or sexual deviation. I say our company gathering was a meeting, but actually it was more of a vacation with coworkers who I considered friends for the most part working on a common goal of adding dollars to the company's bottom line in order to raise the stock price. There was no professional reason to leave this wonderful little environment at one of my longtime favorite layovers, former pickup spots entertaining with a great company choreographed with a love of travel. Always the explorer, I noticed every detail in a room, every person. I considered my employer the greatest company in the world, although a bit boring with all the internal politics at times. However, the freedom of making my own travel arrangements was often very strategic and not necessarily in the company's interest alone.

The knowledge of all the beautiful women out in the world dying to meet this Val Kilmer lookalike kept the balance of life manageable here in life's jungle. Working for the world's largest chemical company had been a satisfying career laden with perks. I suppose I owed much to this company, but I always rendered more to my own selfish needs. Equitable treatment of people was held up as a company core value only secondary to playing the corporate game and, above all, produce. Not much of a challenge for the guy everyone loved. I could make the lost and distraught smile in a moment's notice. The company chain of command never felt threatened as my needs were met in anonymity rather than the corporate climb though I had more life skills than any of my coworkers. With the personality oblivious to anger and the charm of a smooth-flowing stream, I was loved by all.

I enjoyed people to an extent, but I worshipped the affection the female gender. I physically excelled in this business, never succumbing to the stress or calories. The week had taken its toll on most of the participants. Thursday night was typically the night for some to rest or for the trip home to see the family, so the crowd would be somewhat diminished. I didn't have the family issue in mind, so my departure would hardly go unnoticed. My secret life was anxiously waiting. My lover craved my attention, practically begging me to make the trip south from whence the world have received me thirty-eight years earlier from the womb. Hence, back to Battlefield. I would drive without stopping at my ultimate bachelor pad four miles outside Jackson, Mississippi, as I passed through the capital city. I was so smooth and charming my coworkers had no choice but to see the inner goodness like everyone else, right? They would understand the disappearing act a bit early. I never bragged, and I rarely would "kiss and tell," but everyone assumed there was a woman involved.

I was temporarily lodged at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, which was always one of my old favorite memories. I had walked through this old lobby dozens of times over my career. The first time I ever sat in this nostalgic landmark hotel was the very first day of my working career. That first night in a Peabody suite, I was naive, married to a wonderful Southern girl, and would never think of cheating on my beautiful young wife, right? The truth is that even then, as a fallen man, the lust was noticeably alive in my heart; however, guilt being my constant companion. Even then I assumed pandemonium would reside shortly thereafter. Sneaking three Penthouse magazines into the storage room once. I got caught and the disclosure almost destroyed my marriage, however having never read the Bible or having no true understanding of God's love grace I assumed there was little hope for my salvation. I had no idea that Jesus Christ himself strengthen the unattainable law by equating lust with guilt. I would eventually wind up destroying my marriage and afterwards decided I need not get involved in a committed relationship ever again. At this point in my life, I needed to be honest with my true feelings. I was having a blast and living a life epitomizing the perfect bachelor. Every man jealously longed to live the life of "JJ" or "Big J" while every distressed damsel desired to be with me. My coworkers male counterparts understood completely. The pickup artist every macho guy admires. I became that guy on crack.


Excerpted from Death of a Boytoy by Samuel Jesse Johnson. Copyright © 2015 Samuel Jesse Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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