BULL: The Hotwife’s Playground

I first realized it in high school. That I was a different kind of cat.

A physical anomaly threw my entire world off its axis the moment puberty hit. My mother used to say a blessing landed on me in my sleep. She wasn’t wrong.

I shot up to six-foot-three in ninth grade. Boy, did that ever get me a ticket onto the varsity squad. No one could beat my wingspan.

When you’re batting away shots like an octopus, athletic prowess is the currency of the land, but college was a different story. A growth spurt had made me a star, and confidence was just a byproduct, a shade of the real source.

The real source was between my legs.

Maybe it would be embarrassing to talk about in polite company, but it’s been my golden ticket through life. Still is.

As I hit my teens, the thing spurted right out of my body like a beacon. I was so weirded out I ignored it, scared I was busting out my own mutant appendage. Hell, even showed it to my mother, seeking some kind of validation that I wasn’t growing a twin.

She cackled, swatted me on the head, and said, “Sweetheart, the Lord smiled down on you.”

Little did I know.

It started with rumors among girls at school, their giggles getting louder around me. Bulges in the locker room I can’t control, but the interest and jealousy just made the confidence more imperial.

That confidence morphed into baller sexual exploits all through college, where I enjoyed a line of candy-apple butts that kept their owners awake at night.

I went to Baylor on a scholarship and lived in a dorm my freshman year. My roommate was a gamer, scrawny, and didn’t give two shits about athletic endeavors. Skinny and hung smaller than an earring. His girl Allie could have had her pick of the Big Twelve, but I would have taken her for that Greek ass-shaking thing she did on Fridays before heading out.

She flirted with me on the sly, especially when Joey was in earshot. Maybe it was wine or a lifetime resolve, but one night, she slithered into my bed above his, thick thighs squeezing my chest. Said she didn’t know what it was like to be with a “Black man,” and “Joey would let me, if I wanted.”

I snorted, shrugged, and banged the brakes off Allie to the tune of terrifying moans and outcries.

Of course, Joey woke up, but he didn’t lose his chill. Still remember his pixelated, open-mouthed gape and little-dick illuminating his boxer shorts.

Allie acted like she was on the Jumbotron, praising my major- league wanger, scratching at my back and cumming so many times I lost count.

We continued in secret for a full semester, going at it like world-class professionals. I tried thinking of it only as sexual hell-raising, but the fact that Joey liked to…let’s just say, get off in the background, hit some point of human behavior. Dynamic in action. Suffice it to say, guys with small dicks are beta when it comes to sex, and they enjoy taking their wives home after a bull wrecks them. For some of them, the best part is watching their wives get schooled by a stallion, too.

I can’t remember ever having a steady main squeeze. As time went by, I became addicted to that moment in bed, the big reveal, the look on a woman’s face when she realized my… St. Nick…was real.

When she discovers she needs to take a little break every two minutes because her G spot needs to come down from a sugar high. It’s a mutual moment of joy, and I’ve never been able to outgrow it—no pun intended. Even now, in my thirties, I’m married to the next conquest. Didn’t realize how much I craved it until recently.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a professional basketball playe