Sorry, guys, but the universe lied to you. Even worse, a lot of the women in your life, including your dear mother and spinster aunt, as well as several of your girlfriends, perpetuated the falsehood. The clothes do not make the man; they reveal him. How one dresses, and the clothing they choose, reveals infinitely more about you as a person than an hour’s worth of interview questions.

If you dress in only the latest fashions, that conveys that you are a follower, surrendering your personality to the whims of the masses. If your clothes look pristine, never worn, or as if you just got done with a fashionista photo shoot, that means that you want to project a certain image, trying to impress everyone with how well you dress. Regrettably, this usually means that you’re attempting to hide your real self, preferring to present a shallow image of yourself as you want to be perceived. The faux-rugged look is the same thing, just on the other extreme.

Waxing toward hyperbole, you can put on a black belt and a karate gi, but that doesn’t make you a martial arts master. Granted, dressing to impress does have its times of need, but, for the most part, how you wrap your mortal coil on a day-to-day basis reveals your true self. Never, has that been more true than when a man wears the iconic, denim blue jeans. Nearly every man, from paupers to poets to kings, owns and wears blue jeans. As they are considered casual clothing, they reveal more details about the man wearing them than most men could possibly believe.

If your jeans are super tight, looking like they’ve been spray-painted on, the advertising of sexuality is obvious. Skin-tight denim on a woman may look provocative; on men, it usually just looks silly. If your pants are too loose, hanging off you like some baggy burlap curtain, then it makes us wonder why you’re hiding your true form.

The brand, cut, fit, and other factors also come into play. If they look too new or neatly pressed, then one’s ego is subject. If they’re factory distressed or designer-slashed, it screams falseness. Preferences vary from woman to woman, but to us all, your clothing, especially your denim, tells us more about yourself than you really want us to know.

My personal preference isn’t extremely narrow, but there’s definitely a type that I’m magnetically drawn toward. To summarize it, briefly, I like ruggedly handsome men with hearts of gold and a bad-boy vibe. I like masculine men who aren’t afraid to be men but also aren’t afraid to be kind, soft, thoughtful, and gentle. Likewise, I love my lady lovers to be feminine. While I do like my sexual partners to be in good physical condition, it’s not a requirement if I’m into the person.

As far as my men’s blue jeans go, I like them to be just barely form-fitting enough that I can check out the guy’s ass and see the hint of his package. I know this will make me sound very shallow—perhaps I am—but I’m attractive enough to get most guys that I want on looks alone. Those who don’t fall for my vapid slut routine tend to warm up to me once they realize that I have both a sharp wit and a brain. Oddly, that same intellectual fortitude tends to make the unworthy run away from me in panic.

“You have too many brains to have an ass like that,” has been said to me on more than one occasion.

For me, a man in use-worn blue jeans, with the cuffs beginning to fray, some wear spots around the crotch from his huge cock pressing against everything as he works, and strategic white threads, makes my pussy gush a gallon per minute. Threadbare knees, showing that he’s not at all concerned about getting down and dirty, and perhaps some strategic rips or tears, never intentional, make my heart flutter. When the denim is like that, it becomes well-used armor, revealing the man who wears it as a gallant, masculine man who will do what it takes. His personality and, more importantly, his body is presented to me at a glance.

If the rest of the man jibes with my physical preferences, he’s in serious trouble. Put that man in a form-fitting T-shirt, similarly revealing his muscles and casual outlook, and the poor man may very well be exposed to the sexual fury of Hurricane Krystal. I’ve given in to my lusty whims more times than I can count, most recently with Randy. Luckily for me, that wasn’t merely his name; it was a description of how he likes his sex.

The Goddess looks out for everyone, whether you have faith in the divine or not, but I sometimes feel as if I’m her special, sexual experiment. Throughout history, some women have been imbued with endless, bottomless lust and desire. Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Lady Godiva, and the Goddess Aphrodite come to mind. Then, there’s me.

I’m nobody special; I won’t even make any history books. I am, however, the woman you’ve fantasized about—the very same one your mother warned you against. Age-defying in my youthful appearance, my body is lean. Lithe, and built for sex. My ass, alone, has caused traffic accidents, and my hips are curvy enough to show off my figure and give you something to grab hold of while you pound me into oblivion, thrusting your hard cock as hard and deeply inside of me as you can. 

I was cursed with pale skin that burns after a nanosecond's exposure to sunlight, with freckles all over my upper torso and face. Moss-green eyes and lips in a perpetual pout accent my somewhat pronounced cheekbones, and my ultra-long, naturally red hair is long and flowing, and it’s not the only thing that flows.

I’m in a perpetual state of heat, constantly aroused to the point of insanity, and, unlike other women, the more orgasms I have or people I fuck, the more I want it. My pussy gushes so much that panties are useless to me; they become saturated and clammy within minutes. Like the prestigious women of yore, I was built to fuck and made perverted, kinky, and insatiable to drive the point home.

Psychologically, I’m very broken. I fought my passionate nature for decades, finally surrendering my heart, soul, mind, and, especially, body to my carnal lust. The fact that I both love and cannot get enough sex aside, I crave the attention. Somebody lusting after me makes my libido, already in overdrive, explode. Sometimes, I feel as if all the powers of creation used their sexual urges to invigorate my soul. For me, almost everything is sexual, and I gave up trying to contain my lust a long time ago.

That makes me too hot to handle for most people. Everyone wants their partner to be as sexy as a nude model and always horny; they simply need to be the sole focus of those horny desires. Reality doesn’t work like that, at least not for me. I have a mind made for trouble and a body made for sin; as that’s my lot in life, I may as well enjoy the fuck out of it. The divine graced me with infinite lust; it’s my job in this realm to spread my joy along with my legs.

Men who can handle a woman who wants to fuck and suck her way through the crowd or flash her ass to the entire world are few and far between. Women who will tolerate such scandalous behavior are even rarer. However, that doesn’t mean that ruggedly handsome, blue jeans-wearing, random men aren’t willing to fill my aching, needy cunt with their hard cocks. 

Randy was the low man on the road crew’s totem pole. Rather than work on the big projects, he was assigned a rickety, old pickup truck and made to fill in potholes on the seldom-traveled highways that snake through the mountains where I live. On one fateful morning, I didn’t have to go to work until the afternoon, and Randy was in front of my house, doing his thing.

If you think a sexy, handsome man in blue jeans is hot, you should see one doing roadwork. It was mid-summer, and here in Y’all country, a cool, summer day is around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Randy was a few yards away from my mailbox, across the two-lane highway from my house, jackhammering away. In addition to the chirping, singing birds, the winds rustling through the trees, and wildlife chattering away, I awoke to the sounds of industrial noise, a “rata-tat-tat, rata-tat-tat” vibrating through my bedroom.

Extremely annoyed because my morning ritual involves masturbating in my bed to at least two or three orgasms before I eat my breakfast, I jumped out of bed and marched my nude self to the front window to see what was disrupting the beginning of my day. When I saw him, I knew that fate had put him there for my pleasure.

He was already covered in sweat, his raggedy T-shirt tossed over the side of his truck. Worn blue jeans, stained with dirt and asphalt, covered his lower portions. A stained, day-glow yellow vest was the only thing he wore on his torso. His hard hat was canted at a roguish angle, and shaggy medium-blond hair escaped from under the brim at unruly angles.

It was perfect. He was hot, sexy, and exactly my type. Since I was nude and horny, I stood in front of the window, caressing my high, firm breasts and tweaking my upturned, hard nipples. The rustic-looking, beat-up jackhammer he held pile-drove my lust. Each time he’d use it, chipping out huge chunks of the road, his biceps would bulge, and his entire body would vibrate. Each clamoring boom of the huge tool shot straight to my clit, making me wonder if it were possible to get fucked by the demolition hammer.

My fingers emulated the activity I observed, pounding into my cunt; other fingers attempted to vibrate my clit. Within minutes, I had a powerful orgasm, my sexual nectar streaming down my thighs. I knew what I wanted, needed, and desired. There were no plans of seduction, just instinctive, primal actions.

A quick application of whore-red lipstick, slightly heavy eyeshadow and liner, and a brief brushing of my hair gave me that wild look and “fuck me” eyes. A micro-thin, white, gauzy dress, originally intended as a sexy swimsuit cover-up, was my weapon of choice. My hard nipples poked through the fabric, easily seen from several yards away; the shape of my sexy body was silhouetted through the fabric. I looked like a sex-hungry slut on the prowl.

Usually, in the mornings, I walk to the mailbox completely nude. I like the feeling of the crisp morning air on my flesh, and the thrill of being seen gets me hot, arousing me beyond belief. Assuming that would be a bit much, I opted for minimal clothing. If I didn’t like what I’d been fingering myself over from a close-up view, plausible deniability was my ally.

With my round hips swinging dramatically, I put a little extra spring in my step, knowing my braless tits would bounce. The sun was to my left, radiating body-revealing illumination. The closer I got, the better I could see the details of my sexual fixation. My hungry eyes took in the sight of him, all wiry muscle, dirt, sweat, and handsomeness.

His denim jeans, however, made my mouth drool almost as much as my pussy. Torn and ripped in places from constant wear during rugged, manly work, the faded, worn spot over his cock told me that he was hung. Not yet seeing me, he released the huge, metal tool from his grip, and it clattered onto the pavement. He turned, showing me a sexy butt covered in faded denim. White, worn spots outlined his wallet, and a large, gaping tear over one thigh revealed sinewy thigh muscle.

He plucked a haggard drinking cup, the type with the plastic straw, from the bed of his truck and tipped it into his mouth. It was, apparently, empty, because he cursed at it and tossed it back into his truck. Then, he turned back to destroying the road in front of my house, gasping when he saw me.

I looked him up and down, focusing on the bulge in his sexy jeans, and then looked him in the eye and gave him my man-slaying smile. All of my horny lust, my passion, and my endless, horny need shot forth from my beaming mouth. As I smiled, my mind reeled with visions of him and I doing unspeakable acts of deviant debauchery to each other.

“Good morning,” I drawled in my “fuck me like the fucking slut I am” voice. “Don’t mind me; I’m just getting my mail.”

He ignored my request and minded me. His deep brown eyes flowed over my curves, but quickly pondered his abandoned tool when I glanced his way. Knowing that I had his attention, I turned to face the sun, stretching my arms up in the air and arching my back. I knew this would make the thin material almost transparent. Just to be nominated for an Oscar, I gave a fake yawn as if I’d just woken up. 

Even though I was perpendicular to my mailbox, I bent forward, not flexing my knees, and rummaged through the mailbox. Feeling dramatic, I slammed the lid closed and spun around, feeling my boobs bounce. His eyes were riveted to my hard nipples.

“Just bills,” I pouted. “Nothing fun. Randy, is it?” I placed a soft, playful hand on the reflective name tag on his vest.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry about the noise.”

“Oh, what noise?” I lied. 

Since he no longer held the ability to stare at my body with lust and form words, I filled the silence.

“You look like you need something very wet.”

“Aaah…”

I pointed to his truck.

“Your drinking bottle is empty. Come with me.”

As unrealistic as it may sound, Randy followed, immediately. I could claim that it’s because my sexy, feminine wiles are so super-powered, like my lust, that he was powerless against my charms. The real truth is that I doubt whether a scrawny redhead with an ass worth killing over may be a threat never crosses men’s minds. I highly doubt that he anticipated what I knew I was about to do.

“Come inside,” I said, mentally adding, my mouth, then my ass.

“Thank you,” he said, holding out his stained and battered drinking container.

I gently took the offered receptacle and tossed it over my shoulder, behind me. “You look so fucking sexy in those blue jeans,” I purred, reaching out to fondle his chest. “Why don’t you take them off and fuck me.”

Once, a few years ago, roadwork interrupted my masturbation session when I lived at my old house. Although I wanted to get gang-fucked by the road crew, I, instead, pulled a “Cool Hand Luke” maneuver and washed my car, dressed all slutty and skimpy. I’ve sexually evolved a bit since then, with the balancing factor being that I’ve mentally regressed.

Not waiting for an answer, I dropped to my knees in front of him, holding him in place. Smiling up at him, moaning audibly, I released his toned, sexy ass from my clutches and tore away at his sexy blue jeans, trying to free his cock. The faded outline of his package didn’t lie; his manhood, even half-flaccid, was thick and long, just how I like them.

“Uh, wait,” he stuttered. “What are you doing?”

I didn’t verbally respond. It’s not polite to talk when your mouth is full. The scent of soap mingled with the aroma of his physical exertions, making me heady with arousal. With his pants finally down around his ankles, I squeezed his butt, pushing his hardening cock all the way into my mouth.

With my mouth plunging up and down his shaft, faster than his jackhammer was destroying the road, he soon grew to a more than impressive length, and the girth stretched my jaw. When he was fully erect and his salty sweat and been sucked off his throbbing member, I stood, pulled off my thin garment, and lay on the floor.

“Fucking fuck me. Please fuck my horny pussy. Pound me as hard as you pounded the fucking road.”

He stood there, like an idiot. However, he didn’t say, “No,” so I grabbed his hands and pulled him down on top of me. Placing his hands on my engorged, overheating tits, my hands then reached down to his shaft and guided him into my wetness.

“At least tell me your name.”

“No names; it makes it hotter. Just fucking fuck me, then, cum all over my slutty fucking face.”

Since my hand was already there, I alternated between fondling his balls and fingering my clit.

“I was watching you,” I moaned. “I masturbated watching you and just had to fuck you. Fucking, fuck me harder.”

Randy was going crazy, telling me he couldn’t believe it was happening. All the while, I was begging him to fuck me harder and to go deeper. His thrusts grew forceful, so violent that every lunge scooted me across the floor.

“Oh, aah, umm,” he moaned.

“Fuck my cunt; fuck my fucking cunt,” I chanted over and over. “Can you feel how wet I am for you?”

“I’m going to cum,” he announced.

“My face! Paint my fucking face, you stud.”

He pulled his pulsating cock out of me. My juices dripped from it. Stroking it so vigorously that his hand was a blur, he moaned and cursed as I spun around, placing my face directly in front of his shaft.

“Do it! Cum on my fucking face. I earned your cum. Give me what I fucking want.”

Randy rewarded me by shooting endless streams of hot, sticky whiteness all over my begging lips, my chin, and even my neck and tits. Overcome with the heat of my slutty antics, my hands flew to my needy cunt. Three fingers plunged inside me while my other hand assaulted my swollen, sensitive clit.

He surprised me by rolling over and kissing me passionately on the mouth. My face was covered in his cum, but he didn’t care. He kissed the spunk from my lips, then began licking it off my face. I came, screaming my head off over how nasty it was, and had another orgasm when he sucked his jizz off my tits.

“There are some more potholes on my side of the road,” I told him as I filled his water bottle. “You need to come back tomorrow and take care of those. Wear those same jeans, please.”