Decker's Wood by Kirsty Dallas
Chapter 1
DECKER
Have you ever reached that point in your life where you look around and everything just seems gloomy and morose? When colors turn grey and all you see is boring monotony? And dirty laundry. I was tired, I was miserable, and I had finally reached the point where I no longer cared about anything, including laundry. The world felt tedious and dull, my head constantly ached, I drank too much, and I couldn’t bother to work out. My apartment was trashed. I had stopped wearing underwear weeks ago because of the aforementioned laundry situation. I sniffed my armpit; I think I smelled funky too. The soft tinkle of feminine laughter spilled from down the hallway. Oh, and did I mention I was completely and utterly done with sex? I was sick to death of the sight of it, the feel of it, and the smell of it; I was outsexed, done, timeout boys, Decker Steele is throwing a tantrum. I was officially putting myself out to pasture. At thirty-two-years of age, I was taking myself off the damn menu!
I’ve had sex in every position conceivable and a few very unconceivable positions. I have methodically worked my way through the Karma Sutra and that, my friends, has some impressive feats amongst its covers. I’ve had twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, even five and sixsomes. I’ve had sex on beds, couches, tables, cars, pools, saunas, weight benches, hospital beds, and beaches; in fact, it might be easier to list the places I haven’t screwed. I glanced around the room and shrugged. Nah, nothing came to mind, I’d fucked everywhere. I’m not bragging, but it is what it is. As a porn star, I have accumulated more notches on my bed post than most social man-whores would in a lifetime. At one time, I had liked sex—hell, I loved sex—and I was good at it. But somewhere during my illustrious career, something had gone horribly wrong. After twelve years in the porn industry, I have seen so much *, I am ashamed to say I am tired of it. Maybe I had poked one too many girls and was turning into one now. I had considered the possibility I was gay, but that isn’t the case. I had spent enough time around naked men and meat whistles to know that wasn’t my chosen dish. The simple fact was, the power of the * had lost its effect on me. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Give up sex? Keep up the pill popping and continue to contribute that perfected false enthusiasm and pitiful moans of faux enjoyment?