A B.A.D. Man/How Does It Feel To Be Me

You know what?

Where are my manners?

In my haste to tell my story about Dr. Rix, I totally failed to introduce myself. I'd probably give you a business card if I could, but I doubt that's going to happen because in my line of work, the least amount of evidence the better chance my business has to survive under the radar. Not that I wouldn't like to advertise my SERVICES (because I do believe that they are necessary...or more like a necessary evil); however, like I said, the smaller the paper trail, the better.

Guess that kinda makes this account of my life an oxy moron, huh?

Anyway, back to what I was saying. Allow me to introduce myself:

My name is Braylon Arlen Davis.

B.A.D. (Damn, that sounded corny as hell). But I'd like to consider myself one bad mutha-----.

I'm not going to give you one of those classified ads that give all my stats. You know...like:

Handsome black male, 29, college educated (advanced) iso of female companion looking to enjoy leisurely outings.

Uh, no. That shit sounds desperate as fuck. And I, for one, am not desperate.

If I sat down to write words that described my looks and personality, I'd almost feel a bit narcissistic...because I'd really have to get descriptive. Say maybe:


6'3
Athletic
Polished brown skin tone
Mesmerizing brown eyes

Sexy? Nope. I would like to think I was a little more humble than that. But let me take a minute to toot my own horn (TOOT TOOT...)

I could list so many more, but I don't think you'd care to hear me go on and on.

But I bet I know what you would like to hear how I make my living. Hell, by now I would think that you had some sort of inkling about what it is that I do. But...fuck it:

I AM A MALE ESCORT.

Now before you go "Ewww...that's nasty" and all that other shit, let me just politely insist taht you take up the mantra "to each his own." I, personally, don't feel that I need to explain myself to you because what I do is my business (and I do mean MY BUSINESS), but I made it a point to let you in this far. So if you're this far in reading, you're just as bad.

Why, you say? Apalled?

You shouldn't be. It's not your fault that you are hooked, sitting down reading. Just like MY WORK, I was built to fullfill fantasies. As you're reading, you want to know my every move...learn my style...know what makes me tick. I'm the type you'd love to hate but become a fiend for the words that I type onto the screen.

Is it the sexy escapades of entertaining the finest of the city's elite, sexing high end clientele on the rooftop of the SunDial restaurant? Or are you to scared to step into my world, yet rack your brain wondering not just how it feels to be me...but to be with me (for the ladies, of course)?

Seriously, I don't try to come off as some type of arrogant SOB, as I do believe their is a fine line between confidence and arrogance. I just happen to walk the line, yet never enough to turn off a customer. Mama didn't raise me like that. I just figure if you're not paying my bills...hold up, scratch that...You are paying my bills.

What I'm saying is that you can't knock the hustle because I'm getting paid...and paid mighty well, I might add. My suits are tailored. My shoe game is colder taht a penguin giving head on top of the North Pole. A weekly fresh cut is the norm.

Condo in the city? Check. But the bell man won't even let my younger brother come up without my permission.

And you think you're not going to look twice at the black F430 (Ferarri, that is)? You're most definitely right because that's my Sunday car, and I don't work on Sundays (sinners got to get saved...or in my case, saved enough till the next week). So you'll just have to watch me pass by in the champagne Escalade.

These things are necessary to continued success in my business; because in this beautiful, Black Mecca we call Atlanta, I am a commodity. Tell me what woman (in her right mind) doesn't want a STRAIGHT BLACK MAN who not only looks the part, but acts and plays the part of a successful, refined gentelman to perfection. And with a strong sex game to match, too? Shit!!!

Fuck having a Dos Equis...Grab me!!!

And you can have that...and maybe more. For the right price...

Man, sorry about that soapbox, but when you got a knack for what you do, and you know you do it well, you embrace it. Like I'm really tempted to tell you more but I do have a dinner date in about 45 minutes; and if I'm going to be enticingly late, it's going to take me at least 40 minutes to get ready.

It's a good thing I took that payment upfront. On occassions like this, it's necessary (this was a blind date for some corporate lawyer chick whose friend described her as a bitter workaholic who just needs an afternoon squirt) to make sure you get the money upfront. Hell, she don't know I'm gonna be late, but it'll be worth her while.

But thst's another story for another day. So until then...

Stay tuned or stay thirsty. It's up to you.



-B.A.D.