It starts with a dream…
“It was a dream like no other. So unbelievably vivid that I still remember it like it occurred five minutes ago. I stood naked on a stage before an audience comprised of women who’d crossed my path over the past decade. Not unlike what Guido Anselmi fantasized in Fellini’s 8 ½. My physique was impressive but not the steroid-fueled one I had at that time. This one was pure and natural. More like the post-steroid body I’m rocking now. Perhaps my body was trying to tell me something, but I was several years away from listening. I was rock hard in every way imaginable. Stalking the stage like a wild animal. Awash in fog and multicolored lighting.
“Every member of my audience looked to me for leadership. But I didn’t merely want to tell them what to do. I wanted each woman to find the courage to do exactly as she desired in that moment. For me to stand before them physically, mentally, and emotionally naked required total confidence without a shred of self-doubt. Each girl took a piece of my confidence, made it her own, and chased her respective sexual muse. Many danced and joined me in being naked. Some performed sex acts with me. And some with one another. A few chose to derive pleasure from watching the debauchery surrounding them. No matter her persuasion, it was all good.”
The above passage from my bare-all male stripper memoir recounts the most vivid dream I’ve ever had. And since I’m otherwise not wont to give a flying fuck about dreams, you know it’s serious. This cock erecting and pussy soaking vision came to me one rainy spring night in 2008. During my stay at a motel in Bald Knob, Arkansas. Yes, Bald Knob. Eerily funny and prophetic at once. And yet the answer is so simple and has always been there: Let my Fellini-sized bald knob lead the way.
The first self-portrait shot with my first DSLR camera in October 2011. Taken in my unheated garage on a 30-degree night. I’m not even at full mast. Achieving that glory requires the assistance of the right woman. Or women. Regardless, it’s still an amazing photo that later became the cover for the second edition of my memoir. At the time, however, I was throwing everything and the kitchen sink at trying to lift my stripping agency and me from our prolonged slump. And yet the answer was so simple and staring me right in the face. A big and hard answer. One of a magnitude that fewer than 1% of men possess. The most coveted physical attribute in the world. One that no amount of money can buy or ever truly compensate for not being born with. The brand name my adult entertainer side had always so sorely lacked until now:
Cockiavelli
A name so simple and natural for me. One that advertises my porn star-sized manhood and Machiavellian leadership principles in a single word. Along with my penchant for puns. It cuts through any and all bullshit. Informing the world that I am sexy and playful but also in complete control and not to be fucked with. A declaration that I have picked myself up to move forward, cranking my strengths to eleven, while leaving the basic bitches of parties past in the dust. Freeing myself from the weight of others’ piss-poor life choices on my shoulders to pursue my hedonistic manifest destiny with unbridled enthusiasm. Refusing to apologize for my ample endowment by birthright. Letting my porn star-sized cock be my guide. Backed up by my firm bubble butt for good measure. This is Cockiavelli. Both the man and the project. And you’re going to love every minute of it should you choose to free yourself too and just go along with my pursuit of pleasure over pain.
Where do you want to go with me? Just bend over and let my enormous manhood lead the way, pussycats.