Samson: Diary of a Sexual Olympian

Some hack decided to write about my sex life. To the left is the cover to my book. You can read it here.

Though I will receive no royalties from my memoirs, I still got the better half of the deal. I got to fuck all those women while the writer sat at his computer and jerked off to my exploits.

Here's an excerpt...

Chapter One - Samson Agonistes

For a brief spell, let us hearken back to an epic time in an epic land, when knights spent their days in deeds of gallantry and gallants spent their nights in acts of coquetry.

A towering figure rode his trusty steed at a swift gallop across the empty heathland. His lustrous black mane hung in the wind, shining dimly in the moonlight. He wore it longer than many women but his muscular build left no mystery of his sex. It could be no one other than Samson, master of arms, juggler of hearts, and the hero of our chronicle.

Amstelland lay only a few versts ahead and he longed for a warm bed or, better put, a warm bed with a warm woman under the covers. Almost a fortnight had passed since his last amourette. So long ago and so lovely they were. The scene had arranged itself flawlessly: a chilly hayloft in the Burgundian countryside, a comely pair of Plowman's daughters, and a hastily scribbled invitation found in his saddlebag. Though he had lain in the noblest beds in Paris, he never turned down a brace of bucolic beauties. And they never refused his proposal for an exotic love triangle between the sheets.

Unfortunately, satiety never lasted far beyond the edge of the bed. Memories only stoked the fire in his loins when he traveled and a thousand unconsummated liasons lay on the road ahead. Samson spurred on his horse with an impatient slap and growl. He was on a Crusade of Love! His women needed him in their beds tonight! Yet no matter how loud he cursed the nag, it moved slower and slower until they came to a full stop.

The mouth of the woods rose defiantly at the edge of the heath. A seasoned local probably could navigate those parts after dark but Jonah had never come that way before. He would sooner have jumped off a cliff than taken a single step into the dark forest ahead. Had our Lancelot of Love a worthier destrier, he might have been wenching before midnight. Jonah was not that horse. Samson promised him a lifetime supply of oats, a stable of mares in heat, and a golden bridle once they reached Amstelland but he would not budge. A well-placed kick in his side inspired a reluctant canter for a few paces before he turned back for the heathland. Though Samson had hoped their disagreement would not degenerate into confrontation, Jonah begged for a hard yank on the ears.

After a few purposeful tugs, his equestrian companion gave an angry whinny and shot off into the darkness on winged feet. Samson handled the bridle with only his instinct for eyes. The invisible landscape rushed by leaving no trace besides the wind at his ears. The void did not know beginnings or destinations. It did not know time. One found only movement in darkness there.

Samson gave a victory cry, thumping his broad, bare chest in triumph. He lived for those moments when one surrendered control in the name of total freedom. Chaos lay at the heart of the Crusade of Love. When Samson undressed his lovers, they shed more than their clothes. The heroic hedonist liberated them from laws and possessions, from rules and inhibitions. He took them to a primal state of being in which only the delights of the flesh held sway.

“All hail the Crusade of Love!” he yelled.

“All hail the Triumph of Ecstasy!” he yelled even louder.

“Spread your legs, wenches! SAMSON IS COMMMMMMMMMINGG!”

Samson growled in pain as he came to. A low-hanging branch had knocked the knight off of his saddle and out of his senses. He cursed the bones of St. Christopher, the twelve disciples, Mary, and Moses. He cursed his luck, his horse, and his reckless spirit. He cursed some more and painfully climbed to his feet. He was alone. Jonah had continued his mad gallop without his passenger. The nag might have reached Amstelland by then for all he knew.

A short search led our hero to a glade along a riverbank. The moonlight trickled through the leafy canopy of branches. He gathered kindling in near dark. Samson yawned and cursed the bones of St. Christopher one last time and lay back on the damp grass.

The troubled warble of the nightingale played a counterpoint to the crackling of the bonfire. Samson felt her song ebb and flow in his ear, a little consoled that someone had the kindness to sing him a lullaby. But sleep would not visit him until much later that night. In those lonely places without the caress of a wench's lips, he had no other companion besides Mnemesonye. And though she flirted with him in a thousand memories, she never laid by his side.

"A strange life, methinks," he laughed to himself.

Indeed, who would have thought that the mighty Samson could have found himself in such a predicament? Freebooters spoke with terror of his fierce Corsican temperament. Troubadours celebrated his elegant brutality. The everyman shuddered at even the sound of his name. If there had been a dozen Samson’s wandering the globe, they could not have performed all the feats ascribed to his personage. And here he lay, lost and penniless without even a horse to his name.

Samson often heard stories about himself when he traveled incognito. At those times, he often wound up in some obscure tavern, quietly listening to the drunks at the next table. The conversation always began the same way. Someone spoke about horses or wenches and mentioned his name in passing, prompting his companions to recount the latest sightings.

"A most honorable troubadour,” rambled the first man. “Whose acquaintance I made the day before, swears to me that Samson vanquished a battalion of Persian soldiers to the last man. He has claimed the sultan’s harem as his booty.”

"Nonsense!" cried the second. "He has repented of his sinful ways and plans another crusade to Jerusalem."

"No, that cannot be" interrupted a third. “He visited this very tavern just a fortnight ago and beheaded a man with a single sweep of his sword. T'was no more than a quarrel over a serving wench."

The more they drank, the sillier the tales.

Samson could only shrug his broad shoulders in amusement when he overheard such babble. He could not recall the last occasion he fought over a woman. Women fought over him, at least, until the silver-tongued cavalier could soothe their tempers and woo the rival paramours to bed, either one at a time or preferably together. If he laid anyone on their back, he always preferred a wench in heat to an enemy in combat.

Though many a yarn entangled his true nature, Samson’s extraordinary strength had lent some credulity to his bellicose reputation. For instance, he never denied the "Tale of the Anvil". As it happened, a smithy had become so incensed by Samson's flirtations with his daughters that he declared to all and sundry that he would emasculate the philanderer with his tongs. The fool had been carrying on with such bluster for so long that Samson had no other choice than to have a talk with him. One sunny afternoon, our hero strolled into his shop and casually greeted him by the forge.

“Dear Sir, may I have a word with you?” he spoke with his most cheerful smile.

Disinclined for a civilized dialogue, the smithy swung his tongs at the visitor’s face. Samson’s hand flew up and caught them with ease, twisting the handle away from its wielder, the unexpected force throwing the man to his knees. Having gained the attention of his foe, he grasped the ends in each hand and casually bent his tongs in half like a hairpin. He dropped the mangled piece of iron at the smithy's feet with a broad smile and pranced over to the anvil.

The smithy looked on with amazement. Four burly men could not have carried it out of his shop. With a determined growl, the Strongman hoisted it off the ground, lifted it above his head, and threw an ominous gaze to the shivering man at his feet. The smithy began to weep, unsure whether to spend his last moments in prayer or in a desperate plea for mercy. Before he could decide, however, Samson had rested the anvil back on the ground, wished him a good day, and hurried off for a liason in the woods with his youngest daughter.

Befitting his mythos, Samson possessed a truly awesome appearance, standing over six and a half feet tall with mighty arms and legs bulging with muscle. Our hero was not modest about his body and made no mystery of his physique. When the bathkeeper sounded his horn for opening-time, he strode across the square, stripped above the belt with his head held high, his torso flaring from the waist like the head of a cobra, his stomach rippling like the staunchest portcullis, his chest armored with a breastplate of muscle that glistened like bronze in the sunlight. Although such nudity scandalized the zealous and jealous, even maidens of the highest virtue peeked through the shutters each morning to behold his exuberant display of masculinity.

Among the fair sex, the handsome knight had earned the distinction as a mighty swordsman in a more intimate way. Samson’s amorous exploits were legendary. He literally bedded thousands of women. Not content with possessing one woman at a time, he arranged trysts with multiple admirers who shared his love without complaint. To the astonishment of friend and foe alike, he never found himself lacking for accommodating partners eager to participate in his saturnalian activities. Hardly a night passed without him landing in bed with a bevy of wanton wenches in his arms for a love marathon.

Though he claimed he owed his successes to gallantry, he could not deny the allure of the most prominent aspect of his amorous reputation. In an aroused state, it extended thirteen and a half inches, measuring eight inches around, thundering upwards in a dramatic, powerful arc, hard as steel, hot as flame. Even at rest, it hung nine inches down to the middle of his thigh. He often became the source of much curiosity at the tailor when he requested baggy breeches or a custom-made codpiece to accommodate his special equipment.

Because of his extraordinary way with women, our hero occupied himself a great deal more with love than war as the years went by. Quite simply, he was living every man's fantasy and enjoyed his life in the boudoir far too much to risk it on the battlefield. Had he not needed the money so badly, he would have retired a long time ago.

Nonetheless, his scandalous reputation obscured his prowess. He had once crossed swords with the finest warriors of his age. For all of the lives he saved and kingdoms recovered, he should have earned a title with a vast fiefdom and an elaborate entourage. But if Samson the Warrior had the strength of a dozen men, Samson the Lover had the lust of a hundred. He had taken the crooked path again and again, and in the end, he had no choice but to work as a freelancer, without liege or squire, no more worthy of knighthood than sainthood.

"How could a soldier of such promise have descended to these lowly depths?"

Many had asked him that question. Samson always replied with a gleeful retort but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the angry voice of an earnest young man. The boy cursed his coarseness, his restless sensuality, and regretted his very being.

Samson: Diary of a Sexual Olympian

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