Raw Talent |2| Give It To Me Jackman DuVall

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Jackman DuVall was too much. Too much talent, too much charisma. Too much money. Everything about him was raw, rough. Unfettered. He was like a stallion that’s gotten off the leash and done very well for itself.

“Give it to me Jackman DuVall” said everyone. Nobody ever called him Jackman. It was like they needed to use both names to accommodate how much man he was. Everyone was intimidated by him. Even the Pope. The Pope had never met Jackman DuVall and they both knew why.

The woman (he called them all Deborah, it took too long to learn their names when there were so many) gazed at him adoringly. It was one of the six most common ways people gazed at Jackman DuVall. Adoringly. Admiringly. Adversarially. Enviously. Longingly. Respectfully. And, gazing at Deborah’s long tanned legs oozing forth from his black silk smoking jacket, Jackman DuVall added another to the repertoire. Lustfully.

This Deborah was pretty amazing. She was a successful diplomat who spoke seven languages. And last night he had made her gasp in all seven. Jackman DuVall made women see God on a very regular basis. Not the God of churches, mosques and synagogues, but the real kind. The kind you get from exceptional, grade-A sex.

“Would you like more coffee, Jackman DeVall?” asked Deborah. He didn’t respond, because he was thinking about business. She asked again in mandarin and Arabic and he inclined his head masterfully. She knew he meant, get out of my life, Deborah. I’m like the wind. You cannot cage me. 

For, though he was probably the best human being on the planet bar none. Jackman DuVall had never been in love. At least not the kind where you wanted them to stick around the following morning. Am I right, bro?

Header Image via decoist.com

Chapter 3