Once Upon a Fabswingers...
In a kingdom not-so-far away (literally just off the A47, past Dodgy Derek’s—the one that sells “snow” year-round and still thinks dial-up’s a vibe), lived a dashing prince. That’s me. Prince Gent. Yes, really. No crown, but I’ve got a throne—and it vibrates.
Now I wasn’t your typical fairytale prince. I didn’t rescue maidens or fight dragons. I massaged married men, dodged weird kinks like "feeders with foot fetishes," and had a tongue so sharp it could slice through a Karen at full entitlement.
Prince Gent of Singletonland.
Still single. Still fabulous.
After snogging more frogs than a French wet market and entertaining enough weirdos to start my own docuseries, I finally cried into my third rosé and shouted:
“Fuck it. I’m seeking MEN.”
Not boys. Not trolls with ‘daddy abandonment issues and a vape’. Actual. Fully. Grown. Men.
Men with arms like scaffolding. Cocks with confidence. And a credit score that doesn’t trigger a call from Experian’s trauma line.
So off he rode—quite literally.
Through the enchanted realms of Grindr, FabSwingers, FabGuys, and even Scruff, where men’s faces are optional and every second profile is “Just looking for mates… and also throat destruction.”
He swiped past lads with tribal tats from 2006 and bios that read like deleted Love Island scenes:
“6ft if that matters x”
“Masc4Masc only”
“Into feet, piss, & pups – no timewasters!”
BLOCKED.
Unless the pup’s a husky and brings wine.
Then one night, a brave knight sent him a message:
“U up?”
To which Gent replied:
“Oh my, what big arms you have.”
And the knight purred:
“All the better to pin you down with, Daddy.”
Gent blushed so hard, his hole fluttered like a broken Disney animatronic.
Before he could say “safe word”, he was thrown over the knight’s steed harder than a Love Honey delivery on Prime. And let’s just say—he saw stars. And possibly God. Twice.
Now freshly bred and halfway to emotional damage, our Prince dusted himself off and carried on his noble mission of pleasure, chaos, and low expectations.
For you see, Prince Gent was famous in the land for two things:
1. A magic touch that could turn stress into moans faster than you can say,
“Once upon my face.”
2. And discretion so tight, MI5 took notes while wanking.
He welcomed all sorts to his pleasure palace:
Gym lads with more supplements than sense
Confused dads with “no labels but a raging boner”
And closet cases so deep, they were sharing bunk beds with Aslan.
But he had rules. Royal Decrees, if you will:
No anonymous meets. If you're wearing a mask, you’d better be robbing a bank or starring in Phantom of the Cockera.
No piss play. This isn’t Splash Mountain. And I’m not hosting Urinating with the Stars.
And don’t call him “Daddy” unless you’re under 25, smell like fresh debt, and come with a pension plan that excites him more than your dick pic.
Now, of course, the villagers whispered.
“Too rude.”
“Too bold.”
“Too horny with a spiritual gift voucher.”
But Gent wasn’t a villain. He was a legend.
A greased-up, emotionally-available, sarcasm-fuelled warlock of willy-wizardry.
And when he finally found a worthy suitor?
They didn’t ride off into the sunset.
Oh no.
They stayed in—with red wine, whipped cream, a waterproof mattress cover, and enough moaning to make the castle’s foundation shift.
And thus ends our tale...
Or is it the start of yours?
Swipe well. Lube often.
And if you’re nervous—just wink.
Prince Gent will handle the rest.
The End.
(Of your dignity. Probably your back. And definitely your peace and quiet.) |
