As you kind readers may know, I had a whopper of a day on Wednesday.
I arrived in a certain Latin American country EARLY. While I had business scheduled, I also invited a local blogger who I read and email here and there to meet me for a cup of coffee. Considering that she is MUCH younger than me (I was double her age not that many years ago), I figured it would be a great cup of coffee, good conversation, a nice hug, and off she goes. As I said in my previous 3-part post, we talked, walked and ended up at my hotel room just 2 hours later. 2 orgasms on her part, 1 on mine and we had a nice afternoon in my king-sized bed.
I wasn't sure if I'd see her again, considering my busy schedule and her summer of fun with friends, but the next morning, as I was walking to get breakfast at 9:45am, I received an SMS from her: "I want to see you, NOW." Uh oh, I need to eat.
As I wandered looking for food to eat, I saw her walk up. Tall, slim, curvy, gorgeous Andalusian eyes and hair that makes me swoon, my gaze was fixated on watching her walk up to me. Since she's my secret latin lover, and I'm her gringo, we had to limit PDA to basically a latin hello smooch on the cheek. It was hard not to embrace her, bend her at her waist and throw my lips on hers. Ouch.
I hadn't eaten, and I didn't see any breakfast-type places at the center of the action, so I invited her to my hotel lobby for breakfast there. She had already eaten, but we sat down in the lobby restaurant and she helped me order an omelette with cheese and chilis. The waiter, in Spanish, warned me that they were caliente. Duh, it's LATIN-FUCKING-AMERICA. I ordered coffee, she ordered orange juice.
My plate came, quickly, and it was perfection. I'm not sure what it is about the beef and eggs in this country, but it definitely tastes better. Sandra, my new latin lover, sipped her orange juice while we talked about her evening prior, hanging out with friends and doing the college summer break thing. Ahh, to be sub-21 again.
I finished, quickly, as I always do, but realized I had forgotten my cell phone in my room upstairs. I asked her to follow me while I get it. No, no, you perverted fucks, I really just needed my cell phone, and it wasn't a Costanza-style leave-behind. In the elevator, she threw her face at me and we kissed, arriving at the 3rd floor too quickly. We wandered down the hallway, and I could FEEL the eyes of the cleaning ladies after the loud cries of pleasure emanating from my room yesterday. I hope Sandra didn't notice.
We entered my room, and I snagged the cell phone, and a few more kisses. I've said it before: I love passionate women, age is not a factor. This gal, with her minor dalliances of past lovers/boyfriends, has passion down to an art and a science. She can get Little Fire Hydrant ready to put out her fire in about 3 seconds.
But that's not how Sane rolls. It's important to me to stay one step ahead of their teases, and she knew full well what I had in mind. Our first day we met, and 2 hours later I had my face between her thighs, bringing her off loudly and harshly. But no sex. I wasn't going to corner myself into bed with her without knowing how she'll handle the next step -- if there is to be another step. I'm here for a few days, and then who knows when I'll see her again? It's important to me that a lover's head, heart, body and soul all be in the right place; I never want to be the guy who takes advantage of someone.
So we left the hotel room. The smile on both of our faces was bright, and it brought smiles from every hotel employee as we walked past them. I wanted to check out the mall in town, which was a 10 minute cab ride from my hotel. We caught a cab in front of the hotel and zipped off, ready to spend my money on something nice.
We arrived at the mall, which is very modern, just like back in the States. $5 for quite a long haul, not bad. As we wandered, I told her I needed a belt, but I would love to put her in some shoes, or a dress, or get her a purse or another accessory. She had no part of it at all. I could barely pay for her orange juice earlier; she's not looking to be my sugar baby. Too bad, I'd love to doll her up and then strip her down to only what I bought her.
So we wandered the mall, looking at every men's store for the belt I want. I HATE belts with holes and pins, prefering the kind that clasps at any size without the need to puncture leather. After 3 or 4 stores, we found it: PERFECTION. The perfect color (light tan), the perfect size, and a unique clasp I had never seen before. I paid for the belt after trying to get her to pick out something for herself, but I let with only my bag.
We wandered the mall a bit more, and then hopped another cab to yet another mall to wander around a bit. Again, she denied my desire to put her into something sexy or slinky or gorgeous. We sat down and I had an espresso doble (again) and she had a strawberry smoothie (again) just like our first "date" yesterday. We also shared a keylime and grapefruit pie/cake that was fairly decent if not enough acidic.
After the second mall, we headed back to my hotel, both of us realizing we hadn't slept enough and needed a nice cuddle-and-nap. Back up to the third floor it was, and she sat on my bed while I checked my email, twitter, Facebook and blog comments. I could see the tiredness in her eyes, so I sat on the bed with her, laid down, and cradled her head on my chest and shoulder.
It didn't take long for her bronzed skin and toned body to beckon my fingers, and again I played teasingly on her shoulders and arms, taking her hands into my hands and entangling fingers while I returned back to her upper back. Goosebumps, again.
As she let me tease her skin and back, clothes slowly came off as we embraced, holding each others faces with our fingers as we passionately battled lips and tongues. I withdrew a few times, which made her erupt "TEASE!" more than once. Yes, yes I am.
She inhaled my man scent a few times, and commented on it. I've heard it before, and I have no idea what I smell like: cigarettes, coffee, halitosis? Well, whatever works.
She straddled me, her gorgeous thighs wrapped around mine, both of us still wearing our jeans. She removed her top, and I moved my hands from the small of her back to her shoulders, casually flicking her bra strap off in a split second. I'm sure she was impressed, and she laid her tits on my chest and we wrapped ourselves up in our bodies, our kisses, our mutual passions and desires for one another.
After what seemed like eternity (but wasn't, I move too fast with this gal!), I brushed her off of me in order to go wash my hands in the bathroom. It's a good tactic, because I also leave my medicine bag in there, the one with the 6 condoms. I was a bit worried about not being able to find my particular brand of condoms in this part of the world, and I was right: none of the pharmacies carry it. Argh.
As I returned, I had her remove her jeans and her underwear. For a young gal, she is quite the comfortable nudist. I absolutely adore her body: her curves, her skin, her almost-invisible tan lines. Her goosebumps I provide her drive me up a wall, and her pussy is always glistening and ready for what I have in mind, be it teasing or licking or touching. As I stroked her thighs and they spread, her scent filled my nose and reached down into my soul. There is nothing more sexy than a woman who is wet with desire from just my kisses and my caresses.
I needed to taste her, and I didn't waste time at all. I kissed my way down her chest, actually giving her nipples a smooth encircling with my tongue before teasingly biting only a slight bit. She moaned as my mouth passed her pubic mound; I inhaled and took in her gorgeous feminine scent. I had already made her come with my mouth once yesterday, so I turned her over onto her belly.
I spread her legs, ass pointing to the ceiling, and shoved my head between her legs. With her belly on the bed and her pubes also touching fabric, I wanted to give her a different clit licking than she had probably had before with her limited experience.
Her pussy tastes amazing, definitely a top notch situation. I've tasted some boring ones, but this is nothing short of perfection. I lapped at her lips, her clit, fucking her pussy with my tongue as I rubbed her ass and thighs. Every time her ass tried to move into the air, I forced it down with my hand, knowing the pressure against the bed will bring her off quicker.
And it didn't take long. Her mouth her buried in the pillow, biting down possibly on the fabric. I kept her ass forced down as I put all the pressure I could on her clit, taking it into my lips and then licking at it as it became fully engorged. She moaned, muffled, and tried to tell me she was going to come, but it really came out as "ah, Ah, AHH, I'm going to (muffle) AHH AHHH AHHHHHH" and then she did.
My face, as the day before, got soaked as she came on it and into my mouth. I slurped up as much as I could while she came down, her hips grinding less and less.
The she collapsed on the bed, and I nuzzled up next to her, my arm around her back and shoulder, my hands on her arm, feeling her breaths slow, her body loosen, her goosebumps falling away as she basked in the glory of what seemed to be a very strong orgasm.
To be continued in Part II. Suckers.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Mindfuck: worthy of years of brainwashing
It's an interesting life, trying to submit one's self to living beneath others. It's important to me to try to hide my own value and power in any relationship, be it family, friends, business or love.
I do the opposite of what others do, and it works. Whereas other men in dating try to show their power and financial strength with expensive cars, expensive watches, expensive homes and expensive spending, I do the opposite: I drive old, used cars, I wear a watch from 1984, I have a tiny apartment in a low-income neighborhood, and I tend to not spend a lot of money when I am with people or on a date.
Those who see through the charade are keepers for life, and I have a few of those that would consider me their equal in many ways. I even try to keep my mental strengths lower than those I deal with. When you play poker, you never want to show your cards, and in life's poker game, I don't even want people knowing I'm in the game.
The businesses I am a part owner in rarely have my name associated with them. I don't want employees or managers knowing I'm involved; I can stop by and judge their service without getting a fake response. I don't tell friends or family what I am involved in as I don't like to discount my own value by giving freebies to those who don't really deserve them.
There comes a time, though, when the cover needs to be blown. For me, especially in business, I find that the mindfuck is the absolute greatest talent a strong entrepreneur can have. I've used it against lifelong clients, I've used it during the negotiation process in bidding, and I've used it against my enemies and my colleagues when the time comes that I need to defend my own status, profit or investment.
Recently, I had to put the hammer to the anvil in a harsh way, due to what a subordinate involved in one of my business ventures did. The best part of the mindfuck is the long term oppression that comes of doing it correctly.
In a new business venture I started early last year, I aided 4 very-excited peers in starting a business venture. They're all college bred with tons of paper knowledge, but zero business strength. One of them has an MBA that is more useless than the paper I wipe my ass with, but they like to tell people about it. Wasted effort, I would never personally hire an MBA, and I tend not to do business with them, either.
Still, they had a decent idea for a new market that was completely untapped, and I had capital sitting on the sidelines, plus inside connections in a sister industry that I had favors waiting to be paid to me. Of course, the peers I was investing in didn't know much about my history, and they solely looked to me like an angel investor. They didn't know where the money came from, and all I told them was that I would be a middle-man for finding OPM (Other People's Money) and take on those debt notes under my name while funneling the capital to their business.
By using inside connections discretely, I was able to afford their business some interesting value that others would never be able to touch. It's amazing what a few favors pulled from a warehouse manager or a distribution sales representative or even just having helped out a guy who installs PBX systems can do for a fledgling business.
Within 6 months, they were profitable. The profit was so strong that they wanted to take on debt themselves to buy me out, but I warned them about it: I don't want my money back, I want the profit over many years to make it worth my time (and favors) invested. A clause in our agreement said I could dispel any offers for buy-out at less than par plus 40% per annum over 5 years. They weren't going to give me 3X my money back, so they accepted the fact that I was going to be a part-owner until 2013.
Then it happened: I asked the managing partner for a favor, a simple favor. It would take him 1 hour of his time, wouldn't take him out of his way, and would cost him zero, other than the 1 hour and maybe $2 in gas. No big deal.
I reiterated the importance of this simple favor. Imagine if I asked you, on your way to or from work, to stop by ANY store and buy me ANYTHING worth $2. I don't care what it is, just can you please do it for me? That's how simple it is. Now imagine that I came up with $100,000 a year earlier to help you start a business that is making you $60,000 a year in profit. Would you go barely out of your way and spend $2 in exchange for what I had done for you? Sure, you would.
But this managing partner had decided that my favor payment was not worthy of his time. I texted him the day of in the morning and he said "Sure, sure." I followed up 9 hours later and he said "Oh, I am so busy, maybe tomorrow." Maybe? The next day, I waited until 5pm and he said "Oh, I just can't get around to it, it's no big deal. Can't you do it yourself?"
No. I can't. But I didn't tell him that. In fact, I didn't reply.
Weeks passed and I felt a need to go visit the campus of the business, look through some of the books, and pick up a check for my share of the recently acquired booty. I never warn people when I stop by, I just go.
Everyone was happy to see me, there were smiles on their faces, we all shook hands, hugged, shared some cups of coffee, broke bread in the virtual sense. We sat down for a good hour, and I listened to their tales of new contracts, higher-than-expected earnings, and smooth acquisitions of needed assets and tools through suppliers that I secretly opened the door for. It was good to see them flourish, and better to know that my favors pulled would mean an extra 5-10% profit for yours truly.
All was kosher, but Mr. Managing Partner didn't take me aside and apologize for his inept management of the little favor I had asked. In fact, never once did he apologize, or even address it after the second day he blew it off. I hold grudges, but I don't mention them.
The next day, he had the opportunity to buy out a competitor's failed inventory of office equipment: $250,000 worth of assets and tools for under $20,000. Mr. MP called me up on my personal cell and told me about it. I told him it sounded like a fantastic idea. He asked if I could drum up the cash capital to make the acquisition, and I told him surely I could. He asked when I could get him the money, and I told him: Oh, I didn't want to extend myself for his hobbies. "Hobbies?" You know, the little side hobby you 4 have running in my shop. "Your shop?" Well, I do own the building. "WHAT? I thought you negotiated a lease with the landlord." Of course I did, I am the landlord. He was flabbergasted. I told him I had to run, that I was busy playing a game on Facebook and hung up the phone before he could answer.
A few weeks passed, and Mr. MP called me again. This time, he wanted some advice on a possible bid package they had received. It was 50 pages of disclosures that normally I would spend the time reading and approving. "I think this is a huge project." It probably is. "We really want to get it." I hope you do, it'll be a great lesson in getting to the next level of the market. "Do you want to look it over?" Not really, I'm not interested. "It'll be huge profits for you, too." I'm fine with what I'm earning. I told him that my cat needed to be fed and hung up the phone again without waiting for a response.
More time passed, and I collected my checks regularly until they had a problem on a job that I decided not to get involved in. Pressure was building, and things were slipping because I wasn't pulling the puppet strings anymore. At this point in time I had made back almost 70% of my investment, and the asset value of the company was significant enough that I could liquidate it at 30% of par and come out well ahead for the year. A 20% gain isn't much, but it means I'm ahead with very little time invested. I lost my heart for the business, over that 1 hour favor dropped.
Mr. MP called me again, begging for help on fixing the failures of their contract negotiation. "I think we underbid on the labor side." Fire people. "Well, we need those people for the next project." Cancel that contract. "There's a 25% neglect stipulation we'd have to pay." I guess pay it. "We can make this job profitable." All jobs are profitable, it's the management that dropped the ball.
They didn't make the job's end point, again because they had no insiders in the acquisition process. My own insiders called me personally to ask if I wanted them to help the company, and I told them hell no. In the end, the firm lost close to $20,000 in negligence fees for dropping the ball and harming other contractors on the job. No big deal, they had the money in the bank. Barely.
Other projects brought in nice profits, though, so by year's end I had profited enough to cover my own investment fully, plus I was making an excellent return on the lease rate they were paying. I calculated my hours worked total on my time with them, and I divided them into the profit I made. It wasn't a good profit, but it was profitable nonetheless. Plus, their net asset had risen, so liquidating the firm would mean a great profit on investment: over 35% for the year.
Then the shit hit the fan. They came in low on some bids that I knew were too low, they hadn't read the contract documents clearly enough, and they never negotiated a list of concerns about various schedule conflicts with other trades. I could have looked at the bid documents for 10 minutes and made a list of 30 conflicts immediately, but I didn't. Again, my heart was gone.
Mr. MP asked me to attend a meeting, so I decided to go. They all aired their grievances with their mistakes at each other, and I decided to stand up and walk out. "Why are you leaving, we need your advice." I'm leaving because your little hobby is boring to me. Don't be late with rent. "You're going to lose a fortune!" I've made a fortune, I'm done playing games. Go and have your MBA and your college degrees printed on big banner material so that you can brag to the world how smart you are. "What should we do?" Retire. Get jobs at Wal*Mart. Move in with mommy and daddy, or whatever it is that people do when they fuck up so much. I left.
It was at this time that I took a hiatus from life, just before December of 2008. I had ZERO contact with them other than casually reading their emails pleading with me for more capital infusion. I emailed them and said "Ask mommy and daddy, or contact some alumni from whatever school you think taught you business." Mr. MP was not happy, and I heard through the grapevine that he was blaming me solely for the mess. My insiders would always laugh for a good 2 minutes after getting off the phone with him.
When I returned in March of 2009 from my 4 month break, the company was disheveled. I arrived one day when they were slow, looked over the books, and sat them down in a meeting. I told 3 of the partners that they were exceptional workers, but all their problems came because Mr. MP had no clue what he was doing. They all stared at him, then asked me what to do. "Buy him out. Let's put in someone better, someone who didn't waste 6 years of their lives sitting in classrooms with 3 fingers rubbing their prostates." They all nodded. Mr. MP stared at the red-heavy P&L report on the conference room table below him.
After the meeting, Mr. MP asked me why I blamed him. I told him it was because he was clueless, useless, and had no virtue or sense for business. "But I went by the book on everything." Exactly. There is no book on business, there is no school or training that explains the intricacies of the 5000 decisions you SHOULD have made but didn't. "So what will happen to us?" You will be fired with a buy-out that should leave you with a few grand after paying your corporate share of the outstanding accounts payables. "And the rest?" I'll help them find someone who can run things in better shape.
Two weeks later, he cleaned out his desk and his closet. The partners and I all countersigned a check for $7334 in his name, and he turned over his stock share in the firm. I looked over his paychecks for the 14 months he worked there, and he ended up making about $40,000. If I was involved, his second year could have been three times that, but I stayed hands off.
Once he was out the door, I introduced the staff to a bright kid, about 24 years old, who failed out of high school. I told them that he bought Mr. MP's shares from me, and would be an equal party in the firm's rebirth. The bright kid, who I had known for 8 years, was a strong earner, and he also knew how to play the game. He had zero education, but his business sense was second only to me.
In 4 weeks, he recovered 3 lost clients by placing the blame fully on Mr. Ex-MP, explaining exactly what Mr. Ex-MP failed to do. The clients bought it hook, line and sinker. He acquired new projects and paid off past suppliers, plus interest, to re-open a few accounts. He turned the business around by month #2 (May, 2009) and by the end of June, he was earning a decent bounty for the other partners and myself.
I saw Mr. Ex-MP in the middle of July. He didn't have a job, and his $7334 check wasn't going to last long. Due to the stress of losing his position and shares, his relationship with his girlfriend imploded. He was couch-surfing with a buddy from college (who was also out of work, but was lucky to have parents footing his rent). I heard he applied at a video game store and was turned down.
We didn't talk long, but he did ask me a question: "Why did you drop the ball on the company?" I didn't, I dropped the ball on you. "It wasn't over that little project you asked me to do, was it?" Of course it was. "You could have paid someone $50 to do it." I asked you to do it. "I was too busy." You're not busy now, are you? "No. But it seems senseless to throw away tens of thousands of dollars over a simple favor." No favor is simple. The money you burned running things badly will be recovered in no time. "They're doing well?" Better than you ever did. Profits are skyrocketing, and I am letting them buy me out this year with no fee. "Why?" Because I wanted to pass on a lesson to you.
He nodded, and again looked down, his confidence blown. For the next few years, I will happily badmouth his degree and his MBA and his inability to understand business. Hopefully he makes the right decision and moves to another city, because I don't want to cross paths with him again. He's useless, and worthless and doesn't have a name for himself. I needed him to do a simple thing for me, and he failed. Now he's a failure.
And so, the Mindfuck happens. If you're walking down the street, basking in the sun, smiling at how life is going well, and you step on a colony of ants crossing the curb to get to their destination, you think nothing of squishing them. For me, Mr. Ex-MP is the same. He's vermin, thinking he's the top of the world when in fact he's squished under my shoe.
What will happen to him? He'll get a job in a lonely cubicle, with maybe his degree and MBA plastered on the wall, earning huge profits for a boss he never sees, for managing partners he rarely gets to meet. He'll never work in the industry I put him into again, because he fucked the wrong person over.
And I'm glad this is the way it is to be. He isn't the first person who crossed me that I crushed, and he won't be the last. People need harsh lessons to pass on to their kids. We'll call it a blood war, lasting the generations. Maybe my own son or daughter will get to a point in life where they pass his offspring in the business world, and you better believe I will remind them to never do business with anyone related to him. Why?
Because I can. Because I myself have been crushed, many years ago, by fucking over someone who I owed a small favor to. Because I appreciate THAT person more than anything, and now they know I have changed my act, apologized, made amends above and beyond the value of what I failed to do. Mr. Ex-MP won't do that. He's too proud. He doesn't understand business. Business is not a set of rules and regulations to be followed, there is no ISO stamp to tell people what to do and when.
Business is one thing: relationships. Not the ones you fulfill through phone calls or emails or orders or sales; relationships made through bribery and blackmail, pushing people as high up on the ladder you both climb as possible so when they hit their own ceiling, they'll pull you up after years of you pushing them up. That's how you climb, how you profit, how you win the game: by paying out favors done for you with favors others should do for you.
We're not talking big favors. We're talking the little ones. And when the sun is out, and there's a person walking down the street of life, and a shoe meets the curb and a colony of ants is wandering around, remember one thing: be the person wearing the shoe.
I do the opposite of what others do, and it works. Whereas other men in dating try to show their power and financial strength with expensive cars, expensive watches, expensive homes and expensive spending, I do the opposite: I drive old, used cars, I wear a watch from 1984, I have a tiny apartment in a low-income neighborhood, and I tend to not spend a lot of money when I am with people or on a date.
Those who see through the charade are keepers for life, and I have a few of those that would consider me their equal in many ways. I even try to keep my mental strengths lower than those I deal with. When you play poker, you never want to show your cards, and in life's poker game, I don't even want people knowing I'm in the game.
The businesses I am a part owner in rarely have my name associated with them. I don't want employees or managers knowing I'm involved; I can stop by and judge their service without getting a fake response. I don't tell friends or family what I am involved in as I don't like to discount my own value by giving freebies to those who don't really deserve them.
There comes a time, though, when the cover needs to be blown. For me, especially in business, I find that the mindfuck is the absolute greatest talent a strong entrepreneur can have. I've used it against lifelong clients, I've used it during the negotiation process in bidding, and I've used it against my enemies and my colleagues when the time comes that I need to defend my own status, profit or investment.
Recently, I had to put the hammer to the anvil in a harsh way, due to what a subordinate involved in one of my business ventures did. The best part of the mindfuck is the long term oppression that comes of doing it correctly.
In a new business venture I started early last year, I aided 4 very-excited peers in starting a business venture. They're all college bred with tons of paper knowledge, but zero business strength. One of them has an MBA that is more useless than the paper I wipe my ass with, but they like to tell people about it. Wasted effort, I would never personally hire an MBA, and I tend not to do business with them, either.
Still, they had a decent idea for a new market that was completely untapped, and I had capital sitting on the sidelines, plus inside connections in a sister industry that I had favors waiting to be paid to me. Of course, the peers I was investing in didn't know much about my history, and they solely looked to me like an angel investor. They didn't know where the money came from, and all I told them was that I would be a middle-man for finding OPM (Other People's Money) and take on those debt notes under my name while funneling the capital to their business.
By using inside connections discretely, I was able to afford their business some interesting value that others would never be able to touch. It's amazing what a few favors pulled from a warehouse manager or a distribution sales representative or even just having helped out a guy who installs PBX systems can do for a fledgling business.
Within 6 months, they were profitable. The profit was so strong that they wanted to take on debt themselves to buy me out, but I warned them about it: I don't want my money back, I want the profit over many years to make it worth my time (and favors) invested. A clause in our agreement said I could dispel any offers for buy-out at less than par plus 40% per annum over 5 years. They weren't going to give me 3X my money back, so they accepted the fact that I was going to be a part-owner until 2013.
Then it happened: I asked the managing partner for a favor, a simple favor. It would take him 1 hour of his time, wouldn't take him out of his way, and would cost him zero, other than the 1 hour and maybe $2 in gas. No big deal.
I reiterated the importance of this simple favor. Imagine if I asked you, on your way to or from work, to stop by ANY store and buy me ANYTHING worth $2. I don't care what it is, just can you please do it for me? That's how simple it is. Now imagine that I came up with $100,000 a year earlier to help you start a business that is making you $60,000 a year in profit. Would you go barely out of your way and spend $2 in exchange for what I had done for you? Sure, you would.
But this managing partner had decided that my favor payment was not worthy of his time. I texted him the day of in the morning and he said "Sure, sure." I followed up 9 hours later and he said "Oh, I am so busy, maybe tomorrow." Maybe? The next day, I waited until 5pm and he said "Oh, I just can't get around to it, it's no big deal. Can't you do it yourself?"
No. I can't. But I didn't tell him that. In fact, I didn't reply.
Weeks passed and I felt a need to go visit the campus of the business, look through some of the books, and pick up a check for my share of the recently acquired booty. I never warn people when I stop by, I just go.
Everyone was happy to see me, there were smiles on their faces, we all shook hands, hugged, shared some cups of coffee, broke bread in the virtual sense. We sat down for a good hour, and I listened to their tales of new contracts, higher-than-expected earnings, and smooth acquisitions of needed assets and tools through suppliers that I secretly opened the door for. It was good to see them flourish, and better to know that my favors pulled would mean an extra 5-10% profit for yours truly.
All was kosher, but Mr. Managing Partner didn't take me aside and apologize for his inept management of the little favor I had asked. In fact, never once did he apologize, or even address it after the second day he blew it off. I hold grudges, but I don't mention them.
The next day, he had the opportunity to buy out a competitor's failed inventory of office equipment: $250,000 worth of assets and tools for under $20,000. Mr. MP called me up on my personal cell and told me about it. I told him it sounded like a fantastic idea. He asked if I could drum up the cash capital to make the acquisition, and I told him surely I could. He asked when I could get him the money, and I told him: Oh, I didn't want to extend myself for his hobbies. "Hobbies?" You know, the little side hobby you 4 have running in my shop. "Your shop?" Well, I do own the building. "WHAT? I thought you negotiated a lease with the landlord." Of course I did, I am the landlord. He was flabbergasted. I told him I had to run, that I was busy playing a game on Facebook and hung up the phone before he could answer.
A few weeks passed, and Mr. MP called me again. This time, he wanted some advice on a possible bid package they had received. It was 50 pages of disclosures that normally I would spend the time reading and approving. "I think this is a huge project." It probably is. "We really want to get it." I hope you do, it'll be a great lesson in getting to the next level of the market. "Do you want to look it over?" Not really, I'm not interested. "It'll be huge profits for you, too." I'm fine with what I'm earning. I told him that my cat needed to be fed and hung up the phone again without waiting for a response.
More time passed, and I collected my checks regularly until they had a problem on a job that I decided not to get involved in. Pressure was building, and things were slipping because I wasn't pulling the puppet strings anymore. At this point in time I had made back almost 70% of my investment, and the asset value of the company was significant enough that I could liquidate it at 30% of par and come out well ahead for the year. A 20% gain isn't much, but it means I'm ahead with very little time invested. I lost my heart for the business, over that 1 hour favor dropped.
Mr. MP called me again, begging for help on fixing the failures of their contract negotiation. "I think we underbid on the labor side." Fire people. "Well, we need those people for the next project." Cancel that contract. "There's a 25% neglect stipulation we'd have to pay." I guess pay it. "We can make this job profitable." All jobs are profitable, it's the management that dropped the ball.
They didn't make the job's end point, again because they had no insiders in the acquisition process. My own insiders called me personally to ask if I wanted them to help the company, and I told them hell no. In the end, the firm lost close to $20,000 in negligence fees for dropping the ball and harming other contractors on the job. No big deal, they had the money in the bank. Barely.
Other projects brought in nice profits, though, so by year's end I had profited enough to cover my own investment fully, plus I was making an excellent return on the lease rate they were paying. I calculated my hours worked total on my time with them, and I divided them into the profit I made. It wasn't a good profit, but it was profitable nonetheless. Plus, their net asset had risen, so liquidating the firm would mean a great profit on investment: over 35% for the year.
Then the shit hit the fan. They came in low on some bids that I knew were too low, they hadn't read the contract documents clearly enough, and they never negotiated a list of concerns about various schedule conflicts with other trades. I could have looked at the bid documents for 10 minutes and made a list of 30 conflicts immediately, but I didn't. Again, my heart was gone.
Mr. MP asked me to attend a meeting, so I decided to go. They all aired their grievances with their mistakes at each other, and I decided to stand up and walk out. "Why are you leaving, we need your advice." I'm leaving because your little hobby is boring to me. Don't be late with rent. "You're going to lose a fortune!" I've made a fortune, I'm done playing games. Go and have your MBA and your college degrees printed on big banner material so that you can brag to the world how smart you are. "What should we do?" Retire. Get jobs at Wal*Mart. Move in with mommy and daddy, or whatever it is that people do when they fuck up so much. I left.
It was at this time that I took a hiatus from life, just before December of 2008. I had ZERO contact with them other than casually reading their emails pleading with me for more capital infusion. I emailed them and said "Ask mommy and daddy, or contact some alumni from whatever school you think taught you business." Mr. MP was not happy, and I heard through the grapevine that he was blaming me solely for the mess. My insiders would always laugh for a good 2 minutes after getting off the phone with him.
When I returned in March of 2009 from my 4 month break, the company was disheveled. I arrived one day when they were slow, looked over the books, and sat them down in a meeting. I told 3 of the partners that they were exceptional workers, but all their problems came because Mr. MP had no clue what he was doing. They all stared at him, then asked me what to do. "Buy him out. Let's put in someone better, someone who didn't waste 6 years of their lives sitting in classrooms with 3 fingers rubbing their prostates." They all nodded. Mr. MP stared at the red-heavy P&L report on the conference room table below him.
After the meeting, Mr. MP asked me why I blamed him. I told him it was because he was clueless, useless, and had no virtue or sense for business. "But I went by the book on everything." Exactly. There is no book on business, there is no school or training that explains the intricacies of the 5000 decisions you SHOULD have made but didn't. "So what will happen to us?" You will be fired with a buy-out that should leave you with a few grand after paying your corporate share of the outstanding accounts payables. "And the rest?" I'll help them find someone who can run things in better shape.
Two weeks later, he cleaned out his desk and his closet. The partners and I all countersigned a check for $7334 in his name, and he turned over his stock share in the firm. I looked over his paychecks for the 14 months he worked there, and he ended up making about $40,000. If I was involved, his second year could have been three times that, but I stayed hands off.
Once he was out the door, I introduced the staff to a bright kid, about 24 years old, who failed out of high school. I told them that he bought Mr. MP's shares from me, and would be an equal party in the firm's rebirth. The bright kid, who I had known for 8 years, was a strong earner, and he also knew how to play the game. He had zero education, but his business sense was second only to me.
In 4 weeks, he recovered 3 lost clients by placing the blame fully on Mr. Ex-MP, explaining exactly what Mr. Ex-MP failed to do. The clients bought it hook, line and sinker. He acquired new projects and paid off past suppliers, plus interest, to re-open a few accounts. He turned the business around by month #2 (May, 2009) and by the end of June, he was earning a decent bounty for the other partners and myself.
I saw Mr. Ex-MP in the middle of July. He didn't have a job, and his $7334 check wasn't going to last long. Due to the stress of losing his position and shares, his relationship with his girlfriend imploded. He was couch-surfing with a buddy from college (who was also out of work, but was lucky to have parents footing his rent). I heard he applied at a video game store and was turned down.
We didn't talk long, but he did ask me a question: "Why did you drop the ball on the company?" I didn't, I dropped the ball on you. "It wasn't over that little project you asked me to do, was it?" Of course it was. "You could have paid someone $50 to do it." I asked you to do it. "I was too busy." You're not busy now, are you? "No. But it seems senseless to throw away tens of thousands of dollars over a simple favor." No favor is simple. The money you burned running things badly will be recovered in no time. "They're doing well?" Better than you ever did. Profits are skyrocketing, and I am letting them buy me out this year with no fee. "Why?" Because I wanted to pass on a lesson to you.
He nodded, and again looked down, his confidence blown. For the next few years, I will happily badmouth his degree and his MBA and his inability to understand business. Hopefully he makes the right decision and moves to another city, because I don't want to cross paths with him again. He's useless, and worthless and doesn't have a name for himself. I needed him to do a simple thing for me, and he failed. Now he's a failure.
And so, the Mindfuck happens. If you're walking down the street, basking in the sun, smiling at how life is going well, and you step on a colony of ants crossing the curb to get to their destination, you think nothing of squishing them. For me, Mr. Ex-MP is the same. He's vermin, thinking he's the top of the world when in fact he's squished under my shoe.
What will happen to him? He'll get a job in a lonely cubicle, with maybe his degree and MBA plastered on the wall, earning huge profits for a boss he never sees, for managing partners he rarely gets to meet. He'll never work in the industry I put him into again, because he fucked the wrong person over.
And I'm glad this is the way it is to be. He isn't the first person who crossed me that I crushed, and he won't be the last. People need harsh lessons to pass on to their kids. We'll call it a blood war, lasting the generations. Maybe my own son or daughter will get to a point in life where they pass his offspring in the business world, and you better believe I will remind them to never do business with anyone related to him. Why?
Because I can. Because I myself have been crushed, many years ago, by fucking over someone who I owed a small favor to. Because I appreciate THAT person more than anything, and now they know I have changed my act, apologized, made amends above and beyond the value of what I failed to do. Mr. Ex-MP won't do that. He's too proud. He doesn't understand business. Business is not a set of rules and regulations to be followed, there is no ISO stamp to tell people what to do and when.
Business is one thing: relationships. Not the ones you fulfill through phone calls or emails or orders or sales; relationships made through bribery and blackmail, pushing people as high up on the ladder you both climb as possible so when they hit their own ceiling, they'll pull you up after years of you pushing them up. That's how you climb, how you profit, how you win the game: by paying out favors done for you with favors others should do for you.
We're not talking big favors. We're talking the little ones. And when the sun is out, and there's a person walking down the street of life, and a shoe meets the curb and a colony of ants is wandering around, remember one thing: be the person wearing the shoe.
Read the rest...
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Somewhere in America, Part III
This is Part III of a 3 part series (you should hope).
There I am, my beard glistening in her come, her lips raping my face, her hands on my neck and hair. A woman unafraid of tasting herself on the man that brought her off is 5 stars in my book.
We fall back to the bed and cuddle, noting that the sun is still up -- it's barely late afternoon. She has to be back at her place because she's going out to a party of some sort with friends later, so we don't have much time left.
The cuddling didn't last long as her face is on mine again. She's an amazing kisser, right up there with the best. She handles my aggressive kisses without shrieking, but she also accepts my teasing kisses by pouting when I pull away. A kiss is a tease like a back touch, but also a display of intimacy moreso than even fucking. From her kisses, I know I want to be inside of her, just not today, mere hours after our eye first made contact.
As we kiss, I feel her hips grinding again, up into thin air. It's not even 5 minutes after she came on my face and I can tell she's ready for more. I playfully dance on her body, her arms and shoulders and let my mouth wander to her beautiful breasts, licking around her nipples, underneath to her belly, up to her neck and shoulder and any protrusion I can put into my mouth fully or partially. She's moaning, surely ready for more.
I know I could have gotten my medicine bag and fucked her, but I wanted her to beg. Since her mouth is open but words aren't coming out, I decided to see how far I can push her orgasmically before penetration.
My hands danced down the middle of her torso, teasing her breasts and the sides of her body, her mouth making contact with mine again. My other hand is supporting her back and her neck, still teasing it slightly with the smallest touches, bringing forth those amazing goosebumps that just lead me to tease even lighter.
As my hands pass her latin hips, she moans. It's obvious she wants to come again. Finally, as my hand makes its way over her light pubic hair, she really moans. I let a finger slide past her clit and her hips push up to meet it. I pull back on her gorgeous lips and they're soaking again, fully wet so quickly. I'm amazed at her sexuality, her appetite for me, and her desire to come at my command.
I cupped her pussy fully and used a finger to only lightly penetrate her. That's when I noticed why she's so sexual: her clit extends from her hood where it's large, but it hides for a little bit and comes out again just at the opening to her pussy. It's amazing, and it has to be sensitive as all hell.
With my palm cupping her clit and my middle finger slightly penetrating her, I realize that I am going to hurt her BAD when I fuck her for the first time, if I can fuck her, if she wants me. Still, my finger is bouncing completely out and then just partially in, being careful to be very gentle with her extended clit.
Every time I pull out, she moans and grinds her hips. Every time I re-enter, she does the same, just as powerfully. She's sensitive, but she's ready so I don't need to hold back. I only do for teasing sake.
But she's still sensitive and wanting to come hard again, even with my teasing. I'm kissing her, trying to pull her attention away from the fact that my finger is caressing her dripping pussy. I can still taste it on my mouth from her first orgasm, and I can feel her body tense-and-release as my finger plays its medley on her clit.
It doesn't take long as I continue to pull out and in. "I think I'm going to come" she warns me (HOTT), so I use the bottom of my palm to add extra pressure to her clit hood while still stroking the entrance to her pussy, which has thickened up. She's dripping to the point that I can feel it. "Oh yes, like that, like that" she says with her Latin accent. I could always come myself just from her melodic and gorgeous voice.
"Unhhh, unhh, ohhh, unh" she mumbles as she comes, her arms reaching out to her sides on the bedsheets as her pussy moves 6 inches upwards to meet nothing but my palm and hand. As she comes, I look at her face, the gorgeous closed eyes which slightly open to show me pure white: her eyeballs are in the back of her head.
Her toes are curled, her feet extended forward, her legs are spread, and she continues to come for 30 seconds or more as I continue to rub her clit, lighter and lighter to not bring pain.
Finally, she stops. She's breathing heavy, kissing me, cuddling her face into my neck as she comes down from her orgasm. After a few minutes, we just cuddle again, my hands on her shoulders and her back as she holds me, fully spent.
Finally, she gets up to put her panties back on. Her gorgeous tits and ass get me fully erect in my jeans, my shirt still laying somewhere on the floor. I decide I can't handle it anymore, so I stroke my cock through my jeans and notice I totally flooded myself with precome. Ouch.
I unzip my jeans, unbuckle my belt, and slide my thick cock out. I spit on my hand to lubricate it as I stroke it. She turns, notices, and hops back on the bed, watching intensely.
I look at her face and see she wants it, so I ask if she wants to kiss it. Instead, she opens her mouth, licks her lips, and puts the head into her mouth, which fits, but just barely. I'm stretching her cheeks and love the look of this gorgeous, bronzed skin latin lover swallowing my cock head into her mouth.
She tries to put more in her mouth, but its girth gives her some problems, so she backs off, licking the head and underneath, causing me to moan. She puts it back in her mouth and tries to get more inside, succeeding at swallowing about 1/3 of Little Fire Hydrant. Then she backs off, obviously hitting some sort of gag reflex. It's still hot as hell, and this girl can give head.
She's switching between licking my shaft and underside of the head and popping it in her mouth, getting more of it little by little, finally ended with her lips at about the halfway mark on my average-length cock. Fuck I want to drop a load in her, on her, whatever.
Sadly, we're out of time. She HAS to leave, her ride is coming to pick her up and we're still a 5 minute walk from the pick up point. Still, she doesn't stop, until I remind her that we have to leave. I want to squirt my load all over her gorgeous face, but that's going to have to wait until next time -- if there is a next time.
I pull my hard cock back into my pants, find my shirt and dress. She finds the rest of her clothes and I watch her dressing, contemplating finding my condoms and fucking her, or pushing her to her knees and jerking off on her mouth. Wouldn't that be a nice surprise for the people she's seeing later?
But it wasn't to be. I walk towards the door out of my hotel room and she kisses me, deeply. Neither of us want any PDA while we're in her small and gossip-prone hometown, so I kiss back, knowing it could be our last. I have business to tend to, and my lifestyle causes me to leave cities sometimes hours or only a few days after I arrive.
"Tomorrow?" Maybe.
We leave the hotel, both of us smiling aggressively. Everyone in the hotel must know -- this gal is loud. We wear the smiles proudly as we walk over to her pickup point. She turns, gives me a platonic latin kiss goodbye on the cheek, and I turn on my heel and head back.
Tomorrow. Maybe? I hope so. I want to be inside of her, badly.
There I am, my beard glistening in her come, her lips raping my face, her hands on my neck and hair. A woman unafraid of tasting herself on the man that brought her off is 5 stars in my book.
We fall back to the bed and cuddle, noting that the sun is still up -- it's barely late afternoon. She has to be back at her place because she's going out to a party of some sort with friends later, so we don't have much time left.
The cuddling didn't last long as her face is on mine again. She's an amazing kisser, right up there with the best. She handles my aggressive kisses without shrieking, but she also accepts my teasing kisses by pouting when I pull away. A kiss is a tease like a back touch, but also a display of intimacy moreso than even fucking. From her kisses, I know I want to be inside of her, just not today, mere hours after our eye first made contact.
As we kiss, I feel her hips grinding again, up into thin air. It's not even 5 minutes after she came on my face and I can tell she's ready for more. I playfully dance on her body, her arms and shoulders and let my mouth wander to her beautiful breasts, licking around her nipples, underneath to her belly, up to her neck and shoulder and any protrusion I can put into my mouth fully or partially. She's moaning, surely ready for more.
I know I could have gotten my medicine bag and fucked her, but I wanted her to beg. Since her mouth is open but words aren't coming out, I decided to see how far I can push her orgasmically before penetration.
My hands danced down the middle of her torso, teasing her breasts and the sides of her body, her mouth making contact with mine again. My other hand is supporting her back and her neck, still teasing it slightly with the smallest touches, bringing forth those amazing goosebumps that just lead me to tease even lighter.
As my hands pass her latin hips, she moans. It's obvious she wants to come again. Finally, as my hand makes its way over her light pubic hair, she really moans. I let a finger slide past her clit and her hips push up to meet it. I pull back on her gorgeous lips and they're soaking again, fully wet so quickly. I'm amazed at her sexuality, her appetite for me, and her desire to come at my command.
I cupped her pussy fully and used a finger to only lightly penetrate her. That's when I noticed why she's so sexual: her clit extends from her hood where it's large, but it hides for a little bit and comes out again just at the opening to her pussy. It's amazing, and it has to be sensitive as all hell.
With my palm cupping her clit and my middle finger slightly penetrating her, I realize that I am going to hurt her BAD when I fuck her for the first time, if I can fuck her, if she wants me. Still, my finger is bouncing completely out and then just partially in, being careful to be very gentle with her extended clit.
Every time I pull out, she moans and grinds her hips. Every time I re-enter, she does the same, just as powerfully. She's sensitive, but she's ready so I don't need to hold back. I only do for teasing sake.
But she's still sensitive and wanting to come hard again, even with my teasing. I'm kissing her, trying to pull her attention away from the fact that my finger is caressing her dripping pussy. I can still taste it on my mouth from her first orgasm, and I can feel her body tense-and-release as my finger plays its medley on her clit.
It doesn't take long as I continue to pull out and in. "I think I'm going to come" she warns me (HOTT), so I use the bottom of my palm to add extra pressure to her clit hood while still stroking the entrance to her pussy, which has thickened up. She's dripping to the point that I can feel it. "Oh yes, like that, like that" she says with her Latin accent. I could always come myself just from her melodic and gorgeous voice.
"Unhhh, unhh, ohhh, unh" she mumbles as she comes, her arms reaching out to her sides on the bedsheets as her pussy moves 6 inches upwards to meet nothing but my palm and hand. As she comes, I look at her face, the gorgeous closed eyes which slightly open to show me pure white: her eyeballs are in the back of her head.
Her toes are curled, her feet extended forward, her legs are spread, and she continues to come for 30 seconds or more as I continue to rub her clit, lighter and lighter to not bring pain.
Finally, she stops. She's breathing heavy, kissing me, cuddling her face into my neck as she comes down from her orgasm. After a few minutes, we just cuddle again, my hands on her shoulders and her back as she holds me, fully spent.
Finally, she gets up to put her panties back on. Her gorgeous tits and ass get me fully erect in my jeans, my shirt still laying somewhere on the floor. I decide I can't handle it anymore, so I stroke my cock through my jeans and notice I totally flooded myself with precome. Ouch.
I unzip my jeans, unbuckle my belt, and slide my thick cock out. I spit on my hand to lubricate it as I stroke it. She turns, notices, and hops back on the bed, watching intensely.
I look at her face and see she wants it, so I ask if she wants to kiss it. Instead, she opens her mouth, licks her lips, and puts the head into her mouth, which fits, but just barely. I'm stretching her cheeks and love the look of this gorgeous, bronzed skin latin lover swallowing my cock head into her mouth.
She tries to put more in her mouth, but its girth gives her some problems, so she backs off, licking the head and underneath, causing me to moan. She puts it back in her mouth and tries to get more inside, succeeding at swallowing about 1/3 of Little Fire Hydrant. Then she backs off, obviously hitting some sort of gag reflex. It's still hot as hell, and this girl can give head.
She's switching between licking my shaft and underside of the head and popping it in her mouth, getting more of it little by little, finally ended with her lips at about the halfway mark on my average-length cock. Fuck I want to drop a load in her, on her, whatever.
Sadly, we're out of time. She HAS to leave, her ride is coming to pick her up and we're still a 5 minute walk from the pick up point. Still, she doesn't stop, until I remind her that we have to leave. I want to squirt my load all over her gorgeous face, but that's going to have to wait until next time -- if there is a next time.
I pull my hard cock back into my pants, find my shirt and dress. She finds the rest of her clothes and I watch her dressing, contemplating finding my condoms and fucking her, or pushing her to her knees and jerking off on her mouth. Wouldn't that be a nice surprise for the people she's seeing later?
But it wasn't to be. I walk towards the door out of my hotel room and she kisses me, deeply. Neither of us want any PDA while we're in her small and gossip-prone hometown, so I kiss back, knowing it could be our last. I have business to tend to, and my lifestyle causes me to leave cities sometimes hours or only a few days after I arrive.
"Tomorrow?" Maybe.
We leave the hotel, both of us smiling aggressively. Everyone in the hotel must know -- this gal is loud. We wear the smiles proudly as we walk over to her pickup point. She turns, gives me a platonic latin kiss goodbye on the cheek, and I turn on my heel and head back.
Tomorrow. Maybe? I hope so. I want to be inside of her, badly.
Read the rest...
Somewhere in America, Part II
Continued from Part I.
As I'm rubbing her back, her body is completely melting at my touch. A Chicago blogger I met told me that my stories of women might be getting boring because I tend to do the same thing to women, but it's not true at all. When I first investigate a woman's body, I touch her EVERYWHERE, looking for the spots she needs touched the most. Is it my fault that practically every woman, regardless of the number of lovers they've had, tend to have the same spots ignored?
Anyone (including the woman) can go for nipples and the clit, but only the rare bloke goes after every spot. Sometimes it's the back of the knee, sometimes its the small of the back. I've found scalps can be comforting or erotic, feet can be ticklish or orgasmic. That blogger who made that comment hasn't had my touch, so it's easy to say "meh" when all I've heard, time and again, is "oooooh" or "oh my god don't stop that ever." This blogger in my hands has read me, and she knows my style, and she still melted because I found her body's forgotten areas.
I'm not pressing her for anything, but I've wanted to touch a woman for months. My one real opportunity never happened (yet) because of her schedule and my schedule. So here I am, with this knock-out who was beaming over me in 3" heels (not that much taller, but taller), caressing her shoulders and arms and the upper portion of her back.
I know when a woman is comfortable, and this gal was in full-on bliss. She could pretend to know how I handle women my words, but now she knows the truth: her body is unique, just as everyone's is, and everyone has needs that have gone unfulfilled for far too long.
Eventually, we leave the near-spoon position and she rolls onto her belly. I hike the bottom of her skin-tight red cami top up to her bra strap, and start looking for ticklish spots. There, and there. She doesn't laugh or jump, I know how to find the spots to avoid. The rest of her back? Goose-fucking-bumps. When her hips were grinding into the king-sized bed, I knew my resolve was out the window.
So here I am with this tall, slim-yet-curvy, bronzed like a Maxim beach cover gal who is growing goosebumps bigger than the volcanoes that dot practically every Latin America country. What happens next? I turn her head and she kisses me. No, not a nice little Sane lady kiss but she tears my face off.
Another new blogger I email told me that her biggest turn off with guys is that they're bad kissers, or they jump the gun. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gal is NOT the type to just destroy a man's face, but I have a pretty good feeling that everything I was doing (or not doing) created this urge to annihilate my lips, tongue, facial scruff and possibly the neighbor's room in one fell swoop.
My fingers were still barely touching her back and shoulders, arms and hands, and our mouths were battling. Soft kissing, teeth clanking, tongues appearing and disappearing, moans and groans. I held her hands back so she couldn't touch me and before I know it, she takes her own shirt off. I'm not sure exactly how we were kissing with her on her belly and my belly on her back, but the next thing I know is her gorgeous ass grinding up against my cock which is on the edge of becoming GOD'S PENIS and causing us all problems (including you, fair reader).
I need to fuck this young woman, but she needs to be taught a lesson. I'm strong and weak, the sun is shining in the window in this early afternoon just hours after we met for the first time, but I know what I have to do. I have to break her into tiny little pieces so I can fuck each one separately and repeatedly until they melt back together.
I keep looking at her gorgeous face, these eyes that penetrate my mind stronger than I could penetrate her pussy on 100mg of Viagra. Yet every time I look at her, she destroys my face with the see-saw of hot, wet kisses and soft, tiny, sensual kisses. Who the fuck is teasing whom?
At some point, one of us gets her to flip over, straddling me from beneath. My cock is on her pubic mound and she's grinding, moaning, enveloping me with her latin lips and her Spanish/Andalusian eyes. My hands are still fighting the urge to tear her clothes off, dancing their light tune on her skin, still bringing forth strong goosebumps worthy of many photographs.
I unbutton my dress-shirt and lay my hairy chest on her bareback. She moans. I pull back and then put my chest on her again, a louder moan. Holy mother of gumbo, she's that sensitive on her back. I wonder if her not-even-a-handful of previous lovers had any clue.
And then we flip, me on my back, her straddling my cock with her jeans warmed by what is obviously a pussy that needs immediately attention. We're kissing and the next thing I know, I feel tits on my chest, and not the feel of her black satin bra. My hands trace up from her still-covered thighs to her sides up past her surprisingly large and soft tits, ending up on her shoulder.
I use my nails (not long but not short) to dig into the bottom of her back, and forcefully tear them up her back, bringing forth a moan/groan that sounds different in Spanish than it would in English. I'm in real trouble here, folks.
And still she kisses me, taking in every nerve ending on my tongue and my lips and my face, while my nails dig, my fists massage, my fingers push and dance on her back. Latin lovers have always ruined me for the Gringo ladies, I just forget when I don't have one in my life.
I can't tolerate her pussy grinding on my cock still hidden in my jeans, so we roll over again. "I'm so wet" she tells me, not having to as I can smell her pussy through panties and jeans. I stare at her eyes and she asks if I want to check if she's right. I know she is, and I really don't want to rush it, but this gal is going to explode and I don't have enough towels to clean it up.
I make my way down her chest, skipping her nipples as usual and kissing softly down her stomach, which is gaining goosebumps. I decide to throw her off and plant a soft kiss on the one section I know is too ticklish. She laughs, but she doesn't break her stride as it turns into a moan as I venture lower.
Her belly is cute: tight, flat, solid, but still feminine. I could spend hours on it (and I probably will if she decides to visit me again). I make my way down to the edge of her jeans and pull them down slightly, still fully buttoned and zipped. Her panties, white and black, are obviously soaking in her lube, so I kiss past their edge to the start of her nicely trimmed and perfect pubic hair.
She can't stand it, and I can't stand it either. I kneel between her legs, unbutton and unzip her jeans, place each hand to one side of her jeans just below her hips and tear them off. Clean in 10 seconds. I wanted her to remove them, but I don't think she was thinking clearly.
Now her jeans are off, so I snuggle up against her pussy, covered by her thin black-and-white panties. They're soaked straight through, but I lightly kiss her thighs without tickling, run my big schnoz across her covered clit "accidentally" eliciting an awesome moan, and kiss around her panties in every part of skin imaginable.
She's done for, and now I can do what I want. If I wanted to fuck her in her pussy, she'd have come instantly. I could have fucked her in the ass and she'd probably still come. I might be making this story sound like I had her fully under control, but I think the reality is that she had me mesmerized. I want to hear this polyglot come, wondering what language it'll come out as.
The panties come off and are thrown over the bed. Her pussy is gorgeous. I force her thighs wider, and her pussy lips are fully engorged and spread, her large clit is visibly throbbing, and she's soaked. The sun is still out, and it is causing her to glisten like the frothy head of a bottle of blow-bubbles.
No teasing is needed at this point, but I lick her full pussy lips and bring them farther apart magically. I lick her pubic hair above her clit, lick the inside of her pussy lips listening to her moan, feeling her sopping wet ocean of lust pressing against my face for me.
Her hands are on my head, pulling me in, so I go for it. My tongue hits her clit and she's grunting, her back is arching, she's practically begging.
I don't let off, I don't go easy. She's beyond the point of any foreplay doing anything other than causing her to pull my hair out if I don't swallow her load in the next 30 seconds.
I misunderstand her say "STOP!" while I'm swallowing drops of her lube as its pouring out, so I back off. She grabs my hair, hard, and pulls me back. "I said DON'T STOP" she quietly yells, so I dig back in, impressed by how good she tastes, and pleased that her big clit is even bigger as I pull it between my lips.
And that's that... "I'm going to come" she says, and a few moments later, she does. I don't let off, tickling and sucking and pushing against her clit as waves of orgasm fuck through her body. My face is SOAKED, my beard is wet, her thighs are clenching and releasing my head, her hands are all over the bed. She keeps coming, I keep prodding to try to get every last ounce of come out of her and into my awaiting mouth.
Finally, she's done. She softly pushes my mouth from her pussy, and out of nowhere grabs my head, bends over and puts her mouth on my mouth, on her own come. "Mmmmm, your face is covered in come," she says.
To be continued in Part III.
As I'm rubbing her back, her body is completely melting at my touch. A Chicago blogger I met told me that my stories of women might be getting boring because I tend to do the same thing to women, but it's not true at all. When I first investigate a woman's body, I touch her EVERYWHERE, looking for the spots she needs touched the most. Is it my fault that practically every woman, regardless of the number of lovers they've had, tend to have the same spots ignored?
Anyone (including the woman) can go for nipples and the clit, but only the rare bloke goes after every spot. Sometimes it's the back of the knee, sometimes its the small of the back. I've found scalps can be comforting or erotic, feet can be ticklish or orgasmic. That blogger who made that comment hasn't had my touch, so it's easy to say "meh" when all I've heard, time and again, is "oooooh" or "oh my god don't stop that ever." This blogger in my hands has read me, and she knows my style, and she still melted because I found her body's forgotten areas.
I'm not pressing her for anything, but I've wanted to touch a woman for months. My one real opportunity never happened (yet) because of her schedule and my schedule. So here I am, with this knock-out who was beaming over me in 3" heels (not that much taller, but taller), caressing her shoulders and arms and the upper portion of her back.
I know when a woman is comfortable, and this gal was in full-on bliss. She could pretend to know how I handle women my words, but now she knows the truth: her body is unique, just as everyone's is, and everyone has needs that have gone unfulfilled for far too long.
Eventually, we leave the near-spoon position and she rolls onto her belly. I hike the bottom of her skin-tight red cami top up to her bra strap, and start looking for ticklish spots. There, and there. She doesn't laugh or jump, I know how to find the spots to avoid. The rest of her back? Goose-fucking-bumps. When her hips were grinding into the king-sized bed, I knew my resolve was out the window.
So here I am with this tall, slim-yet-curvy, bronzed like a Maxim beach cover gal who is growing goosebumps bigger than the volcanoes that dot practically every Latin America country. What happens next? I turn her head and she kisses me. No, not a nice little Sane lady kiss but she tears my face off.
Another new blogger I email told me that her biggest turn off with guys is that they're bad kissers, or they jump the gun. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gal is NOT the type to just destroy a man's face, but I have a pretty good feeling that everything I was doing (or not doing) created this urge to annihilate my lips, tongue, facial scruff and possibly the neighbor's room in one fell swoop.
My fingers were still barely touching her back and shoulders, arms and hands, and our mouths were battling. Soft kissing, teeth clanking, tongues appearing and disappearing, moans and groans. I held her hands back so she couldn't touch me and before I know it, she takes her own shirt off. I'm not sure exactly how we were kissing with her on her belly and my belly on her back, but the next thing I know is her gorgeous ass grinding up against my cock which is on the edge of becoming GOD'S PENIS and causing us all problems (including you, fair reader).
I need to fuck this young woman, but she needs to be taught a lesson. I'm strong and weak, the sun is shining in the window in this early afternoon just hours after we met for the first time, but I know what I have to do. I have to break her into tiny little pieces so I can fuck each one separately and repeatedly until they melt back together.
I keep looking at her gorgeous face, these eyes that penetrate my mind stronger than I could penetrate her pussy on 100mg of Viagra. Yet every time I look at her, she destroys my face with the see-saw of hot, wet kisses and soft, tiny, sensual kisses. Who the fuck is teasing whom?
At some point, one of us gets her to flip over, straddling me from beneath. My cock is on her pubic mound and she's grinding, moaning, enveloping me with her latin lips and her Spanish/Andalusian eyes. My hands are still fighting the urge to tear her clothes off, dancing their light tune on her skin, still bringing forth strong goosebumps worthy of many photographs.
I unbutton my dress-shirt and lay my hairy chest on her bareback. She moans. I pull back and then put my chest on her again, a louder moan. Holy mother of gumbo, she's that sensitive on her back. I wonder if her not-even-a-handful of previous lovers had any clue.
And then we flip, me on my back, her straddling my cock with her jeans warmed by what is obviously a pussy that needs immediately attention. We're kissing and the next thing I know, I feel tits on my chest, and not the feel of her black satin bra. My hands trace up from her still-covered thighs to her sides up past her surprisingly large and soft tits, ending up on her shoulder.
I use my nails (not long but not short) to dig into the bottom of her back, and forcefully tear them up her back, bringing forth a moan/groan that sounds different in Spanish than it would in English. I'm in real trouble here, folks.
And still she kisses me, taking in every nerve ending on my tongue and my lips and my face, while my nails dig, my fists massage, my fingers push and dance on her back. Latin lovers have always ruined me for the Gringo ladies, I just forget when I don't have one in my life.
I can't tolerate her pussy grinding on my cock still hidden in my jeans, so we roll over again. "I'm so wet" she tells me, not having to as I can smell her pussy through panties and jeans. I stare at her eyes and she asks if I want to check if she's right. I know she is, and I really don't want to rush it, but this gal is going to explode and I don't have enough towels to clean it up.
I make my way down her chest, skipping her nipples as usual and kissing softly down her stomach, which is gaining goosebumps. I decide to throw her off and plant a soft kiss on the one section I know is too ticklish. She laughs, but she doesn't break her stride as it turns into a moan as I venture lower.
Her belly is cute: tight, flat, solid, but still feminine. I could spend hours on it (and I probably will if she decides to visit me again). I make my way down to the edge of her jeans and pull them down slightly, still fully buttoned and zipped. Her panties, white and black, are obviously soaking in her lube, so I kiss past their edge to the start of her nicely trimmed and perfect pubic hair.
She can't stand it, and I can't stand it either. I kneel between her legs, unbutton and unzip her jeans, place each hand to one side of her jeans just below her hips and tear them off. Clean in 10 seconds. I wanted her to remove them, but I don't think she was thinking clearly.
Now her jeans are off, so I snuggle up against her pussy, covered by her thin black-and-white panties. They're soaked straight through, but I lightly kiss her thighs without tickling, run my big schnoz across her covered clit "accidentally" eliciting an awesome moan, and kiss around her panties in every part of skin imaginable.
She's done for, and now I can do what I want. If I wanted to fuck her in her pussy, she'd have come instantly. I could have fucked her in the ass and she'd probably still come. I might be making this story sound like I had her fully under control, but I think the reality is that she had me mesmerized. I want to hear this polyglot come, wondering what language it'll come out as.
The panties come off and are thrown over the bed. Her pussy is gorgeous. I force her thighs wider, and her pussy lips are fully engorged and spread, her large clit is visibly throbbing, and she's soaked. The sun is still out, and it is causing her to glisten like the frothy head of a bottle of blow-bubbles.
No teasing is needed at this point, but I lick her full pussy lips and bring them farther apart magically. I lick her pubic hair above her clit, lick the inside of her pussy lips listening to her moan, feeling her sopping wet ocean of lust pressing against my face for me.
Her hands are on my head, pulling me in, so I go for it. My tongue hits her clit and she's grunting, her back is arching, she's practically begging.
I don't let off, I don't go easy. She's beyond the point of any foreplay doing anything other than causing her to pull my hair out if I don't swallow her load in the next 30 seconds.
I misunderstand her say "STOP!" while I'm swallowing drops of her lube as its pouring out, so I back off. She grabs my hair, hard, and pulls me back. "I said DON'T STOP" she quietly yells, so I dig back in, impressed by how good she tastes, and pleased that her big clit is even bigger as I pull it between my lips.
And that's that... "I'm going to come" she says, and a few moments later, she does. I don't let off, tickling and sucking and pushing against her clit as waves of orgasm fuck through her body. My face is SOAKED, my beard is wet, her thighs are clenching and releasing my head, her hands are all over the bed. She keeps coming, I keep prodding to try to get every last ounce of come out of her and into my awaiting mouth.
Finally, she's done. She softly pushes my mouth from her pussy, and out of nowhere grabs my head, bends over and puts her mouth on my mouth, on her own come. "Mmmmm, your face is covered in come," she says.
To be continued in Part III.
Read the rest...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Somewhere in America, Part I
Meeting bloggers is always fun, but lately my bloggers I've met were local to me in Chicago, and one in DC.
I've talked about my world travels that occur often, and a blogger who I chat off-and-on with asked if my next trip would land me anywhere near where she lives, somewhere south of Mexico and north of Argentina. I like to make fun of her when she calls the U.S. "America" because where she is from is ALSO America. North America, Central America, South America, we're ALL Americans.
As luck would have it, I had a trip planned to HER America region. And not just to her country but to her home town. I dropped her a note when we chatted, and a possible coffee "date" was planned at some time in the future.
My client kept moving his schedule, so I booked 5 different flights for 4 different date segments. The blogger was also busy here and there with life, but I did want to meet her. I'd seen her picture and even some video she shared with me, and she was gorgeous, slim, curvy and fun to chat with. Just like with Delecta and AFCBs #1-3, my goal was to make friends.
Finally my client said "Come on this day" and I told the blogger to see if she was still interested in that coffee. She confirmed her interest, so we made plans to meet on one of the days I'd be there when she was free.
I hopped a bunch of flights, landed in said random country, and texted my client and her as I walked out of the plane just shy of lunch time. My client decided to be too busy, so I checked into a VERY nice hotel, turned on my laptop and found the blogger online.
We'll call her Sandra, not her real name. Sandra told me she was free in the afternoon around 3pm, and that we could meet at the mall that was 1 block from my hotel and just a half mile from where she lives. Bonus. She asked me where we should meet, and I quickly picked a coffee shop at the mall.
The mall is awesome, but wasn't very busy. The coffee shop was in a rotunda part of the mall, all glass -- I could see people entering the mall, and I seated myself so I could see her coming up the escalator. She's tall, loves to show off her body, has an ass that one should worship, and is completely out of my league. Oh, and she hasn't hit 21 -- yet. Umm, yeah, that's as safe as it can get.
At 2:30 she chats me that she'll be there early. ARGH, no time for a shower, a shave, or a change of clothes even. I haul into the elevator, walk over to the mall, find the coffee shop and situate myself so I could see her before she sees me. A few minutes late, as the latin women prefer, and I see her coming up the escalator. Holy crap, I need to bail.
I became nervous, which is very rare for me. As she walks around the windowed second floor of the rotunda (the coffee shop wraps around about 40 degrees of it), I stand and she beams a smile. I throw back my toothy, crooked, broken smile and we embrace, hard. Nice boobs. TIGHT, muscular body. Amazing skin and her face is just lit up.
We talk, my nervousness obvious. A cute waitress brings us menus, and we order our drinks: espresso doble for Sane, some sort of strawberry smoothie for Sandra. We continue our conversation, just feeling the other out for comfort and comedy. We smiled, we laughed, we made eye contact. We drank our drinks, fast.
At one point, she turned her head and her neck cracked, causing her hand to shoot up to rub it. "Ow, that hurt," she told me, sitting across from me as I watched her unsuccessfully rub her own back.
As I paid for the drinks, we decided to walk the mall since my belt was so loose it was falling off my ass. We wandered in and out of various stores, me pointing at cute gals clothing and her nodding her head NO. She knows I like to buy pretty gals gorgeous clothes so I can be seen with them, but she already looked gorgeous in her red A-shirt, tight jeans and red fuck-me-heels. Oh, and the bitch wore glasses. Grr.
We checked out a bunch of NICE stores (high fashion labels), which is surprising since the minimum wage in the country is around $1 per hour, maybe less. I found TWO suits that I am buying before I leave, but no belts. I needed a belt in the color I was wearing. Tomorrow I'll find a leather shop that can poke holes.
We wandered a bit more, neither of us hungry, but I needed toothpaste and lip balm, so she took me to the local pharmacy, which is more drugs than consumer goods like Walgreens back home. Found the toothpaste and the lipbalm, I paid, and we left.
She had plans with friends in the evening, and I had a fresh carton or two of cigarettes, plus I had to drop off my purchases at the hotel barely 2 blocks away, so I asked if she wanted a pack of smokes in exchange for showing me around the area. She agreed, so we headed up to my hotel.
Originally I had a penthouse suite, but they were doing construction in the hallway and it was NOISY, so I requested a lower floor to avoid the noise. No big deal for them, and I was lucky to still keep a smoking room ($20 tip lucky). The majority of the hotel is non-smoking, so the rooms are hard to come by.
I showed her my room and then sat on the large, red couch while she sat on the king size bed, her feet dangling off. We talked some more, her flirtatiously making eye contact with me while her legs kept dangling off the bed, swinging, inviting, teasing. Argh.
I stood up, for whatever reason, adjusted my ponytail, and sat down next to her on the bed. Why? Because it was safe. We were fully clothed, there wasn't any touchy-touchy beyond some accidental glances (uh huh) and she had plans with friends so there wasn't really that much time to do anything but talk.
So there we are, talking, making eye contact, laughing, obviously enjoying each other's company. For background purposes, the gal doesn't have a lot of sexual experience. Less than anyone I've met in a LONG time. That means that Sane has to be a total gentleman, and I stick to it.
And then she fucking seduced ME. Her hand was on her neck a few times, obviously hurting. At one point, she laid down on the bed (it's comfortable), so I did, too, staring at the ceiling as we talked. Then she rolled over to her side facing away from me, continuing to talk but also putting her hand on her neck, her entire back north of her bra-strap exposed with tan skin. Uhhhh, yeah.
I asked her if she needed help, and her hand was replaced by one of my hands as I rolled to my side to get a better angle. I used my (very) soft fingers with some force to detect what muscles were tight and found that her left neck muscles were extremely tight, and her right neck muscles were needed some attention but not as much.
I proceeded to find the pressure amount between healing and pain, not pleasure and pain. As I used my thumbs and fingers into her neck and shoulder, I could see her body loosen up. She even let a gasp fall from her lips. Just a few minutes of that and she was feeling looser in the neck and shoulders, and her body's posture took on a different angle -- more relaxed, rehabilitated.
Her body slid back a bit, her back touching my best, her ass pushed up against my cock which was already starting to get happy from the body touching, from her scent, from her gasps and moans from my simple back rub.
In order to find a comfortable position, I put my arm on her arm, my fingers on her shoulder and my other hand that I was laying on rested on her back.
To be continued in Part II.
I've talked about my world travels that occur often, and a blogger who I chat off-and-on with asked if my next trip would land me anywhere near where she lives, somewhere south of Mexico and north of Argentina. I like to make fun of her when she calls the U.S. "America" because where she is from is ALSO America. North America, Central America, South America, we're ALL Americans.
As luck would have it, I had a trip planned to HER America region. And not just to her country but to her home town. I dropped her a note when we chatted, and a possible coffee "date" was planned at some time in the future.
My client kept moving his schedule, so I booked 5 different flights for 4 different date segments. The blogger was also busy here and there with life, but I did want to meet her. I'd seen her picture and even some video she shared with me, and she was gorgeous, slim, curvy and fun to chat with. Just like with Delecta and AFCBs #1-3, my goal was to make friends.
Finally my client said "Come on this day" and I told the blogger to see if she was still interested in that coffee. She confirmed her interest, so we made plans to meet on one of the days I'd be there when she was free.
I hopped a bunch of flights, landed in said random country, and texted my client and her as I walked out of the plane just shy of lunch time. My client decided to be too busy, so I checked into a VERY nice hotel, turned on my laptop and found the blogger online.
We'll call her Sandra, not her real name. Sandra told me she was free in the afternoon around 3pm, and that we could meet at the mall that was 1 block from my hotel and just a half mile from where she lives. Bonus. She asked me where we should meet, and I quickly picked a coffee shop at the mall.
The mall is awesome, but wasn't very busy. The coffee shop was in a rotunda part of the mall, all glass -- I could see people entering the mall, and I seated myself so I could see her coming up the escalator. She's tall, loves to show off her body, has an ass that one should worship, and is completely out of my league. Oh, and she hasn't hit 21 -- yet. Umm, yeah, that's as safe as it can get.
At 2:30 she chats me that she'll be there early. ARGH, no time for a shower, a shave, or a change of clothes even. I haul into the elevator, walk over to the mall, find the coffee shop and situate myself so I could see her before she sees me. A few minutes late, as the latin women prefer, and I see her coming up the escalator. Holy crap, I need to bail.
I became nervous, which is very rare for me. As she walks around the windowed second floor of the rotunda (the coffee shop wraps around about 40 degrees of it), I stand and she beams a smile. I throw back my toothy, crooked, broken smile and we embrace, hard. Nice boobs. TIGHT, muscular body. Amazing skin and her face is just lit up.
We talk, my nervousness obvious. A cute waitress brings us menus, and we order our drinks: espresso doble for Sane, some sort of strawberry smoothie for Sandra. We continue our conversation, just feeling the other out for comfort and comedy. We smiled, we laughed, we made eye contact. We drank our drinks, fast.
At one point, she turned her head and her neck cracked, causing her hand to shoot up to rub it. "Ow, that hurt," she told me, sitting across from me as I watched her unsuccessfully rub her own back.
As I paid for the drinks, we decided to walk the mall since my belt was so loose it was falling off my ass. We wandered in and out of various stores, me pointing at cute gals clothing and her nodding her head NO. She knows I like to buy pretty gals gorgeous clothes so I can be seen with them, but she already looked gorgeous in her red A-shirt, tight jeans and red fuck-me-heels. Oh, and the bitch wore glasses. Grr.
We checked out a bunch of NICE stores (high fashion labels), which is surprising since the minimum wage in the country is around $1 per hour, maybe less. I found TWO suits that I am buying before I leave, but no belts. I needed a belt in the color I was wearing. Tomorrow I'll find a leather shop that can poke holes.
We wandered a bit more, neither of us hungry, but I needed toothpaste and lip balm, so she took me to the local pharmacy, which is more drugs than consumer goods like Walgreens back home. Found the toothpaste and the lipbalm, I paid, and we left.
She had plans with friends in the evening, and I had a fresh carton or two of cigarettes, plus I had to drop off my purchases at the hotel barely 2 blocks away, so I asked if she wanted a pack of smokes in exchange for showing me around the area. She agreed, so we headed up to my hotel.
Originally I had a penthouse suite, but they were doing construction in the hallway and it was NOISY, so I requested a lower floor to avoid the noise. No big deal for them, and I was lucky to still keep a smoking room ($20 tip lucky). The majority of the hotel is non-smoking, so the rooms are hard to come by.
I showed her my room and then sat on the large, red couch while she sat on the king size bed, her feet dangling off. We talked some more, her flirtatiously making eye contact with me while her legs kept dangling off the bed, swinging, inviting, teasing. Argh.
I stood up, for whatever reason, adjusted my ponytail, and sat down next to her on the bed. Why? Because it was safe. We were fully clothed, there wasn't any touchy-touchy beyond some accidental glances (uh huh) and she had plans with friends so there wasn't really that much time to do anything but talk.
So there we are, talking, making eye contact, laughing, obviously enjoying each other's company. For background purposes, the gal doesn't have a lot of sexual experience. Less than anyone I've met in a LONG time. That means that Sane has to be a total gentleman, and I stick to it.
And then she fucking seduced ME. Her hand was on her neck a few times, obviously hurting. At one point, she laid down on the bed (it's comfortable), so I did, too, staring at the ceiling as we talked. Then she rolled over to her side facing away from me, continuing to talk but also putting her hand on her neck, her entire back north of her bra-strap exposed with tan skin. Uhhhh, yeah.
I asked her if she needed help, and her hand was replaced by one of my hands as I rolled to my side to get a better angle. I used my (very) soft fingers with some force to detect what muscles were tight and found that her left neck muscles were extremely tight, and her right neck muscles were needed some attention but not as much.
I proceeded to find the pressure amount between healing and pain, not pleasure and pain. As I used my thumbs and fingers into her neck and shoulder, I could see her body loosen up. She even let a gasp fall from her lips. Just a few minutes of that and she was feeling looser in the neck and shoulders, and her body's posture took on a different angle -- more relaxed, rehabilitated.
Her body slid back a bit, her back touching my best, her ass pushed up against my cock which was already starting to get happy from the body touching, from her scent, from her gasps and moans from my simple back rub.
In order to find a comfortable position, I put my arm on her arm, my fingers on her shoulder and my other hand that I was laying on rested on her back.
To be continued in Part II.
Read the rest...
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Sermony Sunday: The foundation of peace, freedom from fear
Sunday is always an interesting day for this Sane bloke. Most Sundays you will find me at a random church sometimes in a random town, congregating with members of a religious cult who have beliefs far from my own.
I have a history as possibly being the most hated man of faith in the world of the religious. I've been excommunicated, booted, and spit at with words of hatred and vitriol. I've been asked to never open my mouth, never share my name, never come back.
And yet I continue to go, visiting congregations of all faiths, creeds, races. I worship with them but outside of them, I listen to their sermons, I watch with open eyes when they pray together.
I am a man of faith, but a man without religion. I found my faith through reading, research and much introspection after perusing the Scriptures that many called the Bible. I researched outside of the Book, finding an old codex here or there, finding words of other authors from the same time as that Book was probably penned or the stories told.
And yet I don't call myself Christian. I don't partake of the creeds, the sacraments, the masses and liturgies. I don't see the point of religion.
Today was good for me because I joined with a good Christian friend and a good atheist friend. After the early morning service, I met them both for breakfast at a local cafe (great eggs and coffee) and we talked about faith.
As many know, I run my life in ways that are contrary to what society thinks is right. I debate and appeal my judgment, my desires, my own logic-founded results often to try to come up with new ways to resist the river-flow of life that often takes many over a waterfall. I prefer to swim against the current to spawn rather than fall over the cliff with the current of society's movements.
I believe in a creator, but I don't believe in God as most Bible-believers do. The word God, as written in modern Bibles is ghastly in terms of translation and transliteration. It's a failure of a word, a single word that to many means so much, but in the context of the Story is useless, wrecked, wretched and uninspiring.
I believe in the man called the Christ, the Messiah, the Savior, but I don't hold the faith that most Christians do regarding the long term results of what they believe. I don't want to be born-again, and I don't believe that is even possible. I don't believe in sin, and I think the Scriptures prove that it doesn't exist. Hell? No such thing. Punishment, salvation, redemption, sacrifice? Not important anymore.
I've never heard God's voice in my head or in my heart, I don't cry at the idea of Jesus being crucified for me or anyone else who lives today. I am not shaken by the scare-tactics of the religious cults, but I don't harbor any grudge or guilt at their penetrations into the minds of others, the brainwashing that happens when anything is drummed into your head over and over and over.
And yet, every moment of every day, I stand in the presence of proof of God's existence, just in my own body, mind and soul. I truly believe that this Creator of all things had produced me before my parents' egg and seed mixed, created me with a genetic structure that gave rise to my talents and my failures, my tools and my thoughts. I don't believe in karmic justice or fate, but I believe that each person is planted with that soul before they come into existence. I don't agree that life begins at conception or at birth, it doesn't matter to me.
I said I've never heard the voice of God, but I see Him in everything around me. There are a set of undeniable "laws" that the world is governed by that are outside of governments and rules and human regulation. It is these laws that I live my own life by: I must eat, I must drink, I must sleep, and on and on.
And yet there are many who castigate me or don't believe in my own faithful worship of my creator through acts of interaction with others, for others, for myself. "How can you have sex with women if you follow the Bible?" or "So you think it's OK to get drunk?" or "Your job sounds criminal, if it hurts others how do you match that up with what you believe?"
I rarely answer them except for those who want to sit down and hear me out. Few do, but those who do usually have a life-changing experience after they contemplate what I have to say, how I sell it, and what my points of logic are.
And yet, I don't believe that faith or religion or a belief in God is important to people. My friends who are atheists probably have the best point of view regarding God. My most faithful religious friends have crazy views and ideas that, to me, seem like a great waste of time and of life, but I don't ever try to change them of it.
So what's the point? There is none, except to remind myself that every moment of every day I take my breaths, knowing and trusting that all is good with the universe, that there is no punishment or retribution awaiting me moments after my last breath is exhaled.
I have a history as possibly being the most hated man of faith in the world of the religious. I've been excommunicated, booted, and spit at with words of hatred and vitriol. I've been asked to never open my mouth, never share my name, never come back.
And yet I continue to go, visiting congregations of all faiths, creeds, races. I worship with them but outside of them, I listen to their sermons, I watch with open eyes when they pray together.
I am a man of faith, but a man without religion. I found my faith through reading, research and much introspection after perusing the Scriptures that many called the Bible. I researched outside of the Book, finding an old codex here or there, finding words of other authors from the same time as that Book was probably penned or the stories told.
And yet I don't call myself Christian. I don't partake of the creeds, the sacraments, the masses and liturgies. I don't see the point of religion.
Today was good for me because I joined with a good Christian friend and a good atheist friend. After the early morning service, I met them both for breakfast at a local cafe (great eggs and coffee) and we talked about faith.
As many know, I run my life in ways that are contrary to what society thinks is right. I debate and appeal my judgment, my desires, my own logic-founded results often to try to come up with new ways to resist the river-flow of life that often takes many over a waterfall. I prefer to swim against the current to spawn rather than fall over the cliff with the current of society's movements.
I believe in a creator, but I don't believe in God as most Bible-believers do. The word God, as written in modern Bibles is ghastly in terms of translation and transliteration. It's a failure of a word, a single word that to many means so much, but in the context of the Story is useless, wrecked, wretched and uninspiring.
I believe in the man called the Christ, the Messiah, the Savior, but I don't hold the faith that most Christians do regarding the long term results of what they believe. I don't want to be born-again, and I don't believe that is even possible. I don't believe in sin, and I think the Scriptures prove that it doesn't exist. Hell? No such thing. Punishment, salvation, redemption, sacrifice? Not important anymore.
I've never heard God's voice in my head or in my heart, I don't cry at the idea of Jesus being crucified for me or anyone else who lives today. I am not shaken by the scare-tactics of the religious cults, but I don't harbor any grudge or guilt at their penetrations into the minds of others, the brainwashing that happens when anything is drummed into your head over and over and over.
And yet, every moment of every day, I stand in the presence of proof of God's existence, just in my own body, mind and soul. I truly believe that this Creator of all things had produced me before my parents' egg and seed mixed, created me with a genetic structure that gave rise to my talents and my failures, my tools and my thoughts. I don't believe in karmic justice or fate, but I believe that each person is planted with that soul before they come into existence. I don't agree that life begins at conception or at birth, it doesn't matter to me.
I said I've never heard the voice of God, but I see Him in everything around me. There are a set of undeniable "laws" that the world is governed by that are outside of governments and rules and human regulation. It is these laws that I live my own life by: I must eat, I must drink, I must sleep, and on and on.
And yet there are many who castigate me or don't believe in my own faithful worship of my creator through acts of interaction with others, for others, for myself. "How can you have sex with women if you follow the Bible?" or "So you think it's OK to get drunk?" or "Your job sounds criminal, if it hurts others how do you match that up with what you believe?"
I rarely answer them except for those who want to sit down and hear me out. Few do, but those who do usually have a life-changing experience after they contemplate what I have to say, how I sell it, and what my points of logic are.
And yet, I don't believe that faith or religion or a belief in God is important to people. My friends who are atheists probably have the best point of view regarding God. My most faithful religious friends have crazy views and ideas that, to me, seem like a great waste of time and of life, but I don't ever try to change them of it.
So what's the point? There is none, except to remind myself that every moment of every day I take my breaths, knowing and trusting that all is good with the universe, that there is no punishment or retribution awaiting me moments after my last breath is exhaled.
Read the rest...
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Sane's Smoking Saturday (Audioblog)
I recorded this audioblog last night, for those who wonder what I sometimes sound like.
Please note I am drunk here, and I didn't actually edit it, so the quality is fairly low.
Please note I am drunk here, and I didn't actually edit it, so the quality is fairly low.
Read the rest...
Friday, July 24, 2009
Upcoming trips, upcoming schedule
I took July off to deal with family needs, household makeovers, visits with friends and just a recharge from what was a fairly hectic late spring.
Alas, with all good long breaks comes my internal drive to accomplish something. I may have the world's most exciting job, but not finishing something for a client regularly can bring on the doldrums quickly. So off I go to international territories to visit with clients, get some work done, make some money, and maybe make new friends along the way.
So far, I have 3 trips planned: Venezuela (South America), Paris (Europe) and possibly Turkey (Asia). I have plans to meet some new bloggers that I read, one in Venezuela, one in Paris. We'll see how it goes, and you all are sure to hear about it first.
Towards the end of August, I think I'm going to hop over to Las Vegas for a 1 day shopping spree. Even though I haven't been working hard, some money is coming in from other jobs I did earlier in the spring. I've lost some weight since winter (10#) and really need some new pants, dress shirts, and a suit or four. We'll see how it goes, maybe I'll videoblog the shopping spree.
I'm really riled up lately. I've had the company of nothing less than some of the best looking gals around, but alas the chemistry just isn't right with any of them. Yes, I'm picky. Yes, I'm superficial. Yes, I love physical attention from women I date to see how much they desire my body. At the moment, my prospects are almost zero, so I know what I have to do: I have to go out on dates.
In other news, August is also new recipe month. I am working on a Bacon, Gouda, Apple and Sage soup recipe with almost no starch. It will be to-die-for and you'll get it here first. Also, I decided to try to push forward with a new low-starch bread that isn't all flax and soy. I won't say what I'm using, but initial test batches have proven it to be the gooiest, tastiest, crispiest bread I've ever had. Sadly, the shelf life is about 3 days, but it's amazing.
I have a bunch of minor hops around the country planned for August and September, mostly to seek out good restaurants that I can call my own. Kansas City, St. Louis, Portland, Seattle, Phoenix, Miami, and more. My goal is to find really nice places that are out of the usual tourist-trap areas, meet with the owners, and start visiting more often. I am on track to be traveling 60,000 miles less than I did last year, and I think I need to make that up in droves in the second half of 2009.
So that's my plan, nothing too exciting, but still fun. And I do promise to write more, I had a big of an Internet mental failure the last week. Now I'm back, with coffee in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and my laptop on my lap, where it should be living more often.
Alas, with all good long breaks comes my internal drive to accomplish something. I may have the world's most exciting job, but not finishing something for a client regularly can bring on the doldrums quickly. So off I go to international territories to visit with clients, get some work done, make some money, and maybe make new friends along the way.
So far, I have 3 trips planned: Venezuela (South America), Paris (Europe) and possibly Turkey (Asia). I have plans to meet some new bloggers that I read, one in Venezuela, one in Paris. We'll see how it goes, and you all are sure to hear about it first.
Towards the end of August, I think I'm going to hop over to Las Vegas for a 1 day shopping spree. Even though I haven't been working hard, some money is coming in from other jobs I did earlier in the spring. I've lost some weight since winter (10#) and really need some new pants, dress shirts, and a suit or four. We'll see how it goes, maybe I'll videoblog the shopping spree.
I'm really riled up lately. I've had the company of nothing less than some of the best looking gals around, but alas the chemistry just isn't right with any of them. Yes, I'm picky. Yes, I'm superficial. Yes, I love physical attention from women I date to see how much they desire my body. At the moment, my prospects are almost zero, so I know what I have to do: I have to go out on dates.
In other news, August is also new recipe month. I am working on a Bacon, Gouda, Apple and Sage soup recipe with almost no starch. It will be to-die-for and you'll get it here first. Also, I decided to try to push forward with a new low-starch bread that isn't all flax and soy. I won't say what I'm using, but initial test batches have proven it to be the gooiest, tastiest, crispiest bread I've ever had. Sadly, the shelf life is about 3 days, but it's amazing.
I have a bunch of minor hops around the country planned for August and September, mostly to seek out good restaurants that I can call my own. Kansas City, St. Louis, Portland, Seattle, Phoenix, Miami, and more. My goal is to find really nice places that are out of the usual tourist-trap areas, meet with the owners, and start visiting more often. I am on track to be traveling 60,000 miles less than I did last year, and I think I need to make that up in droves in the second half of 2009.
So that's my plan, nothing too exciting, but still fun. And I do promise to write more, I had a big of an Internet mental failure the last week. Now I'm back, with coffee in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and my laptop on my lap, where it should be living more often.
Read the rest...
Porn, Pigtails and Platonics (UPDATED)
It's Thursday. I love to eat on Thursday. Actually, I love good food on every day that ends in "Y". I decided to make plans to go out and eat, and who better to invite out for a food-porn non-date but AFCB#2?
You all know the gal -- we went out to lunch once, and have been regular fixtures at amazing food joints all over town. The poor gal (financially and socially) has not had a very good run with fine dining establishments, but she's a foodie. For her, it's the worst of all worlds: the desire for good food, but her busy lifestyle doesn't allow for it.
I asked her to dinner and told her I'd do something above and beyond our usual "very hip but ridiculously busy" restaurant get-togethers. Chicago, like most large towns, has a small count of VIP clubs. VIP clubs are lounges where you pay to be a member. Some clubs are reasonable at "only" $1500 a year per member, where as the others are $5000+ per year. That's just to go and drink.
She'd never heard of this particular lounge-restaurant combo, as most Chicagoans haven't. I gave her the name and the date and the time, and she used her Google wonder-talents to look it up. She was impressed by the photos, to say the least, but reviews were very hard to come by.
I made the reservation for 8:30pm, knowing full well that we'd be in a luxurious restaurant completely alone. That's the downside of private lounges: they never really get too outrageous during the week. The chef is locally renowned, and I was excited at the menu posted online.
As usual, I left at just the right time. Sadly, I had a fairly hectic day (hectic for me) and never made it home to change, so I went out in a business outfit: pinstripes, shiny dress shirt, custom cut-and-sew vest, ponytail, glasses. I was hoping to run home and change, but leaving the suburbs at 6pm to pick up #2 at 8pm left little room for a quick-change (or a shower!). Also, I had to drop off something for a family member.
Still, with 1/2" hail pouring down on my truck, I pulled onto #2's street at 7:55pm while sending her some gchats. I cranked up to her walkway and called her at about 7:59pm -- right on time, as usual.
I hopped out of the truck and walked to her doorway just as she came out. #2 is a very pretty lady, so it's hard for me not to double-take every time I see her, because in my mind's eye I see her as a friend, not a body and a face that probably should just be grabbed, shoved up against a car, a tree, a mirror or a lamppost and penetrated in more ways than imaginable. But today she was dressed to kill: a great white-ish skirt with a form-fitting salmon top.
Addition: I should also mention that she was wearing these HOT new black heels, which I had a feeling would kill her feet in record time. Still, they gave her a few inches of height, and they looked fantabulous, too. Why don't guys get sexy shoe choices? Ugh.
I have good resolve with women, friends, fuck buddies, dating interests, etc. When she walked out, though, it took me a little extra strength not to stare at her chest and say "whoa, momma." Good for me, and her, I didn't.
As we walked to the car, #2 noticed I had a string hanging off the ass of my pants. I went and gave myself a courtesy reach-around (over the pants) to try to find it but failed. This sweet lady better not put her hand ANYWHERE near my ass or there will be hell to pay.
I helped her into my tall truck (she's a petite gal) and we drove off, her giving me guidance in the streets that I still get lost in after 20 years of driving.
We made it into the busier part of Chicago, but there was construction traffic, one-way streets, and other things to throw off my (not so good) directional compass. After a few mis-turns, we made it to the valet, pulled my truck up, and waited a good 10 minutes for a valet in front of the busy hotel where the lounge lives.
We ventured in, were greeted at the host desk with a hand-written lettered envelope with my name on it, and made our way into the private elevator to the lounge-restaurant. Most people who have been to this part of town have no idea the lounge or restaurant even exists; I prefer it that way.
Upon exiting the elevator climb a few stories up, the lounge hostess greeted us and showed us a tour of the fairly large lounge. #2 was obviously impressed, the interior design of this join must top a million bucks, with antique wood ceilings, amazing furniture, and foreign linens lining everything. I wasn't here to impress her, but it's good to watch her face as she soaks up the better things in life.
We took the circular stairway down to the restaurant portion, also decked out in amazing cloths, colors and woodworking. It was EMPTY. Considering both the fair pricing and the amazing wine list, it always leaves me chagrined to see the place empty, but it was Thursday night.
The hostess told us who our server would be, and left us to talk. #2 and I have great conversations about nothing important and everything important. We tend not to talk over each other, but I do talk more to her than practically anyone else. Our server showed up, a kitschy and extremely attractive gal named Corinne. Brown hair (meow), great posture, and the cutest eyes and pigtails imaginable.
We all know where things went the last time I took out a server: hellsville, plainsville, etc. It's a rule of mine to NEVER ask out someone serving me. Nonetheless, Corinne was awesome, talking us up (we were her only table, probably all night), bringing us our menus, and making some recommendations on wine.
#2 and I wandered the private and empty restaurant area, checking out the private eating rooms in awe of the design and cost to maintain it. Cleaning, as well as keeping people from damaging or stealing expensive items, has to be a bitch.
#2 doesn't drink red wine, I don't drink white, so we ordered a glass each of our preferred varieties, as well as amazing appetizers: foie gras with endive, and a lobster salad. Our wine arrived on Corinne's platter, and she chatted with us through her happy-server smile. I've never been one to trust a server's smile, but I appreciate it because it's part of the job. Corinne's smile definitely changed from "I'm working one fucking table all night, I better be happy because I don't want to get stiffed" to "These folks are crazy and insane, I like them." Maybe I'm wrong on the latter.
We snacked on some bread with an amazing triple-serving of flavored butters, with even Sane having a few inches of the starchy devil. It was good, but we didn't want to fill up.
#2 makes the best proto-orgasmic face ever when she eats good food, and the appetizers left me chuckling. She's a beautiful gal who really does need a great guy in her life, once she gets through some relationship issues that almost everyone I know is going through. I'm glad to call her my friend, and I love the fact that we can be goofy, vulgar, and even critical of each other without any backlash. She knows how to shut me down when I get ridiculous or outrageous, but she also likes to go along for the Sane ride.
The appetizers were cleaned off to the point of us practically licking our plates. We kept forgetting our glasses of wine, the food leaving such a pungent bouquet of sex and foreplay on our noses and tongues. We looked over the menus again as we finished our appetizers, letting the lovely Corinne know that we were going to order our dinners, too: Lamb Loin with Endive, and a Veal Porterhouse. At first, #2 was uncertain about the Porterhouse because I prefer meat rare and she likes it medium. I told her it was VEAL and she basically said "ooooooh." Yes, folks, they make HUGE chunks of baby cow, and yes it is to die for (and maybe drop your pants for).
As we chatted some more, incorporating Corinne into our conversations (with the poor gal having to hold our plates for long bouts of time, swapping hands as she joined our conversations). It was at this point that I noticed how pretty Corinne was, her brilliant eyes gleaming, but her body hidden in the black-on-black outfit that she was wearing. Our seats were low, so I thought she was 5'10" towering over us. I think I bugged her about her height 5 times, but I also couldn't stop looking at her eyes.
I turned to look at #2, and must have stared at her hooters for a good 10 seconds. BUSTED, she totally saw. Most women will tell you that I _NEVER_ look at boobs, because I'm not that interested, but here I am surrounded by 2 lovely women, and something's gotta give. Oops, sorry #2.
Corinne popped out again with our entrees, and I could smell them from the doorway 15 feet away. The presentation, like the appetizers, was amazing: perfect plating, perfect temperature, perfect scents. The veal was a HUGE t-bone cut, and the lamb was nicely plated on a square plate, with the lamb cooked well (it would have been better slightly rare, #2 said, but we did order it medium).
We dove into it all, with #2 having her second foodgasm of the night. Sexy. In another universe, I would probably have tipped Corinne $100 to leave and bent her over the table. Alas, it is not meant to be -- we're pals. Keep that in mind before you email me telling me that she only goes to dinner with me hoping that I jump her. I can bet you a trip to Prague that she's in it for amazing companionship, a lot of laughter, and really good fucking food, a la food porn as said earlier.
More conversation between #2 and I, more conversation between Corinne and both of us. I keep looking at her, trying to lock eyes with her to see if she's interested in Mr. Sane, but that wasn't happening. Still, we all talked, with me finding out that Corinne loves dangerous and risky outings: skydiving, roller coasters, traveling all over the world, etc. Ok, now I have two women in my presence who are worthy of a good body rub: #2 for her food love, and Corinne for being, well, another version of me when it comes to idiocy and danger. I told her we'd swap information, at least so I can have a roller coaster buddy for the summer.
As dinner came to a close, we ordered dessert, which was wholly unnecessary. The restaurant was famous for dessert, but my favorites were not on the menu. Sad. Still, we ordered a Brown Butter Cake and Chocolate Berry tart. Corinne again exited the dining room to the kitchen as #2 and I attempted to try to finish our FIRST GLASSES OF WINE. Fail.
Addition: I should mention that the music in this lavish and expensively decorated dining room was AWESOME 80s AND 90S ROCK. Completely out of character, but perfect. It's a little bit like Sane: cultured and cared for on the outside, but a complete rock star on the inside. Well, I think so, at least.
#2 had to get up early, so around 10pm I started to get nervous and asked if I could check my phone. She checked hers as well, and we chatted each other up some more on more inane and exciting conversation, with Corinne putting her 2 cents in happily. Damn, why don't I meet women like these two in REAL LIFE instead of like this? Sheesh, I need to stop blogging and start getting out, for real.
Dessert came out and it was fine -- nothing exquisite, but not terrible. I don't believe we even finished our desserts, both of us happily full enough but not TOO full.
I'm not sure how it happened, but #2 reminded me to get Corinne's information (right in front of her). She's originally from another state that I visit a few times a month, and I attempted to guess her area code but failed, twice. Boo. Still, I got her number. #2 told Corinne that I would probably not call her for a week and a half because I am traveling a bit over the next 8 days, something I forgot about. Corinne said "It's OK, I probably would have forgotten anyway." That, my friends, is usually a sign to take that phone number, tear it up, and forget about it. If I am not remembered, and if a gal doesn't want me to call, I generally don't. In fact, I've broken the rule TWICE and both times were ruinous.
But she likes roller coasters and skydiving, so maybe it's worth calling her. We'll see. At this point, I'd bet I will probably lose the number and move along, because Sane is not the type of guy to be lost in the mix of douchebags, drunkards, and guys with tons of debt who go to restaurants to prove something. No, this man is 100% Grade A awesome to hang out with, but if I am not memorable, what's the point? We'll see. #2 said she'd remind me, but chances are I will remember that one dangling statement and put a nix to it.
#2 did remind me to share the website with Corinne, so maybe me talking out of my ass like this is a bad idea, but it's still what I thought, so why not be honest? We're being honest here, aren't we? If Corinne reads it, I'm surely out quite possibly as a friend, even, but I have been more open with people I meet to check my site if they care what I think.
Dinner came to a little over $200, which didn't jive in my head. I am VERY good at adding things up in my head, so when I found a problem, Corinne fixed it right away. The total? Nearly $200 even. Not bad for a fun night of 3 hours for 2 people. Here's the issue: what the hell do I tip? We were her ONLY customers, and she had to bus it to the restaurant and back home. Probably 4 hours of work, minimum, ugh. I tipped her 35%, but now I feel like a jackass because I sure as hell wouldn't work for only $20 per hour. I should have tipped 50%, and will gladly make it up if I see her again, somehow. Boo, Sane. TIP-FAIL.
We decided to skip after-dinner drinks because time flew, and #2 has work in the morning. We exited, saying good night to the director of the lounge operations, a cute and bouncy lady older than me but young at heart. Sadly, it was this manager who was the only woman of the night to touch me in the good ways. Fuck.
We hit the elevator, returned to the valet (where we waited forever again), poor #2 walking a little stilted due to her feet hurting (KNEW IT). I think she also snagged my ass-string at this point, but I was too happy with the foodsex to even realize a woman's hand within millimeters of my ass. We then zipped off to the highway, me of course going the wrong way at least once, and #2 having to remind me where to get off. I dropped her off close to midnight, with a friendly hug and a promise to regroup soon.
The conversation driving home was cute, with her giving me the grandest compliment I could get: if I treated her like shit, she probably would've been into me. I've heard this before, mind you, and I just can't do it. I love to fuck, I love to offer a passionate night of ridiculous desires met, but I'm not an asshole to women. I say it too often, I know: my mom taught me well. Customers, plebians, cretins, politicians and police officers always get the mean version of Sane, but ladies should be honored and respected, at least until you get half their clothes off and it's time for some hair pulling, ass spanking, shoulder biting and the use of words that would make your mom blush and your dad disown you.
Still, it was an AWESOME night. I always have fun with #2, and I know we'll have more fun. We're already thinking about a trip together -- maybe a flight to the West Coast for one purpose: IN-AND-OUT BURGER. She's never been, and I think she'd be an absolutely blast on a 1 day flight in and out for a $5 burger. Let's do it. I'm in.
As for Corinne, we'll see. She has the face and hair and eyes that can drive me nuts, but (A) she was my server, (B) she wasn't interested and verbalized it, and (C) it's just another person who will get in the way of me finding what I'm looking for (not a girlfriend, not a fuck buddy, not a friend with benefits, but what?). So if #2 pushes me to, I'll call her. At the very least, I'll have a pal who I can roller coaster with, something #2 won't do even if I paid her. In Foie Gras. And Lamb Loin.
Well, maybe with that form of payment. But I doubt it.
You all know the gal -- we went out to lunch once, and have been regular fixtures at amazing food joints all over town. The poor gal (financially and socially) has not had a very good run with fine dining establishments, but she's a foodie. For her, it's the worst of all worlds: the desire for good food, but her busy lifestyle doesn't allow for it.
I asked her to dinner and told her I'd do something above and beyond our usual "very hip but ridiculously busy" restaurant get-togethers. Chicago, like most large towns, has a small count of VIP clubs. VIP clubs are lounges where you pay to be a member. Some clubs are reasonable at "only" $1500 a year per member, where as the others are $5000+ per year. That's just to go and drink.
She'd never heard of this particular lounge-restaurant combo, as most Chicagoans haven't. I gave her the name and the date and the time, and she used her Google wonder-talents to look it up. She was impressed by the photos, to say the least, but reviews were very hard to come by.
I made the reservation for 8:30pm, knowing full well that we'd be in a luxurious restaurant completely alone. That's the downside of private lounges: they never really get too outrageous during the week. The chef is locally renowned, and I was excited at the menu posted online.
As usual, I left at just the right time. Sadly, I had a fairly hectic day (hectic for me) and never made it home to change, so I went out in a business outfit: pinstripes, shiny dress shirt, custom cut-and-sew vest, ponytail, glasses. I was hoping to run home and change, but leaving the suburbs at 6pm to pick up #2 at 8pm left little room for a quick-change (or a shower!). Also, I had to drop off something for a family member.
Still, with 1/2" hail pouring down on my truck, I pulled onto #2's street at 7:55pm while sending her some gchats. I cranked up to her walkway and called her at about 7:59pm -- right on time, as usual.
I hopped out of the truck and walked to her doorway just as she came out. #2 is a very pretty lady, so it's hard for me not to double-take every time I see her, because in my mind's eye I see her as a friend, not a body and a face that probably should just be grabbed, shoved up against a car, a tree, a mirror or a lamppost and penetrated in more ways than imaginable. But today she was dressed to kill: a great white-ish skirt with a form-fitting salmon top.
Addition: I should also mention that she was wearing these HOT new black heels, which I had a feeling would kill her feet in record time. Still, they gave her a few inches of height, and they looked fantabulous, too. Why don't guys get sexy shoe choices? Ugh.
I have good resolve with women, friends, fuck buddies, dating interests, etc. When she walked out, though, it took me a little extra strength not to stare at her chest and say "whoa, momma." Good for me, and her, I didn't.
As we walked to the car, #2 noticed I had a string hanging off the ass of my pants. I went and gave myself a courtesy reach-around (over the pants) to try to find it but failed. This sweet lady better not put her hand ANYWHERE near my ass or there will be hell to pay.
I helped her into my tall truck (she's a petite gal) and we drove off, her giving me guidance in the streets that I still get lost in after 20 years of driving.
We made it into the busier part of Chicago, but there was construction traffic, one-way streets, and other things to throw off my (not so good) directional compass. After a few mis-turns, we made it to the valet, pulled my truck up, and waited a good 10 minutes for a valet in front of the busy hotel where the lounge lives.
We ventured in, were greeted at the host desk with a hand-written lettered envelope with my name on it, and made our way into the private elevator to the lounge-restaurant. Most people who have been to this part of town have no idea the lounge or restaurant even exists; I prefer it that way.
Upon exiting the elevator climb a few stories up, the lounge hostess greeted us and showed us a tour of the fairly large lounge. #2 was obviously impressed, the interior design of this join must top a million bucks, with antique wood ceilings, amazing furniture, and foreign linens lining everything. I wasn't here to impress her, but it's good to watch her face as she soaks up the better things in life.
We took the circular stairway down to the restaurant portion, also decked out in amazing cloths, colors and woodworking. It was EMPTY. Considering both the fair pricing and the amazing wine list, it always leaves me chagrined to see the place empty, but it was Thursday night.
The hostess told us who our server would be, and left us to talk. #2 and I have great conversations about nothing important and everything important. We tend not to talk over each other, but I do talk more to her than practically anyone else. Our server showed up, a kitschy and extremely attractive gal named Corinne. Brown hair (meow), great posture, and the cutest eyes and pigtails imaginable.
We all know where things went the last time I took out a server: hellsville, plainsville, etc. It's a rule of mine to NEVER ask out someone serving me. Nonetheless, Corinne was awesome, talking us up (we were her only table, probably all night), bringing us our menus, and making some recommendations on wine.
#2 and I wandered the private and empty restaurant area, checking out the private eating rooms in awe of the design and cost to maintain it. Cleaning, as well as keeping people from damaging or stealing expensive items, has to be a bitch.
#2 doesn't drink red wine, I don't drink white, so we ordered a glass each of our preferred varieties, as well as amazing appetizers: foie gras with endive, and a lobster salad. Our wine arrived on Corinne's platter, and she chatted with us through her happy-server smile. I've never been one to trust a server's smile, but I appreciate it because it's part of the job. Corinne's smile definitely changed from "I'm working one fucking table all night, I better be happy because I don't want to get stiffed" to "These folks are crazy and insane, I like them." Maybe I'm wrong on the latter.
We snacked on some bread with an amazing triple-serving of flavored butters, with even Sane having a few inches of the starchy devil. It was good, but we didn't want to fill up.
#2 makes the best proto-orgasmic face ever when she eats good food, and the appetizers left me chuckling. She's a beautiful gal who really does need a great guy in her life, once she gets through some relationship issues that almost everyone I know is going through. I'm glad to call her my friend, and I love the fact that we can be goofy, vulgar, and even critical of each other without any backlash. She knows how to shut me down when I get ridiculous or outrageous, but she also likes to go along for the Sane ride.
The appetizers were cleaned off to the point of us practically licking our plates. We kept forgetting our glasses of wine, the food leaving such a pungent bouquet of sex and foreplay on our noses and tongues. We looked over the menus again as we finished our appetizers, letting the lovely Corinne know that we were going to order our dinners, too: Lamb Loin with Endive, and a Veal Porterhouse. At first, #2 was uncertain about the Porterhouse because I prefer meat rare and she likes it medium. I told her it was VEAL and she basically said "ooooooh." Yes, folks, they make HUGE chunks of baby cow, and yes it is to die for (and maybe drop your pants for).
As we chatted some more, incorporating Corinne into our conversations (with the poor gal having to hold our plates for long bouts of time, swapping hands as she joined our conversations). It was at this point that I noticed how pretty Corinne was, her brilliant eyes gleaming, but her body hidden in the black-on-black outfit that she was wearing. Our seats were low, so I thought she was 5'10" towering over us. I think I bugged her about her height 5 times, but I also couldn't stop looking at her eyes.
I turned to look at #2, and must have stared at her hooters for a good 10 seconds. BUSTED, she totally saw. Most women will tell you that I _NEVER_ look at boobs, because I'm not that interested, but here I am surrounded by 2 lovely women, and something's gotta give. Oops, sorry #2.
Corinne popped out again with our entrees, and I could smell them from the doorway 15 feet away. The presentation, like the appetizers, was amazing: perfect plating, perfect temperature, perfect scents. The veal was a HUGE t-bone cut, and the lamb was nicely plated on a square plate, with the lamb cooked well (it would have been better slightly rare, #2 said, but we did order it medium).
We dove into it all, with #2 having her second foodgasm of the night. Sexy. In another universe, I would probably have tipped Corinne $100 to leave and bent her over the table. Alas, it is not meant to be -- we're pals. Keep that in mind before you email me telling me that she only goes to dinner with me hoping that I jump her. I can bet you a trip to Prague that she's in it for amazing companionship, a lot of laughter, and really good fucking food, a la food porn as said earlier.
More conversation between #2 and I, more conversation between Corinne and both of us. I keep looking at her, trying to lock eyes with her to see if she's interested in Mr. Sane, but that wasn't happening. Still, we all talked, with me finding out that Corinne loves dangerous and risky outings: skydiving, roller coasters, traveling all over the world, etc. Ok, now I have two women in my presence who are worthy of a good body rub: #2 for her food love, and Corinne for being, well, another version of me when it comes to idiocy and danger. I told her we'd swap information, at least so I can have a roller coaster buddy for the summer.
As dinner came to a close, we ordered dessert, which was wholly unnecessary. The restaurant was famous for dessert, but my favorites were not on the menu. Sad. Still, we ordered a Brown Butter Cake and Chocolate Berry tart. Corinne again exited the dining room to the kitchen as #2 and I attempted to try to finish our FIRST GLASSES OF WINE. Fail.
Addition: I should mention that the music in this lavish and expensively decorated dining room was AWESOME 80s AND 90S ROCK. Completely out of character, but perfect. It's a little bit like Sane: cultured and cared for on the outside, but a complete rock star on the inside. Well, I think so, at least.
#2 had to get up early, so around 10pm I started to get nervous and asked if I could check my phone. She checked hers as well, and we chatted each other up some more on more inane and exciting conversation, with Corinne putting her 2 cents in happily. Damn, why don't I meet women like these two in REAL LIFE instead of like this? Sheesh, I need to stop blogging and start getting out, for real.
Dessert came out and it was fine -- nothing exquisite, but not terrible. I don't believe we even finished our desserts, both of us happily full enough but not TOO full.
I'm not sure how it happened, but #2 reminded me to get Corinne's information (right in front of her). She's originally from another state that I visit a few times a month, and I attempted to guess her area code but failed, twice. Boo. Still, I got her number. #2 told Corinne that I would probably not call her for a week and a half because I am traveling a bit over the next 8 days, something I forgot about. Corinne said "It's OK, I probably would have forgotten anyway." That, my friends, is usually a sign to take that phone number, tear it up, and forget about it. If I am not remembered, and if a gal doesn't want me to call, I generally don't. In fact, I've broken the rule TWICE and both times were ruinous.
But she likes roller coasters and skydiving, so maybe it's worth calling her. We'll see. At this point, I'd bet I will probably lose the number and move along, because Sane is not the type of guy to be lost in the mix of douchebags, drunkards, and guys with tons of debt who go to restaurants to prove something. No, this man is 100% Grade A awesome to hang out with, but if I am not memorable, what's the point? We'll see. #2 said she'd remind me, but chances are I will remember that one dangling statement and put a nix to it.
#2 did remind me to share the website with Corinne, so maybe me talking out of my ass like this is a bad idea, but it's still what I thought, so why not be honest? We're being honest here, aren't we? If Corinne reads it, I'm surely out quite possibly as a friend, even, but I have been more open with people I meet to check my site if they care what I think.
Dinner came to a little over $200, which didn't jive in my head. I am VERY good at adding things up in my head, so when I found a problem, Corinne fixed it right away. The total? Nearly $200 even. Not bad for a fun night of 3 hours for 2 people. Here's the issue: what the hell do I tip? We were her ONLY customers, and she had to bus it to the restaurant and back home. Probably 4 hours of work, minimum, ugh. I tipped her 35%, but now I feel like a jackass because I sure as hell wouldn't work for only $20 per hour. I should have tipped 50%, and will gladly make it up if I see her again, somehow. Boo, Sane. TIP-FAIL.
We decided to skip after-dinner drinks because time flew, and #2 has work in the morning. We exited, saying good night to the director of the lounge operations, a cute and bouncy lady older than me but young at heart. Sadly, it was this manager who was the only woman of the night to touch me in the good ways. Fuck.
We hit the elevator, returned to the valet (where we waited forever again), poor #2 walking a little stilted due to her feet hurting (KNEW IT). I think she also snagged my ass-string at this point, but I was too happy with the foodsex to even realize a woman's hand within millimeters of my ass. We then zipped off to the highway, me of course going the wrong way at least once, and #2 having to remind me where to get off. I dropped her off close to midnight, with a friendly hug and a promise to regroup soon.
The conversation driving home was cute, with her giving me the grandest compliment I could get: if I treated her like shit, she probably would've been into me. I've heard this before, mind you, and I just can't do it. I love to fuck, I love to offer a passionate night of ridiculous desires met, but I'm not an asshole to women. I say it too often, I know: my mom taught me well. Customers, plebians, cretins, politicians and police officers always get the mean version of Sane, but ladies should be honored and respected, at least until you get half their clothes off and it's time for some hair pulling, ass spanking, shoulder biting and the use of words that would make your mom blush and your dad disown you.
Still, it was an AWESOME night. I always have fun with #2, and I know we'll have more fun. We're already thinking about a trip together -- maybe a flight to the West Coast for one purpose: IN-AND-OUT BURGER. She's never been, and I think she'd be an absolutely blast on a 1 day flight in and out for a $5 burger. Let's do it. I'm in.
As for Corinne, we'll see. She has the face and hair and eyes that can drive me nuts, but (A) she was my server, (B) she wasn't interested and verbalized it, and (C) it's just another person who will get in the way of me finding what I'm looking for (not a girlfriend, not a fuck buddy, not a friend with benefits, but what?). So if #2 pushes me to, I'll call her. At the very least, I'll have a pal who I can roller coaster with, something #2 won't do even if I paid her. In Foie Gras. And Lamb Loin.
Well, maybe with that form of payment. But I doubt it.
Read the rest...
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Another non-date, but one Sane admires
I had a good talk with Gay Miguel about my propensity lately to acquire more gal pals who I have a non-physical friendship with versus the "let's have fun and then let's bang" friendship I've been hoping to find. He had a laugh-yell conversation with me because he is also aware that I've dumped a bunch of friends (75% women) in recent months due to the fact that they never would come up with fun things to do or even take the time to contact me first with a casual hello. Some of you readers yelled at me thinking I dumped these friends because we weren't banging, but the truth is that I hate one-sided friendships; it wasn't over sex.
Last week I made plans to see a semi-famous galpal who lives in LA. She was planning on flying to Chicago to see the Sane, but she had to skip her first flight and reschedule. When she told me she had to skip the second flight, I told her not to worry about it. We'd meet again soon when I was out there.
Sadly, I was in the mood for some food and maybe a drink, but I had already passed on plans with other friends. Google Chat to the rescue as AFCB#2 found herself free on that very same night, mere hours before it was dinner time. We made plans to meet in her neck of the woods, to try a restaurant neither of us had tried before.
We made plans for me to pick her up and we'd drive together instead of her facing the 15 minute walk to the restaurant. Earlier in the afternoon, I helped her out with an errand that she was planning to handle on her own, but the rain was coming so she ended up taking my offer to give her a ride and save not just time, but her clothes from a possible downpour that never happened.
I arrived at her apartment, on time as usual. She took care of a few things and then came out, looking hot and happy as usual. I'm a superficial person more often than not, and I see nothing wrong with having gal pals who I admire for their friendship but can still catch a glance of their ass shaking as they walk away. I'm a man, and I think one of our finest abilities is to admire sexiness.
We drove from her place the mile or less to the restaurant, looking for parking. None was on the main street, but a quick right turn onto a side street and we found a place to park my behemoth of a vehicle. We walked to the restaurant down the middle of the street, uncertain which direction it was.
We entered the quaint and tiny Tex-Mex restaurant, impressed with its cleanliness and overall good vibe.
The restaurant wasn't busy on this weekday, with a single waiter taking care of all the tables as best as he could. He had an interesting and memorable name, which usually helps me to remember to return to a restaurant if the service and food is good.
I ordered a glass of wine, wanting a little alcohol to bring me to my senses after a long day of doing really nothing important. #2 had her own day of stress and work responsibility, and she ordered a margarita off the restaurants healthy and hefty list of Mexican-focused drinks. We perused the menu, both excited at two pork options, as well as the variety of other Tex-Mex fusion foods that made our mouths water. We ordered the pulled pork nachos to share, making me think deep about how this is one gal who can actually get me to eat starchy foods.
Our drinks came and we clinked glasses, diving into our usual/unusual banter about life. She's a fun conversationalist, very set in her ways but also hilarious, vulgar and even responsible. It's always a pleasure to talk to her, lock eyes with her, watch her pouty yet full lips mouth words that bring a smile to my face. On occasion, she's able to see the rare Sane blush, usually when I slip up and say something stupid, private or embarrassing.
Our nachos arrived, and I started to talk to the server, but she shut down my usual banter. She's harsh in her judgement of how I deal with wait staff, mostly due to her own experiences in the past in the a similar job. I usually don't care much to follow the advice of others, but in her case I respect her enough that I am happy to cater to her wishes in this case and keep my mouth mostly shut.
Our nachos arrive, and they're heaven on Earth. We both shove food into our mouths, almost competing for the pulled pork instead of the plentiful corn-produced chips. Before the appetizers were served, I washed my hands in the men's room and was pleased by its cleanliness and brightness, but scared out of my mind by a HUGE stick-bush that was hiding behind me. I don't like big, dark, hovering objects in my periphery, and I didn't notice the bush walking in. I mentioned it to the server, and he had no clue what I was talking about. Excellence in design, and funny how I almost jumped into my defensive crouch thinking someone was behind me ready to take me out.
Our drinks were good, and her margarita was flavorful, if not a little too full of sugar. No one makes a good sugar free margarita in the city anymore, sadly.
We continue to attack the nachos while sipping our drinks slowly. We order, each of us finding something on the menu that will bring our mouths and bellies pleasure while still giving us the opportunity to catch up. AFCB#2 and I have had meals a number of times, always enjoying the food and conversation, never getting past the stage of being "just friends." I seem to have a talent to gain amazing gal pals, but lately my success rate beyond that has been uneventful, even failing.
Talking with #2 is always intriguing to me, because she is obviously in it for friendship and not any lusty attraction. She has never touched me, my one sign that is the "all systems go" to go in for more than a friendly hug. As I mentioned, this has raised the ire of readers and even some actual friends who are adverse to the idea of me spending quality time with a woman who is just a friend. Odd, but that's how some of my readers and friends are, wanting the Sane to put my body on someone else's body so I can wax ecstatic about the events. Trust me, I am in the same boat, folks.
And yet, as I watch her lips form words and catch glimpses of her body, I wonder: is this going to be a problem for me in the future? When I mean "this" I mean blogging about my truths and then meeting bloggers who may have read me.
Females who I meet who have read me know that I am oblivious to any sign of attraction if they don't grab ahold of me teasingly or even flirtatiously. AFCB#2 hadn't done it, and some others didn't as well. Even AFCB#3, who I brought to an orgasm orally, didn't touch me to grab me or show me any signs of attraction. That was a rule broken there, and it's one I rarely break, except in that case when I was fairly drunk. I don't regret it, and will definitely see her again for a recount, a naked one.
So I thought about it: what if I meet someone who is very attracted to me, but the fact that she knows my "spots" keeps her from doing it because it might seem contrived or obvious? What if I take a gal out and keep her at the level of a friend, even if I am attracted to her and she to me, but she's uncertain about showing me a sign of attraction? Does writing here and then meeting people work against me?
I don't ask her. It's not important in this case, but it's something to think about.
Our meals come, and we continue with our drinks and conversation. #2 is a great talker, and I could listen to her for hours, mostly because she has a life that is something I am not familiar with. My closest friends are in business, with a few hardcore clubbing buddies (the Gay Miguel is one), and some galpals I've clung to over the years. #2 has a full life, but she's missing some key elements that she has to work on. Her honesty is ridiculously refreshing, and I always strive to see her more often than my readers or friends would accept.
It would be a lie if I said that #2 didn't rile me up in some way, but not necessarily in "jump on her and make her my slave in bed way." She's young, she's attractive, she has a sexy vibe to her, but she has obvious boundaries in place and she sticks to them. I appreciate that and respect that more than I could ever say in words, written or spoken. Most people I know give in and loosen their boundaries when people persist or pressure, but hearing her stories of men and boys who have tried to push her beyond her acceptable safety line always proves to me that she is way more responsible and a deeper thinker than some of her stories let on. It's also obvious she needs more gentleman friends in her life, and I'm happy to oblige those needs for her.
We check our phones as the clock passes 9pm to make sure she doesn't miss her outing with her gal pal later. Our conversation never wavers, jumping from topic to topic effortlessly and sometimes comically. In terms of life, #2 and I have very little in common but our passion for good food, good clothing, good sex (not with each other, mind you), good adventures and some passionate goals. Her life is probably boring to her, but I see its stability as refreshing. She is not someone I would likely have befriended, and vice versa, had we met in person and not over our mutual blogs.
As time progressed and it was getting closer to when she had to take her leave, she decided to hit the ladies' room as I took care of the check. As she stood, I automatically stood myself, just as she was telling me I didn't have to. As I've said before, and as I likely told her, my mother taught me well.
When she passed me, her hand touched my shoulder for a split second. She acknowledged the touch jokingly, but her face was turned away towards the direction she walked. She completely missed the electric shock that ran from her finger tip, into my arm, through my chest and down to my legs. Holy crap, that was good. Unexpectedly good.
A woman's touch is something I crave. Not necessarily a specific woman's touch, just the touch itself. I don't know why I am programmed this way, maybe it's a bit of dysmorphia, maybe it's an ego stroke, maybe it was just something I was wondering about. I didn't give it much thought, not up to then or since then. It was a funny, casual, not contrived touch that meant nothing, but it was still electric and reminded me that I want a pretty, funny and sexy gal in my life who will do that regularly.
As the bill was paid and as #2 returned from the powder room, I looked at her again and realized the comedy in what I had just experienced. I filed it away for more thought.
We left the restaurant and as we hit the street, she noticed the gal pal she was intending to meet was already waiting at the venue just across the street where they planned on meeting. Her and I were both walking in the same direction, so we both took 2 steps towards each other and had the shorter embrace since we met. Hugs don't bring out the same jolt than a solo touch can, and hugging her is always nice from a friendship level and a guy level (she has a great little body, who wouldn't want a hug? Or two or three?). She hopped across the street and I wandered away to find my car, which she gave me good directions on re-discovering.
It was an easy dinner, one that reminded me of my past, brought me some thought on my recent frustrations in attracting the right type of woman, and also caused me to contemplate the problems with meeting people from this particular site: does knowing and remember what I write here make it uncomfortable for a woman who is attracted to me to show me that attraction because she knows what I will think, and she will not want it to see forced.
So that leaves in a weird spot. I _like_ meeting people from the web, male and female alike. But if I meet a gal who I am obviously attracted to, and she to me, but she refuses to follow the path she physiologically wants to follow because she knows that I would see through it, am I setting myself up for a painful crush-destroying experience?
I'm not sure, but it is something to think about.
Regardless of my response to that solitary, accidental touch, it still gives me pleasure to know that my body responds to that. If I meet someone, even you, and there is a mutual attraction, will that someone refrain from showing it because I am so obvious and blantant in my needs?
I guess only time will tell.
Last week I made plans to see a semi-famous galpal who lives in LA. She was planning on flying to Chicago to see the Sane, but she had to skip her first flight and reschedule. When she told me she had to skip the second flight, I told her not to worry about it. We'd meet again soon when I was out there.
Sadly, I was in the mood for some food and maybe a drink, but I had already passed on plans with other friends. Google Chat to the rescue as AFCB#2 found herself free on that very same night, mere hours before it was dinner time. We made plans to meet in her neck of the woods, to try a restaurant neither of us had tried before.
We made plans for me to pick her up and we'd drive together instead of her facing the 15 minute walk to the restaurant. Earlier in the afternoon, I helped her out with an errand that she was planning to handle on her own, but the rain was coming so she ended up taking my offer to give her a ride and save not just time, but her clothes from a possible downpour that never happened.
I arrived at her apartment, on time as usual. She took care of a few things and then came out, looking hot and happy as usual. I'm a superficial person more often than not, and I see nothing wrong with having gal pals who I admire for their friendship but can still catch a glance of their ass shaking as they walk away. I'm a man, and I think one of our finest abilities is to admire sexiness.
Sidenote: Whenever I see her again for the first time, I always flash back to a very good friend of mine from my high school years. Her face and body are not similar at all, but something about he vibe takes me back almost 2 decades. I can't put a finger on it, but there is something there that keeps me thinking to my past.
We drove from her place the mile or less to the restaurant, looking for parking. None was on the main street, but a quick right turn onto a side street and we found a place to park my behemoth of a vehicle. We walked to the restaurant down the middle of the street, uncertain which direction it was.
We entered the quaint and tiny Tex-Mex restaurant, impressed with its cleanliness and overall good vibe.
The restaurant wasn't busy on this weekday, with a single waiter taking care of all the tables as best as he could. He had an interesting and memorable name, which usually helps me to remember to return to a restaurant if the service and food is good.
I ordered a glass of wine, wanting a little alcohol to bring me to my senses after a long day of doing really nothing important. #2 had her own day of stress and work responsibility, and she ordered a margarita off the restaurants healthy and hefty list of Mexican-focused drinks. We perused the menu, both excited at two pork options, as well as the variety of other Tex-Mex fusion foods that made our mouths water. We ordered the pulled pork nachos to share, making me think deep about how this is one gal who can actually get me to eat starchy foods.
Our drinks came and we clinked glasses, diving into our usual/unusual banter about life. She's a fun conversationalist, very set in her ways but also hilarious, vulgar and even responsible. It's always a pleasure to talk to her, lock eyes with her, watch her pouty yet full lips mouth words that bring a smile to my face. On occasion, she's able to see the rare Sane blush, usually when I slip up and say something stupid, private or embarrassing.
Our nachos arrived, and I started to talk to the server, but she shut down my usual banter. She's harsh in her judgement of how I deal with wait staff, mostly due to her own experiences in the past in the a similar job. I usually don't care much to follow the advice of others, but in her case I respect her enough that I am happy to cater to her wishes in this case and keep my mouth mostly shut.
Our nachos arrive, and they're heaven on Earth. We both shove food into our mouths, almost competing for the pulled pork instead of the plentiful corn-produced chips. Before the appetizers were served, I washed my hands in the men's room and was pleased by its cleanliness and brightness, but scared out of my mind by a HUGE stick-bush that was hiding behind me. I don't like big, dark, hovering objects in my periphery, and I didn't notice the bush walking in. I mentioned it to the server, and he had no clue what I was talking about. Excellence in design, and funny how I almost jumped into my defensive crouch thinking someone was behind me ready to take me out.
Our drinks were good, and her margarita was flavorful, if not a little too full of sugar. No one makes a good sugar free margarita in the city anymore, sadly.
Sidenote: Her margarita again brings flashbacks to my past friend, Margaret. She didn't have a sip of alcohol until her 17th birthday, at her house, when her parents were away. I concocted fresh Margaritas that I made myself of fresh ingredients. Another interesting seg.
We continue to attack the nachos while sipping our drinks slowly. We order, each of us finding something on the menu that will bring our mouths and bellies pleasure while still giving us the opportunity to catch up. AFCB#2 and I have had meals a number of times, always enjoying the food and conversation, never getting past the stage of being "just friends." I seem to have a talent to gain amazing gal pals, but lately my success rate beyond that has been uneventful, even failing.
Talking with #2 is always intriguing to me, because she is obviously in it for friendship and not any lusty attraction. She has never touched me, my one sign that is the "all systems go" to go in for more than a friendly hug. As I mentioned, this has raised the ire of readers and even some actual friends who are adverse to the idea of me spending quality time with a woman who is just a friend. Odd, but that's how some of my readers and friends are, wanting the Sane to put my body on someone else's body so I can wax ecstatic about the events. Trust me, I am in the same boat, folks.
And yet, as I watch her lips form words and catch glimpses of her body, I wonder: is this going to be a problem for me in the future? When I mean "this" I mean blogging about my truths and then meeting bloggers who may have read me.
Females who I meet who have read me know that I am oblivious to any sign of attraction if they don't grab ahold of me teasingly or even flirtatiously. AFCB#2 hadn't done it, and some others didn't as well. Even AFCB#3, who I brought to an orgasm orally, didn't touch me to grab me or show me any signs of attraction. That was a rule broken there, and it's one I rarely break, except in that case when I was fairly drunk. I don't regret it, and will definitely see her again for a recount, a naked one.
So I thought about it: what if I meet someone who is very attracted to me, but the fact that she knows my "spots" keeps her from doing it because it might seem contrived or obvious? What if I take a gal out and keep her at the level of a friend, even if I am attracted to her and she to me, but she's uncertain about showing me a sign of attraction? Does writing here and then meeting people work against me?
I don't ask her. It's not important in this case, but it's something to think about.
Sidenote: Thinking back to Margaret, I remember that she never touched me, either, but admitted to having a crush on me that lasted over 13 years until she met her husband. I would have jumped her in high school or college, but removed my feelings entirely, based solely on the lack of any sign of desire from her part. Maybe that's why I even think about her when I meet AFCB#2: they have similar mannerisms, and they're both very hands-off. Interesting.
Our meals come, and we continue with our drinks and conversation. #2 is a great talker, and I could listen to her for hours, mostly because she has a life that is something I am not familiar with. My closest friends are in business, with a few hardcore clubbing buddies (the Gay Miguel is one), and some galpals I've clung to over the years. #2 has a full life, but she's missing some key elements that she has to work on. Her honesty is ridiculously refreshing, and I always strive to see her more often than my readers or friends would accept.
It would be a lie if I said that #2 didn't rile me up in some way, but not necessarily in "jump on her and make her my slave in bed way." She's young, she's attractive, she has a sexy vibe to her, but she has obvious boundaries in place and she sticks to them. I appreciate that and respect that more than I could ever say in words, written or spoken. Most people I know give in and loosen their boundaries when people persist or pressure, but hearing her stories of men and boys who have tried to push her beyond her acceptable safety line always proves to me that she is way more responsible and a deeper thinker than some of her stories let on. It's also obvious she needs more gentleman friends in her life, and I'm happy to oblige those needs for her.
We check our phones as the clock passes 9pm to make sure she doesn't miss her outing with her gal pal later. Our conversation never wavers, jumping from topic to topic effortlessly and sometimes comically. In terms of life, #2 and I have very little in common but our passion for good food, good clothing, good sex (not with each other, mind you), good adventures and some passionate goals. Her life is probably boring to her, but I see its stability as refreshing. She is not someone I would likely have befriended, and vice versa, had we met in person and not over our mutual blogs.
Sidenote: Back to Margaret, she is also not someone I would have become friends with had we not met more than 10 times in various different high school cliques and groups. She was nothing like me, and I was nothing like her. We liked each other's company because we were so different from one-another. I do regret never taking things physical with her, but it was probably more post-teenage-hormones than an actual active desire.
As time progressed and it was getting closer to when she had to take her leave, she decided to hit the ladies' room as I took care of the check. As she stood, I automatically stood myself, just as she was telling me I didn't have to. As I've said before, and as I likely told her, my mother taught me well.
When she passed me, her hand touched my shoulder for a split second. She acknowledged the touch jokingly, but her face was turned away towards the direction she walked. She completely missed the electric shock that ran from her finger tip, into my arm, through my chest and down to my legs. Holy crap, that was good. Unexpectedly good.
A woman's touch is something I crave. Not necessarily a specific woman's touch, just the touch itself. I don't know why I am programmed this way, maybe it's a bit of dysmorphia, maybe it's an ego stroke, maybe it was just something I was wondering about. I didn't give it much thought, not up to then or since then. It was a funny, casual, not contrived touch that meant nothing, but it was still electric and reminded me that I want a pretty, funny and sexy gal in my life who will do that regularly.
As the bill was paid and as #2 returned from the powder room, I looked at her again and realized the comedy in what I had just experienced. I filed it away for more thought.
We left the restaurant and as we hit the street, she noticed the gal pal she was intending to meet was already waiting at the venue just across the street where they planned on meeting. Her and I were both walking in the same direction, so we both took 2 steps towards each other and had the shorter embrace since we met. Hugs don't bring out the same jolt than a solo touch can, and hugging her is always nice from a friendship level and a guy level (she has a great little body, who wouldn't want a hug? Or two or three?). She hopped across the street and I wandered away to find my car, which she gave me good directions on re-discovering.
Sidenote: Margaret and I were big huggers, even once in a blue moon spooning while watching a movie. Since a full-on friendly body contact is very different than a woman teasingly touching, I never took spooning as a sign to dig deeper with various parts of my body.
It was an easy dinner, one that reminded me of my past, brought me some thought on my recent frustrations in attracting the right type of woman, and also caused me to contemplate the problems with meeting people from this particular site: does knowing and remember what I write here make it uncomfortable for a woman who is attracted to me to show me that attraction because she knows what I will think, and she will not want it to see forced.
So that leaves in a weird spot. I _like_ meeting people from the web, male and female alike. But if I meet a gal who I am obviously attracted to, and she to me, but she refuses to follow the path she physiologically wants to follow because she knows that I would see through it, am I setting myself up for a painful crush-destroying experience?
I'm not sure, but it is something to think about.
Regardless of my response to that solitary, accidental touch, it still gives me pleasure to know that my body responds to that. If I meet someone, even you, and there is a mutual attraction, will that someone refrain from showing it because I am so obvious and blantant in my needs?
I guess only time will tell.
Read the rest...
You worthless whore (NSFW)
I don't know why I bother with you. Seriously, you're a tease, you're vicious, you're a total cock-tease, you pick boys up and play with them like a cat and a mouse, and you throw them away. At least kill them or let them go, but to let them hang there in a state of limbo is unreasonable, and it's mean.
Thankfully, you never played with me. It was obvious we'd be pals from day one. We met on a boat, out on a huge lake. You were playing with the hearts of males who earn more in a year that I'd ever want to make in a lifetime. They're boys, regardless of income and net asset value.
When we left together that same day, I started 10 feet away from you. We ended up in another state, booking adjoining hotel rooms because I sure as hell wasn't going to sleep in the same bed as you. You told me it would be OK, that you trusted me, and I knew it was a ploy from the start. I am not a conquest.
Our time together from that point forward let months pass while we just hung out, had fun, tormented bartenders and hotel concierge desks and travel agencies. You could afford to travel, so you'd come see me in the most mystical places around the globe. 9 months of that, and I never touched you once. I never wanted to.
A month ago, you told me that I was a throw-away. I pull my right hand back and slapped you in the face, bringing a rose color to where my fingers glanced your cheek. You cried, I laughed. You cried more, and I laughed even harder. You covered your cheek and yelled at me that a man never hits a woman. I locked eyes with you, once they were open, and said "and so far, I still have never hit a woman."
We had fresh fruit here on this island, a full month later from the first time I recall ever touching you. It wasn't the touch of a brother or a friend, a touch of a lover or one of the many boys whose hearts you play with. My touch was the touch of an enemy. I should have used a fist, but I didn't want to be seen with a battered waste of space.
So how did we end up here?
I think it's because I tell you NO where the boys just cower and kow-tow to your every whim. "Let's have seafood" you said at lunch, to which I responded NO. "That's it, no?" Correct. "And you have what right to tell me this?" I'm a man. "Oh, so men are better than women?" At making logical decisions, that's also correct.
I saw your look of anger at me. You wanted to start quoting whatever bullshit you learned in feminine studies, but you know I have a logical and scientifically accurate response to pretty much everything your parents spent $100,000 on helping you learn. So you bit your tongue.
I saw your look of sadness at me. You crave my attention, but your addiction to what you know by rote completely bores me in every sexual way.
I saw your look of questioning when I left you for 3 hours, coming back with no story to tell you.
I saw your look of intrigue when you caught me shoving fresh 100 Swiss Franc bills into my briefcase, bundled and wrapped nicely. You didn't question it.
So there we were, just finishing up our dinner. I paid the bill because I felt I owed you for disappearing this morning with no warning. We talked pleasantly at dinner, but I saw your eyes on me in a heavier way than I can remember in recent months.
When we adjourned to our hotel rooms, crossing the hotel hallway like a modern day love story, I knew there would be trouble when I unlocked my door and I didn't hear your key turn. Instead, I turned around and your hand on the key, in the lock, ready to turn.
You yelled quietly when I grabbed your long, red hair hard and pulled you across the hall. When your back hit my door, I put my hand up to your neck and held it against the door, watching your eyes open wide in shock, your lips parse slightly. I kissed you, immediately and faithfully, my hand still tightening around your neck.
I pulled away from your lips, your hands catching my body and pulling me back. I tightened my grip on your neck and stepped backwards, just barely out of your grasp. Your hand criss-crossed, your long fingernail attacking at me either to strike me for pain or grab me for passion. Instead, I released your neck and ran my strong hand down your chest to your dress, buttoned in front.
Your buttons were dangling or on the floor before you could know it.
I was surprised by your body, even though I had seen it in bikinis and the like. For some reason, a woman who is half out of her clothes, even by the will of my hands and her body, is sexier than a woman who is fully in her bikini. When I pulled my body into yours, your chest and hips touched mine.
Our lips connected for the first time, aggressively, our hunger for each other coming out of nowhere. Until this point, I didn't even know you had this passion inside of you.
My door was already unlocked, and your hand left my hip and turned the French doorknob. I pushed your body with both of my hands against your shoulders, and you fell into the room. You turned from me to wander towards the bedroom, but my lithe arm snaked out and grabbed at your long hair again, pulling you backwards towards me.
My hands grabbed at your tits, then at your shoulders as I pulled your dress down to your hips. I circled your hip and belly with one arm as the other unclasped your bra, and I used my hips and my hands to force you to the bed in front of us.
I bent you over the bed, the top half of your dress fall down to your waist, doubling up the skirt portion. I pushed your arms over your head, holding them down by your elbows as I pushed my groin against your ass. Your moan told me everything I wanted to hear.
I held your elbows down, putting my face against your neck as I bit and licked up to your earlobe, where I continued to taste your skin, your perfume, your body scent. I released one arm and slid your skirt up along with the rest of your dresstop, exposing your panties. I quick slide of my hand inside of them, along your ass, down to your pussy lips, proved to me that you needed nothing more than this.
My hand reached to my back pocket, grabbing a condom I had kept there in case I came across another woman who was deserving of my cock inside of her. You don't deserve it, but you're getting it because you want it this bad that I had to take it when I was good and ready.
I unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to my ankles. I continued to hold your arms down as best as I can with one hand while my other hand pulled your panties away from your pussy, but still covering your ass. I tore open my condom with one hand and my teeth, and carefully placed it on my cock.
With your panties pushed away from your drenched pussy, I slid my cock in, not taking the time to make sure you were ready. I slid all the way in, not teasing or giving you any opportunity to do anything but say the word you said: "Yes."
And then I fucked you. Not passionately like I would a woman I respected, but like a whore who I just bought for a $200 meal. And I did fuck you that way, for my pleasure. Your pussy is tight, it's wet, it's grasping for me to pound you, so I obliged, but only for what I want.
I fucked you with your face in the duvet cover for what seemed like eternity, but the clock showed me only a half hour passed since I had slipped inside of you. Your hands are now on my hips, wrapped behind your back, trying to prevent me from ravaging you as deeply as I am.
I considered finishing without coming, but as I pummeled into your pussy, I realized your breaths were getting shorter. I grabbed one of your wrists that stopped me from entering you fully, and pulled out almost completely before fucking you as deep as possible. As I heard you inhale, I grabbed your hair and pulled it tight, causing your neck to arch back just as I slammed into you again. That was all it took as you swore and cussed and told me you were coming.
I didn't stop my pounding, because this fucking is not for your pleasure. In fact, I am angry that you came so quickly, you whore who needs no foreplay, no passion, no teasing, no attention, just a dinner and drinks and a complete attack on your body.
After you finished, I pulled out. Your rolled over on the bed to look at me, so I pulled on your legs and tore you from the bed cover. You tried to stand as both feet hit the floor, but I pulled my knee up, slipped a foot behind your knee, and pull it towards me, causing you to buckle and fall to the floor, ass first.
The condom was off before your eyes opened. I grabbed your hair again, pulled your mouth to my cock. One hand on the back of your neck, one hand grabbing your hair, my cock choking its way into your throat past your tongue.
The same hard and deep fucking I gave your pussy I now give your mouth and face. I held back nothing, not even when you gagged, not even when the tears rolled out of the sides of your eyes. I felt spit collect on your tongue and into your gums as I rammed my cock, thick and as long as it gets, in and out of your mouth.
You looked up at me, almost pleading. Not for me to stop, but to finish. A few more thrusts, a few more tears picking up your mascara and eyeliner, and I was there. I pulled my cock out, and without asking, started the process of drenching this beautiful face of a cheap whore with my come.
Shot after shot landed on your face, on your cheeks, on your nose, on your forehead. I covered you completely, emptying days of build-up from deep within.
With my last spurt and a last gasp from my lips, I finished. You looked at me and almost gave away a smile. I told you I'd go get a towel and walked to the bathroom.
When I returned, your were sitting on the bed, your face coated with my come primer. When you saw me return, my cock still hard and a new condom on, you laid back on the bed, spread your legs again, and stared at me. I slipped into your pussy again, this time taking things a little slower. My fingers played with my come on your face, tracing lines down to your mouth, causing you to finish what my promised-but-ignored towel would have cleaned up.
And I fucked you, again. I fucked you still like a whore, but a whore bought and paid for and used up, beyond the allowed time that such a small purchase would normally cover.
It didn't take long, either. Another half hour of me fucking you, my remaining come rolling down your cheeks to the bed and your neck below, and you came again. You didn't verbalize it, but your moans and groans were of desperation, your orgasm fully aligned with a hope that I would come again.
And I did. I pulled out of your pussy, hopped onto the bed and straddled your gorgeous tits as I unleashed a second load into your open mouth (held open by my fingers), onto your chin and neck and a little on the bed.
Now I'm finished. Your orgasm continued even as I came on you a second time. As I step back from the bed, admiring the tease I turned into a whore, owning fully, I pulled my boxers and pants back up. My shirt, which was never even unbuttoned, lay hung over my belt. I looked at you again and noticed a smile. Maybe you feel you won this round?
I turned from the bed and walked to the door. "Where are you going?" you called as my own hotel room door closed behind me. Your key, still in the door, allowed me to enter your room, remove my clothes and slide into your bed.
I heard through the door that you opened the door from my room. Were you chagrined at the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from your door handle?
May, 2000. "Electra"
Thankfully, you never played with me. It was obvious we'd be pals from day one. We met on a boat, out on a huge lake. You were playing with the hearts of males who earn more in a year that I'd ever want to make in a lifetime. They're boys, regardless of income and net asset value.
When we left together that same day, I started 10 feet away from you. We ended up in another state, booking adjoining hotel rooms because I sure as hell wasn't going to sleep in the same bed as you. You told me it would be OK, that you trusted me, and I knew it was a ploy from the start. I am not a conquest.
Our time together from that point forward let months pass while we just hung out, had fun, tormented bartenders and hotel concierge desks and travel agencies. You could afford to travel, so you'd come see me in the most mystical places around the globe. 9 months of that, and I never touched you once. I never wanted to.
A month ago, you told me that I was a throw-away. I pull my right hand back and slapped you in the face, bringing a rose color to where my fingers glanced your cheek. You cried, I laughed. You cried more, and I laughed even harder. You covered your cheek and yelled at me that a man never hits a woman. I locked eyes with you, once they were open, and said "and so far, I still have never hit a woman."
We had fresh fruit here on this island, a full month later from the first time I recall ever touching you. It wasn't the touch of a brother or a friend, a touch of a lover or one of the many boys whose hearts you play with. My touch was the touch of an enemy. I should have used a fist, but I didn't want to be seen with a battered waste of space.
So how did we end up here?
I think it's because I tell you NO where the boys just cower and kow-tow to your every whim. "Let's have seafood" you said at lunch, to which I responded NO. "That's it, no?" Correct. "And you have what right to tell me this?" I'm a man. "Oh, so men are better than women?" At making logical decisions, that's also correct.
I saw your look of anger at me. You wanted to start quoting whatever bullshit you learned in feminine studies, but you know I have a logical and scientifically accurate response to pretty much everything your parents spent $100,000 on helping you learn. So you bit your tongue.
I saw your look of sadness at me. You crave my attention, but your addiction to what you know by rote completely bores me in every sexual way.
I saw your look of questioning when I left you for 3 hours, coming back with no story to tell you.
I saw your look of intrigue when you caught me shoving fresh 100 Swiss Franc bills into my briefcase, bundled and wrapped nicely. You didn't question it.
So there we were, just finishing up our dinner. I paid the bill because I felt I owed you for disappearing this morning with no warning. We talked pleasantly at dinner, but I saw your eyes on me in a heavier way than I can remember in recent months.
When we adjourned to our hotel rooms, crossing the hotel hallway like a modern day love story, I knew there would be trouble when I unlocked my door and I didn't hear your key turn. Instead, I turned around and your hand on the key, in the lock, ready to turn.
You yelled quietly when I grabbed your long, red hair hard and pulled you across the hall. When your back hit my door, I put my hand up to your neck and held it against the door, watching your eyes open wide in shock, your lips parse slightly. I kissed you, immediately and faithfully, my hand still tightening around your neck.
I pulled away from your lips, your hands catching my body and pulling me back. I tightened my grip on your neck and stepped backwards, just barely out of your grasp. Your hand criss-crossed, your long fingernail attacking at me either to strike me for pain or grab me for passion. Instead, I released your neck and ran my strong hand down your chest to your dress, buttoned in front.
Your buttons were dangling or on the floor before you could know it.
I was surprised by your body, even though I had seen it in bikinis and the like. For some reason, a woman who is half out of her clothes, even by the will of my hands and her body, is sexier than a woman who is fully in her bikini. When I pulled my body into yours, your chest and hips touched mine.
Our lips connected for the first time, aggressively, our hunger for each other coming out of nowhere. Until this point, I didn't even know you had this passion inside of you.
My door was already unlocked, and your hand left my hip and turned the French doorknob. I pushed your body with both of my hands against your shoulders, and you fell into the room. You turned from me to wander towards the bedroom, but my lithe arm snaked out and grabbed at your long hair again, pulling you backwards towards me.
My hands grabbed at your tits, then at your shoulders as I pulled your dress down to your hips. I circled your hip and belly with one arm as the other unclasped your bra, and I used my hips and my hands to force you to the bed in front of us.
I bent you over the bed, the top half of your dress fall down to your waist, doubling up the skirt portion. I pushed your arms over your head, holding them down by your elbows as I pushed my groin against your ass. Your moan told me everything I wanted to hear.
I held your elbows down, putting my face against your neck as I bit and licked up to your earlobe, where I continued to taste your skin, your perfume, your body scent. I released one arm and slid your skirt up along with the rest of your dresstop, exposing your panties. I quick slide of my hand inside of them, along your ass, down to your pussy lips, proved to me that you needed nothing more than this.
My hand reached to my back pocket, grabbing a condom I had kept there in case I came across another woman who was deserving of my cock inside of her. You don't deserve it, but you're getting it because you want it this bad that I had to take it when I was good and ready.
I unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to my ankles. I continued to hold your arms down as best as I can with one hand while my other hand pulled your panties away from your pussy, but still covering your ass. I tore open my condom with one hand and my teeth, and carefully placed it on my cock.
With your panties pushed away from your drenched pussy, I slid my cock in, not taking the time to make sure you were ready. I slid all the way in, not teasing or giving you any opportunity to do anything but say the word you said: "Yes."
And then I fucked you. Not passionately like I would a woman I respected, but like a whore who I just bought for a $200 meal. And I did fuck you that way, for my pleasure. Your pussy is tight, it's wet, it's grasping for me to pound you, so I obliged, but only for what I want.
I fucked you with your face in the duvet cover for what seemed like eternity, but the clock showed me only a half hour passed since I had slipped inside of you. Your hands are now on my hips, wrapped behind your back, trying to prevent me from ravaging you as deeply as I am.
I considered finishing without coming, but as I pummeled into your pussy, I realized your breaths were getting shorter. I grabbed one of your wrists that stopped me from entering you fully, and pulled out almost completely before fucking you as deep as possible. As I heard you inhale, I grabbed your hair and pulled it tight, causing your neck to arch back just as I slammed into you again. That was all it took as you swore and cussed and told me you were coming.
I didn't stop my pounding, because this fucking is not for your pleasure. In fact, I am angry that you came so quickly, you whore who needs no foreplay, no passion, no teasing, no attention, just a dinner and drinks and a complete attack on your body.
After you finished, I pulled out. Your rolled over on the bed to look at me, so I pulled on your legs and tore you from the bed cover. You tried to stand as both feet hit the floor, but I pulled my knee up, slipped a foot behind your knee, and pull it towards me, causing you to buckle and fall to the floor, ass first.
The condom was off before your eyes opened. I grabbed your hair again, pulled your mouth to my cock. One hand on the back of your neck, one hand grabbing your hair, my cock choking its way into your throat past your tongue.
The same hard and deep fucking I gave your pussy I now give your mouth and face. I held back nothing, not even when you gagged, not even when the tears rolled out of the sides of your eyes. I felt spit collect on your tongue and into your gums as I rammed my cock, thick and as long as it gets, in and out of your mouth.
You looked up at me, almost pleading. Not for me to stop, but to finish. A few more thrusts, a few more tears picking up your mascara and eyeliner, and I was there. I pulled my cock out, and without asking, started the process of drenching this beautiful face of a cheap whore with my come.
Shot after shot landed on your face, on your cheeks, on your nose, on your forehead. I covered you completely, emptying days of build-up from deep within.
With my last spurt and a last gasp from my lips, I finished. You looked at me and almost gave away a smile. I told you I'd go get a towel and walked to the bathroom.
When I returned, your were sitting on the bed, your face coated with my come primer. When you saw me return, my cock still hard and a new condom on, you laid back on the bed, spread your legs again, and stared at me. I slipped into your pussy again, this time taking things a little slower. My fingers played with my come on your face, tracing lines down to your mouth, causing you to finish what my promised-but-ignored towel would have cleaned up.
And I fucked you, again. I fucked you still like a whore, but a whore bought and paid for and used up, beyond the allowed time that such a small purchase would normally cover.
It didn't take long, either. Another half hour of me fucking you, my remaining come rolling down your cheeks to the bed and your neck below, and you came again. You didn't verbalize it, but your moans and groans were of desperation, your orgasm fully aligned with a hope that I would come again.
And I did. I pulled out of your pussy, hopped onto the bed and straddled your gorgeous tits as I unleashed a second load into your open mouth (held open by my fingers), onto your chin and neck and a little on the bed.
Now I'm finished. Your orgasm continued even as I came on you a second time. As I step back from the bed, admiring the tease I turned into a whore, owning fully, I pulled my boxers and pants back up. My shirt, which was never even unbuttoned, lay hung over my belt. I looked at you again and noticed a smile. Maybe you feel you won this round?
I turned from the bed and walked to the door. "Where are you going?" you called as my own hotel room door closed behind me. Your key, still in the door, allowed me to enter your room, remove my clothes and slide into your bed.
I heard through the door that you opened the door from my room. Were you chagrined at the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from your door handle?
May, 2000. "Electra"
Read the rest...
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