The Hurricane Date

The wind was howling. The rain was sideways. Everyone was inside except for me. I was in my car waiting for Ariel. We were both costumed up. I dressed as a biker: leather jacket, gloves, black boots, the works. She came out of her front door as a Spanish madien. Decked in red, a hat with those tassles cocked on an angle. For a 34 year old wall victim, she looked good. Niagara Falls only has so much to offer a poor white boy.

The plan was to visit a bar neither of us had been to before. I chose Longshots OTB. A horse race betting bar in my neighborhood. As the rain killed visibility, we hydroplaned our way to the gravel driveway. She was nervous. She’s always nervous. We talked for a bit. I was getting IOIs left and right. More than the first time we met, minus the slut shield. Tonight would be a interesting night.

The second we walked through the door I was.transported into a sitcom. The room was intimidatingly tiny and yet 20 fat old dudes fit in it, several of them playing pool. The moment seemed to pass like hours. Every eye was on us, espically Ariel. The only chick in the room. I was freaking out in my head.

“Hello!” she said in her bad Spanish accent. The room returned the greeting.

I noticed there was another door and began to inch ourselves to it. In full character, she acted the part of a snob Spainard visiting “the natives”, as she called the group. They ate up every word.

The larger back area was deserted. Most tracks were closed due to Sandy’s wrath, but the old folks kept on hoping their pensions would double on a lucky number. We grabbed drinks and tried to find a spot that wasn’t being watched by a disapproving eye.

The next 10 minutes was quiet conversation about how creepy the entire place was. The whistles of angry wind in the backround added to the atmosphere. There was simply no way to redeem our chosen bar. If we stayed any longer we’d probably run out screaming.

Back into the fray, in our way to the (Carrion) Croft, she slid her hand over mine. After our shared experience her comfort level skyrocketed. I remained loose and calm through the storm.

The Croft was dead. We ordered drinks and she fit neatly onto my lap. Getting drunker, we talked. The more we told histories, the closer she got. Soon, my hand was between her legs, her voice inviting me home.

I left her place near 1am with a freshly blown dick and a large light of pride inside. Within a week, I had number 8. Today, she begs for my attention. Her hands tear at me. The hamster runs like a beast, but with all my practice I have this self-delusional hippy professing control one minute only to submit under me the next. And, most importantly, I’m having a lot of fun.

It won’t last. Her insecure hamster will eventually drive me off, as most do, but in the meantime I can declare that I’ve leveled up. No longer slump busting or barrel scraping, after a year and half of hard work, I’m picking and choosing. A place all men should aim for.

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Bonfire Day Update

Happy 5th of November to all the people who think Guy Fawkes was a hero and not a religious terrorist.

Other than working my ass off, I’ve been busy upping my game. The October 26 weekend started with a visit to Destiable Friend. The last visit for a while. Being a poor single mom doesn’t pay the rent, so she’s moving and it doesn’t leave any privacy. Backburner for her. The next day I was with The First, who’s back on wanting me over as much as possible. She’s gotten to a hyper level of horny and it pays off to make her wait. The Monday was the new girl, dubbed Ariel due to her mermaid obessesion. This one is straight hippie crazy, but its a good crazy. I’m greeted with a kiss, not a list of complaints about other people. The tail aint bad either.

I’ll get to all the stories I’ve missed: the Redneck Acheviement, meeting Ariel and more, in the next week.

Rule #2: Don’t Chat Up Women You Don’t Want

She stood there, eyes glazed like a dog as he dies under the porch. I leaned on the patio’s fence, my beer in one hand, a satisfying smoke in the other. Like most of my outings, it was going miserably. Few girls to approach, fewer that were receptive. I made buddies with a 40 something hippie. He ranted on and on about moving to Victoria, British Columbia. How we were all dead in 20 years from chemicals and rising seas. I had never seen him sober. I don’t think I ever want to.

The chick looked to me and opened a paragraph of vitrol about her friends. They had left her behind, allegedly. I listened with the most uncaring eyes. I was more interested in the tits she was displaying. Chubby tits. Full of McDonalds and KFC left overs. They were tits and I was drunk. Such is. She vanished a few minutes later. When I left I saw her at a table, alone, on her phone, looking sadder than a dying Ethiopian child.

I wasn’t really attracted to her. I just wanted to take the chance to tame her home and that was my mistake. No hormonal investment. I was being lazy and my game suffered.

When it comes to women, you need to be able to draw a line. At a job, sure, talk away. In my line of work networking means employment. I talk and keep all the females happy, even the cunty one. But if you’re on the hunt, don’t go for trans-fat fruit. Aim for the things that will drive you to make an effort. Like working out, don’t do what is easy. It gains nothing. Push yourself to go that little bit farther and you will thank yourself later.

Don’t Be Tom

Tom is a friend of Kay, a girl I’ve written about here on occasion. When I met Kay last year driving back to Canada, we fucked. She’s a monster in bed. The kind of girl where starfishing means she’s dead or in a coma. She’d been pursuing Tom for a long while, so when they finally got to the business, she was elated. Then, Tom started this:

T: Hiii

K: hey

T: kisses
Come let me love on you baby

Come let me love on you baby

Tom isn’t a bad looking guy and his notch count is quite decent for having game like that (around a dozen lays in his early 20s). But, he’s never encountered someone like Kay. Tom has fallen in love with every pair of legs that opened up for him. When he rides the train through the mountains, he screams his undying amore to the tunnel before it deposits him on the other side. Whatever lets him in, he can’t help but want to stay there. And Kay’s pussy is like firewater to a Cherokee.

Kay has a boyfriend now. And, of course, Tom’s transmission goes from drive to “BE WITH MEEEEE!” This gem came after Kay was bitching that her boyfriend doesn’t talk to her much.

T: Keep trying [with him]? Its a two way street. He’s just dagling you around on strings like a puppet
You have me. That’s all that matters

They had one fucking session. One. I’ve seen remoras with less attachment than this guy.

Hey, wanna get married?

There was plenty of time before the boyfriend came along for poor little Tom to get some more. He wanted more, of course, he has a cock. But that cock doesn’t think for him. His dumbass brain does. Or, “heart”, as the romantics like to say:

T: What do you want really?
K: sex
T: Only sex?
K: what else would you have me say? I don’t have to want your friendship … I already have that

DUDE. SEX. ITS SEX. FUCKING. PUSSY. SHUT! THE! FUCK! UP!

And then, it was over before he could even unzip his pants for a second time…

T: But yea. I really do think you are beautiful
K: thank you
I don’t feel like it very often but thanks
T: Your bf is super lucky
I feel stupid I didn’t try sooner with you
K: not sure he knows that but I thank you
T: You’re special to me
K: I’m not sure what to say to that

No, please, don’t close pussy. I love you. I LOVE YOU!

When pussy comes your way, don’t be Tom. Follow this simple addge:

Fuck her hard
Fuck her sore
And when you’re done
Fuck her some more

Its what they want. Its what they always want. Give it to them and they’ll be your slave.

New Year’s Eve, Part 3

Sometime during the second or third episode of How I Met Your Mother, those left in the recliners look up and hear the banging of a bed. Nobody reacts. Somebody was getting some this night and it was the ginger. Good for him. In my mind, though, I fell from strength. I had several thoughts: fuck him. Whore. I deserve some fun. Fuck this. I was angry. I hated this. But, soon it passed. Weakness, gone.

People began to pass out, then wake up, change the episode, and fall back asleep. The thumping stopped and soon the feminist came down, sullen look on her face. Walking slowly. She slides on to the couch with a young looking, large guy, who takes her into his arms. She begins to babble.

“I’m not angry,” she went on. The poor soul held her tighter, her legs still twitching.

Whispers. More whispers. Then…

“I’m not possessive, but I’m a little angry,”

“That’s because you’re territorial,” I said, rolling my head back. It felt heavy.

“I’m not territorial,” she spat.

“Yes, you are, its natural,” I started to laugh. Bless the dark arts I wasn’t the poor boy next to her, holding a freshly fucked body pining for the bed she just came from.

I heard a scoff as my eyes closed and then silence except for the television and its laugh track. She mumbles more. I, in fits of waking up between dreams, look to the lowly midnight couple.

When I awoke in the morning, the morning with a sun and sky and light that is, I looked down upon the sweet cuddle lovers. His shirt off. Her face alight with the smug satisfaction of male attention. I was still drunk enough to laugh again, then just lay there doing my damnedest not to get up.

On the way home, my sister driving due to my hangover, she mentioned that the chubby and the feminist were fuck buddies of the ginger. It made all sense now. Why they vanished on a whim, together. Why the ginger had one after the other. Smart man, to bring fuck buddies to a New Year’s Eve party. And it made the poor boy’s snuggle time with the whore feminist all that more pathetic. She’d fucked him before. She came down, knowing who was next, and in her drunken connection with her emotions, threw herself on the willing chump. Horrid.

It put a small fire in me. Something got a little steelier after witnessing such blatant acts of disrespect by a woman. Not something idealized. Something attached by rivets and made armor. After the full recovery the next day, my pack of smokes not yet finished, I thought on the feelings and smiled. I felt superior, vastly superior. I felt as if a soldier of the wars between the sexes. I landed my blows, I laughed in the face of female logic and refused, in the end, to placate the whims of their cunts.

It was a good New Year’s.

New Year’s Eve, Part 2

After talking to Raven Hair, I made my way down to the basement to say hello to my sister’s boyfriend and get into the beer pong that was loudly calling my name. There I met the guy who would be the life and, for a moment, half the bane, of my party night. Ginger, tall, wide, immediately he had the aura of a good, happy guy. Down at the game was a chubby girl with an extreme cute face (ginger’s sister), a skinny, short haired chick wearing a wife beater and another girl who I quickly pegged as attached to one of the pong players. With a glance, I labeled the skinny bitch as a feminist and I was proven right shortly after. Her motions, her manly tone of speech and gruff demeanor. As I drank on, she became fuckable, barely.

My sister came down for a few minutes, still tanked, but left. I talked to the ginger and the other girls that hung down. Made jokes, laughed, drank more, and finally got my turn at beer pong. Teamed with the ginger, I was up against some guy and the blonde chick I mentioned in Part 1. I hadn’t played since my trip back from Riverside, but it came back quickly. Sank several, but we started falling behind. Some rimming. Many close calls. Our opponents were closing in on victory. Then, pure skill on my part and of my teammate, we sank two bouncers. 4 beers they had to down. It was a Tebow miracle. They lost their momentum and, at our final cup, they were equally on the edge. Several minutes passed, then PLOP! Celebration. We won!

A call came from the upper floor. It was almost time for the countdown. We all made it up and the men were handed a small glass of 12-year old scotch. I was still nursing a second rum and coke. I put it down and all 15-20 people gathered together and rang in the new year. I downed my scotch and suddenly I couldn’t drink anymore. It was amazing, smooth, but went down in a way that I looked at my soda and cheap rum and just put it aside. I’m done.

Most of us made it outside to smoke a authentic Cuban cigar, adding to the celebratory atmosphere. A large circle formed and it was passed around. Fuck, did it taste great, even with the compound effect of alcohol. Someone said to use the garden to spit, I didn’t hear the instruction. When I spit, the feminist cunt came over and tapped me in the balls with her foot, telling me that I broke the rules. I felt it. It must have been the easy-go atmosphere, the cigar and the drink, ’cause I would of decked the bitch hard. Also, I was surrounded by geeks, statistical white knights, who would of crushed me for the Horde or Alliance or whatever. I wanted to enjoy myself. I wanted to enjoy that cigar. I wanted to have a good time. Fuck you, bitch. I spit behind me and continued with the sing-along of Queen songs the group was belting out. The next pass around, still slightly livid, I did spit in the garden, which apparently ired her because not long after, as I was the lone smoker finishing off both a cig and a cigar, she and the fat blonde began the obligatory drunk girl make out. I just stood and enjoyed my smoking, was soon accused of being creepy and they took it outside the patio and behind the fence. The fuck, bitch?

After that, the next events became a blur of short memories. Watching some weird music and anime mashup. A few words with Raven Hair before she took off. Talking to ginger’s sister. We had a common heritage, being both California kids. Finding the chubby blonde on the couch and getting some close time (I was drunk and horny, what?). I was basically fingering her through her jeans with another guy’s lap supporting her head, but this chick was so plastered there was no reaction. And, then, feminist came around. I ended spouting a horribly cheesy line when the lamenting of looks started. It was a true line, though, “When I got in the car, I thought you were cute.” Because I couldn’t see your face or body, I thought right after. The two took off and I found a free recliner, which would be my bed as the anime turned into Wanye’s World and How I Met Your Mother. I thought the night would end on a serene bust. Happy, still horny and pissed, but happy. But, even thought I wouldn’t score that night, I’d witness some of the worst fucking behavior by grown men I had ever seen since I started learning game.

New Year’s Eve, Part 1

I left the house at 8:30pm. Burlington is about a 45 minute drive and the traffic was clear from the border all the way into Toronto. Strange. I expected something, but I guess the cold and the way people prepare for this arbitrary night of festivities allows those with plans further away an easy ride. I quickly stopped in at the Big Bee convenience store, picking up a couple bags of chips, smokes and lighter. The patch had been working, but a night a party is a night of enjoying tobacco.

I lit up and hit the QEW. I tired to blast Alexisonfire, but it wasn’t very loud, even at maximum volume. Fucking iTunes. I bought it off the store, straight download. I kept it playing anyway. Ten minutes in, cigarette finished, a melancholy washed over me. I remembered the last New Year’s Eve. I worked, I think. I couldn’t remember. I remembered the one before that. Hanging with close friends, drinking, playing Apples to Apples, general drunkenness and an 3am IHOP breakfast to soak up the alcohol. A good night. It may have been the hunger feeling, I’d been staying strict paleo all day and my body hadn’t fully adjusted. It may have been the cold or even the smoke, but I couldn’t shake it. All the way up, kilometer by kilometer, I felt like turning around and burying myself in my room. Useless and happy to be that way.

I arrived at Aldershot Station, one of the two choices given to me by my sister for where to be picked up. The party was to be big enough that parking would be non-existent, so her boyfriend cleverly chose the regional train stations as his rally points. I parked near the entrance and texted him my location. Quickly, he responded with what car would pick me up. I lit up my third smoke of the night, waiting in my idling vehicle, keeping warm. I quickly finished it. Time seemed to go like molasses in winter. I got out of the car and lit up again. Waiting. Lit up again. Watching every car go by and not seeing my ride. Fuck, it was cold. -7C. Cold for me, anyway. Years of the Southwest spoiled me. Finally, the gray pickup arrived and I got in the back seat.

The driver was a large guy with a boyish face. It fit the group of gamers and fellow travelers that my sister and her boyfriend run with. In the passenger seat was a blonde with a decent voice. We quickly all started talking. Joking about seeing my sister drunk. Ideas about hitting up the host for stripper money was seriously considered. I quickly began to get into game mode. The blonde was chipper and receptive. This night will take off, I thought to myself. We arrived and we all got out. I changed my mind. She was chubby, and not in the cute way. Her face was not cute nor did the weight put anything of value on her body. Even skinny, I doubt she would have been worthy of my dark magic. I didn’t flinch or change my flow. Good night, I told myself. No matter what.

As soon as we walked in, my sister was drunk as fuck, bellowing “That’s my brother!” Pointing and waving her arms. The entire room looked over and I waved. I need a drink, I thought and tossed down the chips on a nearby table. The selection of alcohol was massive. A six foot long table, six feet high with cubbyholes, completely covered in everything from vodka to rum to whiskey and rye. I took my time, finally just going for a basic rum and coke. I filled the cup over a third with rum, then found a can and topped it off. My sister found me and gasped, “That’s a lot of alcohol.” I replied with a dead “Yup.”

At the dining table was a skinny, fair skined, raven haired cutie. I walked over and struck up a conversation, sister in tow. She, again, mentioned that I was her brother. She smiled a lot. Quickly, the alcohol kicked in. Empty stomach. This may be a good night, I thought.