Tattoos

No music for this, unless you like pseudo-lesbian Russian pop from 2000.

Two things got me thinking of this subject. First, this comment I left in response to a guy talking about tattoos:

Interesting tattoos work, more importantly. Everyone’s seen the MOM or the dual revolvers or tribal armband. If you’re gonna get inked, draw it yourself or have a friend design it. Give it meaning. Have a real good story behind it. Most importantly, act likes its not big deal to have it. Obvious displays can be sensed by anyone.

And this thread on the Roosh forum.

First off, tattoos should NEVER be taken lightly or on a whim. These things last forever and, at least in my humble opinion, should have some kind of meaning. Doing shit like this:

or this:

or this:

*sigh*

It just sets you up for shit down the road. Especially if you wanna go down the good boy/girl route when you’re ready to get married. If you’re gonna get inked for someone, because its , because you’re trying to piss someone off, because you’re drunk or high or take the small bus or because its trendy, just don’t and save yourself the hassle.

Second, and this is just more opinion on my part, have a theme. It doesn’t have to be strict, but people like patterns and some sort of uniformity. The Ex has a bit of that with angels wings on her back and a binary running down her spine, but she also has a color tangerine slice on her collarbone and assorted other things on her ankles. It just looks out of place to have color amongst black-only. To have a ying-yang/male-female tat on one part and a pi symbol on the other. People will ask what does it mean and “I like math” is an answer only chicks can pull off.

Mine, on the other hand, are themed with a simple rule: be simple and symmetrical. My eagle is based on this and this, then made as simple as possible. I have a tattoo on each upper arm in the exact same spot as the other. The SFTD one I just got is layered with meaning, but is less than 20 lines. The artist took more time getting the symmetry right than he did tattooing it. When I asked, I can say “Rolling Stones” as I tell my religious relatives that I stay with, or when a girl asks I can go into the hourglass/infinity/lessons of life/I’m a dick story. In fact, my next tattoo I’ve designed is just as simple, but carries just as much meaning as SFTD. Layering the meaning will help you with showing sensitivity without bring out a dead dog or former lover. You don’t have to design it on your own or keep it simple, sometimes someone else’s art touches you, but be damn sure you want it for the rest of your life.

Third, when I was in high school and many of the men and women of lesser brain capacity convinced their parents to sign off on getting tats, they walked around like it was the new shit. Tight shirts for the tramp stamps, sleeveless or rolled up tees for the guys. It was an obvious and pathetic display. If you’re as old as I am, you can’t pull that shit off anymore unless you know how to cloud it. When I was at Area 51, I was wearing a black BDU (army/paramedic) jacket with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. This showed off the new tattoo, but that wasn’t why I did it in the first place. I had just gotten the damn thing two days previous and it was still sore and I was putting Tattoo Goo on it every few hours. While the sleeve was down it irritated it and made the salve cake on my jacket. Only my friends and alert observers could tell it was new, my chick for the night never even commented. It was just there, as natural as my fingers or my eyes. That should be your end result of a tattoo. It should be part of you like your skin is. It shouldn’t make you stand out like a Precious at cheerleader practice. It should add, subtly, to your presence.

While I’m a preacher of direct game, my actions are only half, if not less, of what helps. The image has to be as layered as the meaning of my tattoos and anything that blinds the chick’s hindbrain with douche alerts will get you nowhere. A spotlight can show your flaws. Presence is felt more than seen. It hits the centers of your targets right where they can’t control: their psycho-sexual reaction.

The goal, gentlemen, is presence. Pick your tattoos carefully and smartly, as well as finding your style, and you’ll achieve it.

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Game Review: Last Night in SLC

A retroactive review of what sparked it all. I thought about not doing it since I wrote a couple thousand words on the night, but then I realized I did make a ton of mistakes, so why the hell not?

For those who couldn’t be arsed to read my lengthy pontifications: drunk girl comes over to hit on my female friend/look at shiny things. Drunk girl teases male friend and I about being gay. I kissed drunk girl to “prove I’m not gay”. Drunk girl become enamored with me all night. Push/pull. Negs. I tried to placate the friend who was always at risk of major cockblock. Had tons of fun, but no notch.

What I knew:

  • I wanted to get laid. I wanted to have fun. Yet, I had felt no game and was targeting the wrong girl. I had no other path at the time, so I went with it.

What I learned:

  • Be forward. Always be forward. What got me this girl was taking a risk and it work out in spades. If I had ignored my instincts, I would have been pursuing the wrong girl the entire night. I wouldn’t of had fun or the motivation to keep my game going.
  • Recruit wingmen. I had C and M with me. C wasn’t bi and M was nerd-shy. With a decent wingman, I could of isolated my girl from her friend. The wingman I was looking for actually showed up much later in the night and totally outside my control. It probably would have been the perfect time to take the target away to some place quiet, but I didn’t jump at the chance.
  • No excuses. While I did amazing for what my track record has on it, I still pawned off indecisiveness as someone else’s fault. The friend, mostly. I could of gotten some. This chick came back 3 times, happy to see me. From the background, I cockblocked a couple trolling for a threesome because she liked me better than them. And this girl talked slutty all night. It was there to take and I didn’t take it.
  • Move quick. I lingered a lot. I didn’t get into the good parts of her until late when I could have been on it early on.
  • Be aggressive. I worried about her friend while her friend was being standoffish. I should of taken advantage of it since I already had her friend hooked.
  • Stock condoms. ‘Nuff said.

All in all it was a very good night that could have been better, but I’m not fretting. Abundance abundance abundance!

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 5

The first full day there was rest. Organization and rest. I repacked my bags so to make it easier for the long drives. Electronics here, clothes there, food there, and so on. It took me most of the day. I wrote, I read, I kept busy, but not too busy. It was relaxation after all. I had contacted Becky, a friend and former co-worker, and we set up a time to meet. I hadn’t seen her in three years. Her husband, Rick, was a good friend too, even our time working together was cut short by his unjustified firing. Such is the business of entertainment. She wanted to meet in West Hollywood. Left around eleven, missing the traffic from the Inland Empire streaming into LA.

I arrived early and had a smoke sitting on the edge of one of the flowerbeds, remembering all the times I had driven or walked to this place to pick up the Ex. She worked at the Best Buy. Sometimes I’d get mixed up and walk to it when I was supposed to be at the Bed, Bath and Beyond Store far down Sunset. I was fine with it. I liked walking. I began to miss Los Angeles.

It took them a while, but they arrived with their dog Debbie. I was surprised when both Becky and Rick both gave me hugs. I hadn’t known them that closely, or so I had thought. They looked excited, like I was a long lost friend. I felt close, like I felt with Adrian and Lana. I told them the story. I explained the money problems and even went into my changes from the two days previous. “I changed between ten pm and meeting a drunk girl,” I said, smiling. Becky smiled and slightly jolted in her seat. They knew me as timid and clingy. As a hard working kid, not as an adult. We talked for nearly two hours, grabbing drinks at Jamba Juice. They told me of their freelancing in television and film. Rick getting enough work for them to stay solvent. Becky pursuing writing and acting. They both had been part of the machine I was a cog in. When I got tired, when my kid brain had enough, I went to a new machine. They broke the cycle. I admired them greatly.

I was riding a high from the night at Area 51. I was riding high from being in the sun, the clear blue sky, the swagger in my walk and the confidence of my talk. I felt the third eye scan the world around me, judging, watching and targeting. I tingled all over, underneath, vibrations so slight I had to stop to feel them. Everything had gone right. Everything was good. What felt right was right and what felt wrong was wrong. There was no questioning. No choices. No debating. There was just what I wanted and that was it. I called my dad and told him I’d be staying in California, not coming back to Canada. I’d be staying with my uncle. I’d get work, pay off my debts and make my life, alone but not lonely, out West, as I always said I would. I was home and I was being told it was by the little motions of the universe. I imagined real cowboys, gunfights, world saving and honor and nations for years. Politics and history and morality. It was all bullshit. The West called me out to do this, to write, to have fun, to be big and be bigger. I called my mom that evening and I cried to her. I cried simple tears. Real tears. No anxiety. No shaking or fear or Hell. These were the tears of five months of suppression crashing down around me. The realization I’d spent half a year dealing with the end of my marriage. The midway of 2011. The peak of the hill is coming up. I was scared shitless of what I had done, but I was also supremely excited. Deep down, I felt as I feel right now, like the certainty my uncle and his family have of God’s will in their lives, I have the certainty my life will blossom here. That alone, with each step taken and without looking back, I can walk down the street, the pier or into a room and I am the motherfucking man. No bitch, no boy, no chav, no cunt… no one can tell me any different.

God likes playing tricks. He found me the perfect woman and made her fat, stubborn and impulsive. He made her barren. He made her annoying. He made her mine and then he made her leave. He made me cry. He made me timid. He made me question myself and bring me to edge a dozen times. He made a sure thing into a throwback. He taunted me with rabbits, pussy and the loving arms of family thousands of miles away. No more. No rules. No ways. No fear.

God’s not going to like what I have in store.

My sins are just the beginning…

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 4

He drove us back to Lana’s place, and his place now that he had asked for Lana’s hand. My opportunity to actually feel the alcohol I consumed instead of slight blips of taste. My chance to brag and regale and unwind from unwinding. My chance to slow down. My expectations were delusional. When we arrived, Paul was seated in the single seat couch, otherwise known as a chair and ottoman, playing Mass Effect 2. Paul was a glorious nerd of massive wit and eternal kindness. He could cuddle his son one minute, work his ass off another and bust a very gross joke the next, all while getting all 95 achievements in Red Dead Redemption. Paul was a giant kid. A thirty-something bic-ed loveable kid. Immediately, Adrian gives me a Hops Rising beer. Bitter, dark but 9% alcohol and locally brewed. A good start.

We watch Paul bust through the plethora of talking in the game, waiting for Lana to return. Soon, Orange and Rex came in. I had met both of them once or twice. I never met any of these brothers-in-arms much. I was happy to see them. Orange was a DJ and had just come back from a birthday party. A great looking woman, her friends and her daughters. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, black suit jacket, black tie; the formal ten. Always with a smile, he recounts the story of his night. The woman is pointing out everyone there. Orange saw two drop dead, boner inducing women, mouth slightly opened. The birthday girls leans over to him and says “And those two are my daughters. They’re off limits.” My first thought was he should of went for them anyway, but a good man knows that pay trumps women, especially the disposable kind. A lightweight redhead became extremely enamored with him during the night. She “guns” were used, over and over and over, until she tipped over. An ex even shows and he has to escort her out. “I’m working,” he said. I listen closely.

It became my turn to tell my story. I should of felt overwhelmed. I should have been overshadowed by Orange. I’d heard several of his stories, but I was still high off the simple things I had done. It was basic game. It was below basic. The men I read on the net – Dagonet, Willy Wonka, Roosh, Roissy – that was their light breakfast, if they felt like it. But, for me, it was the start. It was winning the playoffs, even if it was the pee wee leagues. I was happy. That’s all that mattered. I went into the story. Lana returned, hands full of bags and clothes. Quickly, after hearing the conversation, she backed me up. “She had great tits.” We went into the kitchen. Paul broke out his smooth, licorice tasting Columbian liquor. We all shot and talked. We all told stories. Rex about the gray-haired hippie lady he drunkenly hit on. His band mates watched from a distance and laughed as she tried to pick him as he desperately tried to find a polite out. Orange talked about giant clits. I told a very short version of a girl I worked with at Denny’s and fucked twice after I quit, both times in public parks. Without the shots, the laughs and the barbs between us all, I may have remembered how half the time her dog cockblocked me. It didn’t matter. It was the best time I’d had in a very, very long time.

It rolled around five and Orange had already went home. I was pretty drunk and I had to get up early enough to make it to my relatives in California at a decent hour. We all had a last smoke and went to sleep. Only Orange was sober enough to drive home. The rest of us scattered around the condo. I got about five hours of rest before Paul woke me up as he promised, the sound of coffee being made and I enthusiastically took a cup. I could feel the Columbian devil water still in me, but I had no choice. All my shit was in the car. All the shit I thought I needed. All the shit I thought I didn’t have the balls to throw away. Things I may do or may want. It was all things. The Exs storage closet held enough require five of my cars, if you packed it tight. I gave a handshake to Paul and we said our goodbyes as he went off to work. Then, as requested, I knocked on Lana and Adrian’s door. They came down and Lana gave me a giant hug, wishing me the best and headed back up to sleep. Graveyard shifts. Adrian went outside for a smoke and I joined. We talked for a bit about the trip and smaller things. I only had half my cigarette. I needed to space them out if I was going to make this habit last an entire carton. We shook and I left. Some Marylin Manson on the stereo.

I felt excited. I felt ready. I hit the road and realized I was still drunk. The intoxication fell off around southern Utah where I stopped for Gatorade and a smoke. I pondered on what Kay had told me about an hour earlier. The Red Cross in Tuscaloosa was slow and inefficient with the tens of thousands of volunteers helping. I had taken over the conversation. I wanted to expose it. I know people. Benefit of big family. I went on and on and on. Then, when I gave her a word, she reminded me that the problems happened days ago, not currently. All she wanted to do was vent about the past problems. I jumped on it like I jump on a lot of things. Like ideas. Like feelings. Like my marriage. It was a kick to the ego. One needed. The humbling ying to the alpha yang.

At the station, after pondering, surrounded by new condos in the middle of the parches desert, a jackrabbit burst out of the brush and stopped dead in the middle of a clearing no more than 20 feet away from me. I stared at it for several moments. It didn’t move. For years, I had tried to hunt jackrabbit in Utah, the only animal you can kill without a permit due to its massive population. I was told they were everywhere. I had even seen them on hikes. Yet, every time I took my .22 with me to hunt, they were never there. Any rabbit I did see either was too far, ran at an insane speed directly left or right, or popped up when I was out of ammo. Now, for whatever reason, God or whomever had decided to taunt me a dumbass rabbit, as he did with a drunk girl. It was at this time I concluded that it was God’s plan to prank me as much as he could, and that I needed to start pranking his ass back in whatever way I could.

It took 11 hours to get to southern California from northern Utah. Traffic jams from Vegas straight into the Valley. Agriculture checkpoints 100 miles in the California border. Dumbasses galore. I was home, again. God pulled another prank on me while I was stuck on I-15 with thousands of others: Osama bin Laden got capped. I had thought about that moment for many, many years. I wanted to be at a bar, or at home with family and friends, or be able to be able to join in the celebration. Fucker died while I was squinting into the brake lights of some soccer mom’s minivan, waiting for my turn to look at a pulled over sports car. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn’t it have been yesterday? Why couldn’t it have been with Seasons’ tits in my hand? If anything would of pushed me to take her into the bathroom that night and carve my name into her thighs with my dick, it would have been that. Even goths hate terrorists. I called my mom about it, she being a political person. Her reaction was, as I used to be, as Spike was, a downer. It didn’t matter. Who cares if he’s dead? I cared. I was happy. Some people need to die, no matter what. Its in male genetics to murder our enemies. The yang returned. Embrace the animal. The nature of man. Quit fucking downing yourself. I turned on Queen and belted my cracking voice.

When I got to my uncle’s place I was drunk on fatigue. It took me three hours to fall asleep. Something still wasn’t right. My mind still having insane thoughts at insane speeds like it did in Utah. I popped a Xanax, knowing it was the second to last one, knowing that if I was addicted it would be a very bad thing to run out. I didn’t want to be. This was supposed to be a rest. Something still wasn’t kosher, but I pushed it away. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep was short. Sleep was restless. The only thing that still ran well was the ego.

***

The finale, tomorrow.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 2

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4:1

___

Ass in my crotch, laying on me as I sat on the stool, I was God. It was just a kiss, but it was a resurrection like no other. I was drenched in the afterbirth of a new beginning. To the indifferent world, everything was still the same. The twice-gender ninja still swung its hips. Lana was still helping N. M was still looking like a square, but he was enjoying the new things in front of him. I was still Jordan. Bearded, homeless, smokes and lighter in one breast pocket, Tattoo Goo and wallet in the other. Keys in the jeans. Boots on my feet. I hadn’t changed to the physical eye, but my third eye had just opened and brought new understanding to everything I sensed. I saw Spike’s reactions to Seasons’ words and actions. It was time to work the herd.

Not long after she was on my hook, I breathed in my single-serving girl’s ear, “I have to tell Spike something.” I covered her audio receivers and leaned in to the dour looking woman, “I’m only in Salt Lake City one more day. You don’t have to worry about her. Nothing is going to happen.” Spike smiled slightly and nodded. I uncovered Seasons’ ears and she begged to know what I said. I shook my head, so she leaned in to Spike and the dear girl said I gave Seasons a compliment. That grin returned. C had gone to get more drinks, but the rush for the bar had created a clusterfuck of people. Of the 3 bar bartenders, C had chosen the longest line with the bartender everyone knew and loved. My tab was with the third one, the lesser liked one, and his line was always shorter. During this time M looked mostly and talked some while I basically baby talked Seasons. Adrian finally showed at the club and Seasons swooshed the chains of his gothic duster. Arm around her waist, constantly pulling her into my hips, she was mine to hold and mine to let go. When she and Spike went off soon after, Lana came over and asked how I was doing. I said I got in a kiss. Lana looked at me and smiled, then turned to M and said, “Hope you enjoyed it.”

When the friends returned, Seasons took me by the hand. I looked at M. He nodded slightly and said, “Go dance” He sat alone, still waiting for C to return with drinks. They lead me into the dance area and up a small about of stairs to the stage. Spike found a dark corner and started dancing awkwardly and slowly. Seasons’ ass found my dick and attached to it like a magnet. Gyration, rubbing, bouncing; with something pressing against her, she was motivated. I barely moved unless she was really into it, then I went with the flow of her hips to keep up the illusion I can dance. While my cock was getting a gluteus massage, I saw that Spike was checking her phone over and over and over. Seasons had said earlier Spike was waiting on a guy “who smelled like Abercrombie and Fitch”.

“The smell or the smell of the store?” I had asked.

“The store. I love it there. I’m really preppy!” she had said enthusiastically.

After only ten minutes, I couldn’t risk this turning sour quickly. I grabbed Seasons’ hips and told her, “Go dance with Spike, I’ll be with my friends.” She nodded. I made sure to grab another few kisses from her before I returned to Lana’s corner. M was still alone, wondering where C was. I texted C: You get lost? After that, I noticed that Lana sent me a message.

Dude!

What?

That was all. It came across as a question.

Her friend is checking her phone every minute. Won’t get far if her friend wants to leave.

True. Can’t help ya there.

Nope. I got it. Not like I’m taking her back to your place lol.

True.

M wondered if Seasons would come back. I told her if she didn’t I didn’t care. Again, I mentioned it as just practice. Something I’d say a lot that night. A lesson to be learned. To make it believable, say it once. To say it over and over knocks the credibility of the statement, no matter how true. With Seasons’, I was batting a thousand with that rule in mind. With my friends, no so much. But, it didn’t matter. As M would later say, “Baby steps.” Amen, brother. Eventually, C came back with a drink for me and a drink for herself. She recounted the hell that was the line. People talking about her when she could hear. Snark and shit about her looking out of it. She didn’t let it phase her. C asked where my friend was. I recounted the antsy Spike and the phone of constant phantom vibration. Words and drinks, then C was looking at the stage for her target of the night, a guy dressed up as a wolf furry (think the creepy CSI episode) and M was looking elsewhere, I see the spikes and the big tits in tow. I mimicked tossing out a line, getting a tug and reeling it in.

Click, click, click, click, click.

They go to the bar to get Spike a water, then right before coming into the corner, Seasons is stopped by a creepy couple. They were decent looking, but who wouldn’t be a little jittered by a cowboy pulling a wife-cat on a leash. C and M watched them as I watched the dance floor, making small talk. C mentions to me that they were trying to recruit Seasons into a threesome. I turned to watch them and sure enough, the cowboy was doing his damn best to put on an air for the intoxicated girl. Touching her arm, making her laugh, the best he could. I mention to C that I should go over and cockblock them. She laughs and says do it, but I stand back. Abundance mentality. This night wouldn’t get a lay no matter what, so no reason to fret. A long chat later, Seasons puts her ass back in my lap, her back on my chest and moves her hair to the other side of her neck. A move she had been doing over and over which I ignored. With the magnetism of creep non-existent, I finally rewarded her with kisses on her jugular. I asked her what the coupled wanted. C was right. I asked why she didn’t want to do it. My new pet said, “Because!” and pushed in closer. I left it at that. She was entranced with me to the point that I cockblocked the swingers by presence alone. “I am God”, I reiterated to myself quietly, giving a smile to C who was surprised, again. Seasons turned and my lips showered her neck again. I had forgotten what a woman’s skin tasted like. It was after midnight. Still so much time left to enjoy.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 1

***

April 30, 10:00pm

It was Fetish Ball at Area 51. Cosplay theme. It was getting packed. I was sitting at the electric play station with Lana and her friends N and J. N and J were married and they were the only ones certified to use the mild electric devices on anyone. Lana was learning, but since it was all fun and games for the Fetish Ball, there wasn’t any reason for her to be taught. We all had arrived three hours earlier to set up the station, get “demo” passes and start drinking and smoking earlier than everyone else. When the doors opened at 8, only a few trickled in. A Pikachu, some go-go dancers and a androgynous ninja who walked like a man, but had the body and danced like a woman. I sat for a long time, until N and Lana wanted me to get zapped first. To entice the others coming to the floor. I laid on my back, shirtless, on the massage table used for the delightful torture. N proceeded to use several different plug-ins for some kind of electrical wand. Small ones with tips no bigger than a rosebud that glowed green and purple; larger, hot dog length ones that for me gave me the most jolts. Later, I’d be told that its usually the least painful, but apparently N had the juice up at the time. I’d been electrocuted by choice before, so the pain was nothing new, but the sensation afterward was something interesting. Burning, yet mild. Like I’d been wrapped in a very caring electric whip.

Around 10:10pm, my two co-workers M and C showed up. I had never hug with them, or really anybody else from work, outside of the site, so this was new for us. C had convinced M to come out for her birthday party, also at Area 51, earlier in the month and he mostly sat and watched the fun. A shy 29 year old Utah native. We wanted him out of his shell so he could enjoy life a bit more and a bit further away from the video games he loved so much. We made our way to the bar and I filled them in on the short list of rules in Area, all ones I had been told not an hour before after faux paus-ing. No drinks on the dance floor (the one I discovered), no touching anyone who doesn’t want to be touched: guy or girl, no smoking inside and if a big guy with a earpiece says to do something: do it!

C was dressed in jeans and a dark shirt that hung below her shoulders with some kind of gold painted in what looked like a heart-ish shape. She had a very in your face personality for the most part, which I liked a lot, but she was also very standoffish. I never really knew where I stood with her other than being friends, and I was happy with just friends M looked like he had walked right out of Brigham Young’s Clothes for Men and Mormons. Dark beige zip up sweater, khakis and the look of a man out of his element. He stood out like a Jew in Japan. I was in my black Snakes on a Cane shirt from House M.D., straight black army jacket with sleeves rolled up to keep my new tattoo airing, my black red lambda hat, jeans and kind of worn black steel toed boots that have become my own pair of footwear. I told my friends if anyone asks, I’m Dr. Gregory House in college.

After getting drinks and waiting around ten minutes for a table to open up, C, M, and I moved to what Lana called “her corner”. It was one of two places where you could get a really good look at the dance floor. There was a counter for your drinks and stools to sit on. We all sat and talked and C finished up her Jack and Dr. Pepper. I had downed my rum and coke as soon as it was in my hand. Not long after finding our stools, two girls I had noticed on the floor in the earlier deader part of the night walked into the corner. One was skinny, had three giant old school punk spikes for hair, glasses and a blue plaid dress. She looked very nerd. This was Spike. Her friend, her very drunk friend cradling a bottle of Raspberry Smirnoff Ice, Seasons, was a chubby little thing but not in the recoiling way. Her tits were masterfully displayed through a white shirt with all the right rips in it, the holes which she played constantly with. On her pelvis was black pleather short-shorts which attached to thick, spaced out fishnet stockings and very furry white shin high boots. Her face was alright if she didn’t show her teeth, which were a little off. I gave her a 4.5, but was later told each tit deserved a point, so she was bumped up to 5.5.

Seasons sauntered, well, more like stumbled, over to C and said straight up, “I like shiny things. Can I swoop?”. She was pointing to the gold on C’s shirt. C tentatively agreed and Seasons started to swat at the shirt, her hands softly smacking C’s tits hidden under the drooping top. We all started talking to this new entertaining girl. Soon, Seasons, with Spike at her back watching her with laser focus, then asked C if she liked girls. C said no. The girl’s attention focused to M and I. After some small talk, she asked if we were gay. I said no as did M. She continued on about us being gay, not specifically with each other, but just in general. This is where change came to fruition.

It started with my body heating up. I felt flush and aggressive. My heart was beating and my fingers began to tingle. My mind had only one thing on its mind: sex. Touching. Kissing. Females and mating. Females and their lips, their skin, their smell. I looked to C, going back to thoughts of taking her home on a day we were to hang out, but never happened. She didn’t return calls. Busy. Bad times. Such is. It didn’t matter at that moment. My entire being needed to attack. But, when I looked at her, she was looking at Seasons, disinterested and far. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t ready. So, my eyes turned to our new friend. The energy coursing through me was overwhelming. It was power I had never felt before. It was anxiety, but reversed. Everything said GO! GO! GO!

I motioned with my index finger to Seasons. Come closer, it said. She leaned in. I looked at the slut, her head slightly tilted to hear me, and I said, “I’m not gay. I’ll prove it.” In the split second she turned her head to put her eyes on me I kissed her. Her lips felt amazing. Soft, wet and smooth. They were new. Four years of the same woman. The same lips. The same old shit day after day, and now there was something different. It was what my animal brain wanted. I could feel her pull from the kiss so I pressed in again, keeping it lasting for just a bit longer, then let her pull away. C and M had dropped jaws. Spike looked surprised, but really wasn’t. Seasons licked her lips and had a wry grin, saying “Wow.”, like it was unexpected, but it wasn’t. This girl knew what she was and so did I. My last night in Salt Lake was about to get a whole lot better. “Since I kissed you, I should get your name,” she said, slightly slurring the darling words of the hamster. I gave it, then she moved to M and and he gave his name. The tingle ran through my entire body, the heart pumped, the brain was on fire. The GO! GO! GO! Had become the complete opposite. Now, my body was saying what just happened? Why did you do that? Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Chuck Yager must of felt the same way when breaking the sound barrier.

Soon, she was next to me constantly, swooshing shiny things and pressing up on me. Spike took her away at least once to see other people and to generally get her away from the man who just stole a kiss or two. My friends still looked at me wide-eyed and I gave back a shit eating grin. When the two were away, M and C talked. Of the costumes. Of the ticklish man on the electrical play bench, N enjoying his spasms every time she laid the sparks on his body. I told them I needed to practice. Practice what, they questioned me. “It’s not like I can take her home,” I replied. I was staying with Lana and her fiancée Adrian. That afternoon I became officially homeless. Moving out of my apartment, all my stuff packed tight into the car. I had no place to take her. Lana had planned more partying after Area 51. I could of brought Seasons along, taken her up to somebody’s bedroom. I could of snagged a condom from somebody and headed towards one of the bathrooms. Yet, two things weren’t there, the most prominent in my mind being I just didn’t want to. The second, and the one I made excuses for when I asked why it didn’t go any farther, was Spike. Spike was the good friend. The watcher of drunk sluts. The preventer of strange men inserting their penises into young, stupid Seasons. I could of tried to sneak Seasons away. But, instead of a thousand ways to get caught or have awkward looks or things of that nature, I decided it was best to keep it easy, keep it simple and work my new found, body-wide, being-integrated game.