Fuck King Kong

___

A friend of mine who reads the blog introduced a fellow writer to my humble scribblings. Since my friend is a big fan of my style, the assumption was this guy would like it as well. Apparently not. Observe his response:

He has a blog about game? Are you serious? So – he’s been hurt and that justifies him being full of shit? I’m sorry, but Alpha v Beta male, how to pick up women, mysogyny? It’s all spoiled-little-boy, self-centred crap. Even from the little you’ve said about him it appears quite obvious that somewhere deep down you know that.

Oh, oh, oh. This is not the day to be doing this, hombre. Been up way too long. No. Day? Fuck it. Not the year.

Continued, after some lengthy talk:

On the other hand we have Jordan – a self-centred mysogynist, a sociopath who likes to blame others for all his woes. Across his path strolls [friend], they fit together like hand in glove ie. it suits him perfectly to indulge her honourable desire to be given attention by submitting to his very dishonourable desire to get laid.

My friend lives across the pond in Europe. She is happily married. She loves my writing as I love hers. We both write dark and gritty and real. We’ve known each other for a very long time and know the ins and outs of each other’s minds. You couldn’t ask for better friends. You also couldn’t as for worst logistics.

Enter, the white knight. A much older, well polished white knight who thinks my writings, not to mention my playful flirts with my long time friend, are somehow damaging her and her relationship with her man. That her love of my detailed indiscretions or my advice on women or my recent fiction will blow her mind back and turn her into a quivering victim of domestic abuse.

I will admit he’s accurate. I am self-centered. But what man who has any balls or any self-worth isn’t? Even the greatest father and husband in the world still pulls his wife aside during house parties and gets a blowjob while his guests play Jenga. You can’t be confident without being self-centered. Jesus was a self-centered prick like me. I blame The Ex for what happened to the marriage. I blame myself for not slamming my foot down more often. Making sure she knew who’s boss. But you’ve seen the pictures. I’m much better off. As is my food budget.

As for misogynist and sociopath. He’s way off base. I support a woman’s right to vote. Their constant mind changing and backstabbing is probably way the incumbency rate is at the low ass percentage it is. Otherwise, you’d have stoic party loyalists keeping everyone in at 100%.

Men, meet a full blown beta white knight. Men, meet a single man in his 60s messaging at married woman in her young 20s over a writer’s website.

Last known photograph

What does this guy write? Poems. What’s his topic? Domination.

C’mon! REALLY? I call bullshit.

Bullshit on that he really does it. Bullshit on his lifestyle. Bullshit on his attitude. Bullshit on him from soul to scalp.

This guy is 100%, Grade Z(ed), mama’s basement with poutine and gravy bowls piling up on his lap POSER.

I’m no freak in leather. I’m no whip carrying card member of the National Association for the Advancement of Kinky People. I don’t have paddles. I can’t fucking afford them.

I, like most of my brethren, like the power and know some of the upper hand moves. We know them because they work. We use them because these ladies turn into wild animals when we do.

Would I like a woman to do my bidding? Of course. What fellow mansophere blogger wouldn’t? But is that hate? Is it hate to believe in a woman’s deep inner desire to be ruled? Is it hate to prove it with every chick I come across who likes my direct game?

Its not hate. Its empowerment.

Why?

Because they choose. Like the feminists want. They choose to get down on their knees. They choose to give themselves to us. They choose to fall sway to us. Or they choose to dress up like lumberjacks or scary muffin top hookers and choose not to fall sway. Their brains tell them to or not to. Is it wrong or illegal to know someone that well? Fuck no. That’s what relationships are all about. Knowing that other person so well. That and fucking, but I digress.

This guy, seeing a pretty young thing in “distress” when an alpha comes by, beats his chest like King Kong and moves in for the save. Except that, like King Kong, when he gets to the tower and congratulates himself, he gets fucking shot down.

Observe, the response from my friend:

I am fully aware that a blog about ‘game’ or picking up woman could be seen as juvenile or un-PC – i have come across this before. He’s been called a masogynist and sexist and all the other words you described there. Do i think it’s behaviour from a cowardly little boy? No. We have literally grown up together. I have seen him go from a cowardly boy to a man with all the mistakes he’s made along the way, and become something confident. He’s proud of that confidence, and i am proud of it for him. This is a 13 year friendship, not somebody i picked up off the street last week. He’s helped me with things i’m not prepared to discuss, and i hope he’ll always be there. My friend. The one who saved me at a very difficult time in my life. One who i don’t think i could hold my head up as far as i do, without.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEERRROOOOWW-RATA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

ARRRRRRGHHHHH!

SPLAT!

I love my girls, my friends and my friends of intimate knowledge, because they are loyal. They know me and I know them. Some I’ve known only a few years, some for over a decade. I am a king, THE king, because when push comes to shove, it won’t be just be strangers in the circle of on lookers. I’ll have Ghaddfi’s Amazons right there as well, rooting, not because I told them, but because they want to. And a man, 50 notches or just 6, couldn’t be prouder.

I’m Mighty Joe Young. I got the girl, I won the fight and I lived.

Fuck King Kong.

The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Choose A Target

I’m still pretty buzzed from tonight. Wrap dinner for our 5 days of work. 3 of the crew drove from Toronto to Niagara Falls, where we waited 5 fucking hours for US Customs to play their dog and pony show, then to Philly. After a day of shooting in Philly we drove 10 hours to Kentucky, outside of Cincinnati, and shoot for 12ish hours at a boring ass dog show. Tomorrow, today, whenever this posts, another 10 hoursish or whatever to get back to Niagara Falls.

Tonight, we went to a great British style pub, and there was a 7.5 bartender who I practiced on. Looks mostly, changing the way I speak. I hadn’t used “hun” like that until tonight. Nothing major, just some change of dynamic.

When I saw her, just a few minutes into our sitdown, I knew that was my focus. Prettiest girl in the bar. The other female bartender was frumpy and had a horrible smile. It looked like she was always pissed. So, I practiced. I ignored. I engaged. I uped the language. It was very basic, but it was something I needed to do. The only other opportunities that night was a wedding reception that was rocking when we left and dead when we got back to the hotel.

In my early trials, I was everywhere. I jump from one target to another, end up going home with my dick in my hand. This night is the same, but I had my target. That’s all that matters. I aimed high. As high as the bar would let me.

You don’t have to get laid each night, as nice that would be.

You have to do your best. Best you can do.

Aim high. Shoot high. Land where it lands.

I worked for 4 days and have another one driving home. I worked my ass off. Calgary lost against the Leafs… fuck.

But this, this made it all worth it.

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 3

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4:1Part 4:2

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The next hour was a blur of moments stuck together with ego and cock. There was much talking, much grinding, much wondering and a lot of smiling. A spate of kisses on lips and neck. The smell of her hair. The looks she gave. The smile. If I was younger, I’d be in love. I would be all over her like static-charged plastic. If she tried to shake me, I wouldn’t fall off. But that was years ago. That was weeks ago. That was hours ago. The now said I was in command. I was the center, not her. I was being leaned in to. I was being returned to. I was the Earth and she the little specks of nothing that fall into orbit, fated to get burned up.

Spike still wasn’t having a good time due to her overwhelming moral requirement to watch Seasons. My words of safety did not ring with her, apparently. I didn’t blame her. From what the tits with a mouth said to me, truth or lies, the girl was at very minimum a mental slut. With alcohol, she’d lay down for the Pope. Even with the honorable code of not-letting-your-friend-fuck-everything, Spike’s hovering act annoyed me. I had encouraged her to go do the electric play. I left Seasons’ bouncing ass so she could hang and make her friend happier, hoping it would pay dividends. The guy who smelled like a store’s absence didn’t help either. Luckily, Spike usually just kept an eye, which at least gave room to have her friend’s ample affection focused on me. But I couldn’t ever really get really aggressive or risk Spike getting the wrong idea.

“I like to be a girl,” Seasons told me. “I don’t get why girls try to be guys.” I inferred that she was talking about Spike.

I set my face slightly against her hair. “I don’t either. Girls and girls and guys are guys. I like feminine girls.”

“Its just not sexy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“They called me sexy,” she turned against me to point at cowboy and cat. “When people call me sexy, I just can’t help myself.” Her eyes were ablaze. Head pointed down slightly, eyes pointed up. Lips parted. Her tongue hidden from view.

I looked back at her and paused for a moment. I didn’t even have to think of what to say. It was on the way to my vocal cords before the process that used to be my way of thinking even could conceive of the event. Straight game. Straight player. Pure fun. I extended the pause for dramatic effect, then: “Let’s hold off on that.”

She huffed and puffed, but she smiled like I had found her verbal clitoris and got even closer. I kissed her hair again, locking my hands on to her ass.

Closing in on 1am, she wanted to go back to the floor and dance. I was talking with M and C, they sighed, rolled eyes and smiled at the same time. As I was being dragged, I told C that after this I’d lose her. C looked happy. I wanted to hang with them more before we had to leave, before I left Salt Lake City for God knows how long. C had a warning signal for when Seasons came around, “Boots! Boots! Boots!” Before, I’d be offended by such things. Instead, I laughed. Her hand hooked in mine, the club bunny pulled me into the crowd. Spike began her awkward dance, again, while my girl returned to growing cock between her ass cheeks. I thought I’d have to bail like I did before when Spike kept checking her phone every thirty seconds. I focused on Seasons, hoping for something good to happen. And, like the landing of an angel upon the three spires of a Orthodox Church, Spike’s man showed up, in style. BAM! The sour, dour and partypooping bisexual punk who was “into girls at the moment” lit up. Fireworks in her eyes. The first real smile I’d seen all night. The energy exploded from Seasons. Gyrations increased their frequency. She intertwined her fingers into mine, bringing them up upon her tits, both the underside bra and the naked skin above. She moved her hair and I obliged over and over. When she leaned her head back against my shoulder I kissed her. I looked over and saw Spike and her boy do it as well. Few minutes later, Seasons leaned back again and I gave another kiss, this time I invaded her mouth. When she pulled back, the spark and the smile said it all.

This was a girl who must of gotten constant attention for her breasts and her outgoing personality. Twenty-one, single, open to fucking and able to get drunk in minutes, there must have been a line to fuck her (or realistically, a line that already had), but apparently her hamster was rolling ’round and ’round in circles unable to get off its ride from Hell. First, it was my straight forward kiss that set it on a healthy trot. Then, my leaving her, then wanting her to come back. The lack of clinginess. The lack of compliments. The agreement with her bad ways. The cockiness. The (slight in my view) aggressiveness (fucking Spike!). And what topped it all off was, about thirty minutes before she took me to the dance floor for that last long and lip-locked session, Spike had told her I was from out of town, taking my attempt to calm her nerves as an admittance of outsider. In a conversation about where we live, she got confused that I told her I lived in Sandy, a city near where I had a place only 11 hours before.

“No, I’m moving,” I corrected her.

“Where are you moving?”

“To New York,” I said. I hated getting conversations railroaded by the Canadian excitement. Oh Canadian EH? How is Canada? Is it cold? Fuck that. Wasn’t going to let it break the perfect momentum of alcohol, sadness and wet panties.

M was sitting right beside us and turned to me, “What’s she asking?”

“Where I’m going,” I told him.

“To Canada,” he belted, before I had a chance to inform him of my sly location misinformation.

The look on Seasons face was priceless. I leaned back to M and told him of my fib, then turned back to the poor girl and used my hands and the invisible map of the United States to show her where New York was. “Here’s California and the West Coast,” I said, pointing to my left. “here’s Utah,” pointing slightly inland, “and here New York.” My finger flew pretty far to the east. “And here’s Canada” Pointing above the imaginary Empire State. “Its close to Canada.” She was still blinking. I had a city all set out and everything. Albany. Nobody knows or wants to know about Albany, New York. But, she got the gist. Then she came close and laid on me, telling me that I’m losing out on a great fuck buddy. She regaled me with stories of future threesomes, booty calls, hot fucks and sweat-soaked bodies. My cock barely budged at the talk. My mind was calm. My sights clear. I nodded and agreed, giving sympathetic words to her about what she’d be missing. The sadness was supposed to be mine, not hers. Alas, that’s not how the game is played.

After about twenty minutes of dancing and kissing, I looked at my phone for the time. I needed to go hang with my former co-workers. Hands on her smooth tits, squeezing gently, I told her I need to go and she needed to come see me before she leaves. She nodded, we kissed and I walked back to M and C, telling them of Spike’s good fortune. We finally got C to go pursue her furry fantasy that she’d be spying on all night She rushed to the stage to check him out. According to her, he was a decent looking guy. I would of lost a bet if the bar hadn’t closed at 1am. I had hoped there was a girl under all that costume. We talked of the rock-hard abs of a chick who had the energy of pure speed. C said she had stretch marks, which lead me to believe she was formerly obese. Her lack of body fat, her bouncing fake tits and the way she danced forced us to name her Jazzercise. By the time the costume judging had began, I got a text from Lana asking if I was staying longer or if I’d leave with Adrian. At that moment I saw Seasons and Spike walking back to the corner to say goodbye. I quickly typed and sent Adrian back to Lana as Seasons, looking truly sad, told me again of what I’d miss and that she wished me a safe journey. Using the motion I had all night, I beckoned her with my index finger and gave her a long kiss. Then, as she turned around I put all the held back aggression into my hand. All the times I didn’t pin her against the wall. All the times I didn’t bite her neck. All the times I couldn’t guide her hand to my crotch. All the times I couldn’t fuck her on my couch, my bed or my recliner. All the shit I had gone through for months for a cunt of a wife that left me with debt, hurt and my longest dry spell since high school. All that went into my hand, which slapped against her ass with a satisfying compression of air, pleather and buttocks. “Now get going,” I said and turned around, not giving her a second look. I looked to M and C, who were smiling. I was smiling, too. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I felt a pang that we didn’t have more time to spend together. I was just getting to know everyone on my own, with my own Spike watching every move, recording every moment.

As Adrian and I walked out of the club into the chilly air, it took a few seconds to light my American Spirit. Without the additives, the thing takes as long as a cigar. In that time, M and C had passed us walking out to M’s car so he could take C home. I looked to the tall, lanky and great friend Adrian, a man I had not liked all that much when married, but had stepped up and was there for me when the shit hit the fan. I took a long drag. As I exhaled, I pointed out my friends and said, “I really hope they get together. That man needs a good woman.” Adrian laughed. We walked down a block, crossed the street and got in Adrian’s modified two-door racer. Of we went to the after party at their place.

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

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4:1

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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.