"You don't break the ice; you melt it" -Boris Amar.
It's hard to get an erection if I don't share a deeply emotional connection with the girl I'm with. This wasn't a problem until I read that the vast majority of us men have sex with our ego. Thanks a lot, Carlos Xuma! No, really, thank you. At times, that connection is established within seconds of meeting someone; sometimes, more.
Most men are goal-driven, so happy that they're are having sex, that they may even forget their partner and rush towards the finish line in an empty field, no defenders in sight to fend off, tackling them away from glory. Us men, we're competitive by nature, that's why we love sports, fast cars, action-packed movies, and can swiftly move from point A to point Z uttering a sound only dogs can hear. And just like dogs, we're happy to oblige, wag our tail and put it in between our legs if the right bitch comes along. Women are more like cats, painfully narcissistic creatures, amused by a lingering thread but losing interest if it doesn't dangle before their eyes. On the surface, it's as if we were destined for failure, and more often than not such is the case; but in reality, opposites attract and we observe polarities, night and day, hot and cold... the colder you get, the hotter she gets.
As a man, if you fail to grasp the concept of polarity, you fail to claim the god-given gift of your masculine essence in turn; in layman's terms, your woman already has a pussy, she doesn't need another one. But many of us come from broken homes, raised by single mothers or had a spineless man for a father; others absorbed the empowering feminist movement through movies, books, it was a cultural phenomenon that took flight since the 60's and, luckily, has no signs of slowing down. Women nowadays have no need for a man to take care of her, she got. Thanks, in part, to its success, which brought about plenty of good: a woman now had the right to vote, could decide how many children she'd bear, enter the workforce and not have to depend solely on a man to provide for her. But it also meant broken homes, children born out of wedlock, an increase in divorce and less need of marriage. Societies, more or less, favored the institution of marriage, it meant a couple, population control; men in power always laid down laws that limited the amount of women a regular man could have in a lifetime, unless that man be of power and had at his disposition vast resources. But now, since the sexual revolution that began with Alfred Kinsey, and peaked in the 60's, things had changed for good.
We now, in turn, created the wuss epidemic we're faced with today: a man more in touch with his "feminine side", and women wearing the pants in a relationship, a travesty! Fathers who could freely just pick up and leave their women with their young, for the minimum penalty of child support. "No judge can force a father to see his son; that's a moral obligation" said a black woman judge to the mother of my older child in a child support hearing. Still I see my sons every chance I get, giving to them plenty of my resources and time; I am not here to condone the bad aspects of masculinity but to throw light on some of its best assets.
Good literature dazzles. So does a great lover. It's what differentiates a writer like García Márquez to a typist like Stephen King. Good lovers take their partner's satisfaction into account; great lovers make it their business to please their partner first. And so, my erections are forged like mountains that were once buried under deep blue oceans... I climb every inch of her wet forest, claiming each soiled layer of terrain as a conquered faraway land... I can smell the ancient scent of her thighs and trace it back to the proverbial waves of desire... the wind rushing in, crystallized in each breath of air, the indivisible landscapes echoed in her trembling voice... only then I make home a dampened wilderness inside and build my foundation atop the exuberant hills below.
I had postponed venturing out into the night. In order to appease the gods of mayhem that lurk within a man's darkest desires, I decided to go out for a beer at the local joint. Not a bad place, and as soon as I cross the intersection between Lefters and Metropolitan, I spot a couple of idyllic femmes outside, smoking cigarettes, chitchatting with abandonment. The night is young and there must be little competition inside when the best group of girls steps outside and stay linger. I size them up faster than they can spot me; one glance will do to see the fertility and ripeness in a bunch. That's how they do when it comes to us: one look is all it takes and you're either in or out of their minds. And if you're in, then a second look to see if something was amiss. Initially, they avoid giving off the idea that they're looking, as they have the mating game down tight and it's the man who has to make an approach. Otherwise, he's not man enough for her. However, if a subject sparks their curiosity and shows no sign of interest, they may decide to entice him a bit more, see if he's just acting aloof. To women, the mating ritual throughout most of the history of the species meant survival and if a male does not return her the favor of showing interest, that is literally a death sentence to her subconscious mind. For what is this man whom I fancy not to love about every inch of me, she'd reason. One is petite, curves in places, a bit shy; the other is a medium size brunette with a body sculpted like a rock, fashionable and in charge; the third one, a spectacular blonde, the kind that could turn a pride of lions into a pack of meowing pussycats on all fours at her command.
Little do they know that this here is a different kind of breed, a bio-engineered cave lion who is not in the least bit intimidated by a Pink Panther (a strikingly beautiful blonde who exhibits man-like attributes due to men constantly kissing her ass, remains silent and animated, often insecure, self-entitled and quite pretentious, sort of like the one I recently dated). As I slowly go in for the kill, fully camouflaged like lions do, I come to a full stop and turn my back on them against the small iron fence that separates us, smoking my cigarette, arms stretched out, unmoved. It is as if the world had come to a standstill, you can hear the stunned deafening hush among their ranks, mute bricks of tension build up a wall of silence. You don't break the tension right off, let it boil like a pot and only gradually let it blow some steam; you don't break the ice, you melt it.
They rile in disbelief, the blonde walks back and forth as in a catwalk behind the gate I'm leaning up against, so I turn around to take a closer, unabashed look. I throw a bone her way, see if it's picked up: "You're not really a model, are you?" And not in a threatening tone, sort of a sarcastic, humorous undertone that says, "You look good, but I'm not gonna kiss your ass." All at once, I praised her, teased her, dissed her, my tonality left no room for aloofness on her part and now she has that look on her face that just wants to jump my bones, rip my clothes and make me pay for the audacity.
"I'll have you know, I have modeled before!" she fires back.
Oh, a fighter. It's boring when girls don't fight back, love it when they get down and dirty in a classy way like this girl just did. She restored her image, but I'm about to unleash mayhem upon her: "Yeah, I can see modeling has done wonders for your appetite." The petite girl laughed, the brunette stood her ground but was visibly shaken by the comment; the blonde was now ready to escalate her rhetoric, anxious to restore her place among the tribe. But before she could retaliate, I reassure her: "Who wants to be a model anymore? I'll put dancers over models any day, gotta have something to grab on to, really." My eyes fixed on her figure as I delivered the words "grab on", then graphically gesturing with my hands, as if lost in thought ever so present, a comically arrogant stance of mine. And it was the closest to an actual apology, since guilt was filling up my guts, that I had perhaps been a bit harsh to her, given that she reminded me somewhat of my former lover (the Pink Panther). That may have instilled in me a touch of ruthlessness, which I countered:
"Do you..?" Unlike the mime I had for a lover, she wasn't a puny feline, I could tell she was a formidable opponent and didn't want to risk antagonizing the group by slaying the dragon. Not just yet, anyway... intrigued as she was. "Do I what?" she shot back, confidently, putting aside her battered ego, almost as if she had suddenly become complacent and willing to play along. There's a dance of the egos to be observed, a synergy that is not about the words being said, more how and in what tone are they said; nothing to do with chance but a cold-cut, calculated, preconceived routine, one that ups any antics she may exhibit. If you punish rude behavior, and act not just as if but as you really have the control, if you see them objectively, you pay attention to behavior. How they may subtly inflict pain with indifference, unload their crap, show the slight hint of rebelliousness, test your resolve. People tell you exactly how they want to be treated by way of their behavior.
Beautiful women aren't challenged often, men let them get away with everything; then they develop this bitchy layer of skin; if you scratch it, she'll make you sorry for it. Best to go all in about, skin deep, rally the troops, conquer her. Ultimately, she'll only resist you if you hold back somehow; show no timidity, and your boldness will be rewarded. She may forgive a mistake or two, if they come from the heart; the body falls by its own weight. The mind is on auto-pilot. Like biking, you don't sit back and analyze anything; you don't divulge much, she's not your psychiatrist, and she isn't your mommy either. Don't go from a smile to "Can I take you out sometime?" That's cutting corners, what's worse, you're still locked up inside your head, thinking of the outcome. You need to be present, eyes locked, listen, speak up. It's not a game; it's a world you enter, inhabit and all of your own: impeccability, aplomb, kindness and pride.
Back to the girl, now: it is as if she intuited that I wasn't out to get her this time around; women can be oh so lethally perceptive.
I had lifted the iron curtain that had for a moment befallen us, pull/push, hate/love: polarities were in observance. Former enemies can make the most formidable allies. Tread cautiously, though, since the opposite is true, too: a friend can become a nightmarish rival.
For weeks, I had struggled with my finances. Lacking resources is always a reflection of the inner chaos an individual may be undergoing. It happened all at once. With the exception of work, where I kept a good footing, I was losing ground, love and the confidence it brings were shattered, something needed to change. Finally, I decided there was no way around it, cut emotional ties with the past once and for all, and the chains that hold you back will be broken. I thought, if something is dead, there's no need to let it rot; just bury it. I began by making a list of things to do in order to keep things in place, I fought back my eviction notice, called my 401K and found a clause that, in the event of an eviction, I could borrow the amount owed so long as I provided evidence of such case. In the end, I moved so many pieces that it wasn't necessary; I worked more, got two roommates, send check after check after check and by the time I decided to meet with her to give her back some of the money I owed her, not a disproportionate amount, she wasn't settling for any less than the entire sum. The end was near. She had moved out two weeks prior to that and I hadn't seen much of her ever since, though she showed up every time we made plans. Nothing will ever be the same, nothing was, nothing is. If my focus was on keeping things patched up, better do so if I feel she's in on the ticket; not a good dynamic when the man is the one invested, so I had to let her go.
I wanted to do so cleanly, but things got ugly quickly, as she abruptly stormed into my place demanding redemption, monetary retribution, tongue like a razor, she laid her traps and I fell for it. You can't please a lion with bird seed, she was spiteful, resolved, and I held her against me, little if any resistance, I kissed her forcibly, asked her to stop this madness. She took my computer and threw it on the floor, the battery came off, then took my tablet and threw it on the floor, and then also my other computer. Nothing was severely damaged, and I took the pair of sunglasses she had bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, in order to make her retreat. My intention wasn't to destroy them, but when I realized I had unsaved writings in my computer and gone forever were the equivalent of this entry tenfold (as part of my plan, writing always uplifts my spirit and centers me, so I had written quite a lot in the past few days, so much so that I didn't even bothered saving it). She knew so, I told her so, before she decided to throw the computer on the floor and the battery came off. Her sunglasses was a small price consolation, you can always buy a new pair, but when I lose (and it has happened before, because of carelessness, too, on my behalf) writing material, it's devastating, to say the least. Her crushed sunglasses were also a very definitive sign that I did not want anything to do with her anymore. She should have known that was the case when I packed her stuff and told her to leave, even though I brought her flowers later and told her to stay. Oh, the humanity. She left.
It was beautiful. I drank and we cried listening to music, helped her with her stuff and decided not to call her in a while. She told me during the heat of the fight not to bother call her, and then she decided that I should give her sometime. Then text me later in the afternoon the next day, "Wanna go for sushi." She picked up the tab, her generosity has no boundaries. Relationships make you fat: two dates with her in a single week -after sushi came the superb steak salad at Five Burros -and I gained three pounds already.
My financial footing was afloat, had sent countless checks to the landlord fighting back an eviction notice that dates back to April, 2014. Got myself two girl roommates to share the large room I have, put in plenty of overtime, paid off some outstanding debts and made strides towards rent money. I felt the momentum tipping the balance in my favor, so it was time to get back out. I am grieving still, drink a little more than usual, but also manage to exercise and, physically, I'm a lot stronger than ever before. As soon as the break-up happened, and Connie got word of it, she flew here twice in two months which is more than she has in the past year. Days before that, luckily, Esteban was on vacation and I took him with me every chance I got. I slept like a baby those nights, and insomnia has receded. From time to time, I feel the edge this sword called absence, guilt sets in, angry feelings stem, it's a process that may sound more dramatic in this piece of writing than it actually is. There's a melancholic element to composition, it appeases deniability, gets me in touch with the inner wuss I keep locked in a dark basement, sometimes I go downstairs and in the dark I can hear him cry. "Had enough, loser?" I tell myself, and he gives me back a serene look, without putting up much of a fight, and say: "Bring her back to me, hasn't your ego already caused enough damage?" he says. "We tried it your way, now it's my way or the highway, see you in forty days, weirdo" I say, then climb up the steps and lock the door, without the slightest hint of regret. That'll show him.
Yeah, in spiritual circles we speak of the devil in disguise this Ego character can be. But if it were up to the Wuss, we'd be in the same place and still more alienated. You show me how ridiculously Pride has gotten a hold of every one of your moves, and I show you how much of a prick I can be. You post a picture on Facebook of a night out with an older girlfriend who wants to enable you and have a different say in your decisions kind of the like the ones she didn't have for herself, and I delete two out of the four friends we have in common, then I raise you by putting down the engagement status. You delete me from Facebook, and I block you, put "Single," as you put "Ask if you want to know my relationship status." Oh, they know. There's no such a thing, and you look foolish which is what you were trying so desperately to avoid by meeting me half way. I put an end to that, too. I won't unblock you either, and I won't kiss your ass like all of your exes. Once I'm through with you, you will really feel that this is an indifference of a whole new level. I won't call, won't text, won't even mention your name.
I decided it was time to fuck around, but since finances haven't been good enough to spend money on nights out. Well, it's not just my finances; the work there is an ongoing process, so I use it as an excuse and leave barely enough money to get me by throughout the week. Going out isn't on my plans anytime soon.
I don't date, haven't done so in ages, unless it's my girl whom I'm entertaining, I don't see the reason to; after all, whenever I venture into the night, there are a lot of girls already out there. Why invest on a nest when there are so many birds flying in the sky above? I told her, text her really, that as a man, I don't need to have cozy feelings for a girl in order to fuck her. I lied. There's that erectile dysfunction I talked about when it comes to having sex without any emotional connection in the very beginning of this dissertation. I have been postponing going out, because I know the minute I do, I will find someone extraordinary and I am just not ready yet. Pleasure right now is in taking care of business, getting my license back, build some foundation and then, maybe then, go all out.
This was my predicament, but in order to appease this inner beast, I decide to go to the bar one block away from where I live. I had bought a gallon of cheap vodka, Giorgi brand, for $15 and had put aside $20 for the magnanimous occasion. At the local bar, the Hanger, watery draft Coors Light costs $4 and after the third round, the bartender gives you a buy-back, plus $6 tip. Yeah, I'm on a budget, so my plan is to get a few drinks home and then have a few cheap draft pints at the bar provided that the female-to-male ratio did not look as somber as usual: ten guys for every girl, counting the bartender.
Done right, the ratio should only include how many semi-hot girls are there, not just any girl, and girls by themselves, or with gay friends (easy to spot them: one time, I overheard the gay guy whisper something in this trashy girl's ear and I distinctively heard her answer aloud "Oh, no honey, he's not." I had seen her outside smoking earlier, when I went out for a smoke, and she asked me for a light. I have a strict policy lending my lighter to a stranger, especially more so if it's a girl, I tell her, and then embrace her and light her cigarette with the one I'm holding in my mouth). As beat-up as this place still is, the new owner has made, who also owns Tu Casa, has made some improvements, introduced flat screen TV sets, made it less depressing; the regular crowd that gathered there when it was called The Kew Club has left ever since, looking for a gloomier spot, I guess. And even so, I've seen countless beauties there before, regardless of how many guys, I have an untarnished reputation of seeing a full half glass where others see the need for a another shot and call it quits. I have succeeded where others saw many obstacles. I've been surrounded by the only girls left there, as the shock and awe in all the men there. This creates jealousy.
I never give off the vibe of being so and girls naturally gravitate towards my enigmatic pull. Topple that with the fact that I am an interesting, intelligent humanoid, who despite having a well-versed arsenal of conversation topics at his disposal, rarely makes use of the windbag. Instead, I put little, if any effort, I never catcalled a girl in my life. Initially, because I was pathologically shy, and then because when I decided to build the courage to do so and find out what it was that kept them away from me (at least the ones I found most appealing), I found it wasn't necessary, in fact it was quite foolish.
I've seen the blonde again, and avoided walking up to her and saying some chummy shit like: "Hey, remember me?" That's just outlandishly stupid. Instead, I know she gets that and more from guys who once may have sparked her interest. She may or may not have followed suite, but in the end she couldn't help but feel betrayed. A guy once asked me, "How do you get to be so lucky with women?" Normally, I'd play aloof, avoid bragging about it and I find no pleasure in humoring a lesser man. It's because, I'm superstitious, and because those who brag don't really have it. Tell me what you brag about and I tell you what you lack, that sort of thing. Instead I keep away from company, especially men who ask such stupid blunders. But I felt like answering his question: "It's because I don't rely on luck."
There's no denying I've yet to master certain aspects of it. True players are always fine-tuning their game. The blond with which I danced and dismissed the other night because at the time I felt that I didn't want anything to do with another blonde in a while is nearby. I'm beginning to change my mind. She comes up to me this time around: "Are you hiding from me?" Clever girl.
Women will always be intriguing and far more interesting than men in this respect. Like I said earlier, to them it was a matter of survival, if she can't have the one she wants, she wants him ten times more. Of course, you can always make the case that women can be just as logical and adopt the same predatory skills that men have been handed down generation after generation. I've seen them, the ones who would walk up to me and initiate. But I'm a hunter, and I'm not into being handed my food. I am also not into wasting time. So, my thing is, those who show defiance to the established rules of this game, particularly the one that says it is up to the man to choose, I stay away from. They're bad news, I look for supremely feminine girls who dream of one day finding the right guy, I am a prince with a mercenary heart, I learnt the game the way they wanted to see play out because of love, not ego. I'm not out to prove anything and I sincerely think women are far better players than the best of us so-called players, but they are kind, too. And let you slide if you miss, and you're bound to miss, just like any skilled player in a any given sport. Michael Jordan missed more shots in his career than he ever put in the basket; in baseball, it's the pitcher who usually beats the hitter time and again. Therefore it's women who choose us, we just don't have the intuitive eye they have to see it.
All of these things pervade my mind, but I don't take a second to smile and implicitly answer: "Yes." She's not the predator, I was just bidding my time and she felt like calling my bluff. "Well, don't" she says. "Here, take this empty glass to the counter, since you're going in." Okay, now she's pushing her luck.
"You take your damn glass and put it back yourself. I'm not your errand boy!"
"Fine!" she says and walks into the bar. I stay outside, now I gotta stay out here for a bit longer, can't succumb to the temptation of running up to her, grabbing her by the hair and bringing her home with me. Not just yet.
It is my decision before hand that once I drink three beers and I get my buy-back, I will leave a four dollar tip and leave. No harm done, just a bit of fun in an otherwise dull night out at the local joint. Outside, as I defy the blond, I see a a girl, she looks a bit worn-out, well in her thirties (I find later, she's in her mid forties), fragile. She approaches me and asks if I have a cigarette. "Sorry, I only got one left" I tell her. It was the truth. "But maybe when I come outside again, we can share it." She walks into the bar a few seconds behind me, sits across me. From where I stand, I can see the blonde come alive with her friends, she's in the prime of her life. I can also see on the other side the small frame brunette that had asked me for a cigarette, still beautiful despite her years, lonely, with a look of despair, sipping a glass of water. We make eye-contact, she smiles and I smile right back. She comes and sits next to me. Suddenly, the blonde is not so pleased, I have caught her attention by having a girl sit next to me. I ask the brunette, "What's your story?" It turns out, she's just had a fight with her abusive husband and long story short we end up back at my place where I left her sleeping, because she had no place to go. That's the story I tell the blonde when I walk back into the bar forty minutes later, but I skip the part where we had sex. No penetration, just oral, and very carefully because her upper lip was still swollen from the beating her husband had put on her.
I never thought it'd take me only a drink and one thing I won't stand for is physical abuse. I know you need the right victim, she's not without blame, but since she was out on a vengeance, I felt we could kill two birds with one stone. It all took less than an hour, and since I didn't have a condom, I told her I could only get an erection in my old days, after drinking and smoking, if she went down on me. I explain this when she's already at it. I tell her how I want it done: "Slower. Look at me." Etc.
Most men are goal-driven, so happy that they're are having sex, that they may even forget their partner and rush towards the finish line in an empty field, no defenders in sight to fend off, tackling them away from glory. Us men, we're competitive by nature, that's why we love sports, fast cars, action-packed movies, and can swiftly move from point A to point Z uttering a sound only dogs can hear. And just like dogs, we're happy to oblige, wag our tail and put it in between our legs if the right bitch comes along. Women are more like cats, painfully narcissistic creatures, amused by a lingering thread but losing interest if it doesn't dangle before their eyes. On the surface, it's as if we were destined for failure, and more often than not such is the case; but in reality, opposites attract and we observe polarities, night and day, hot and cold... the colder you get, the hotter she gets.
As a man, if you fail to grasp the concept of polarity, you fail to claim the god-given gift of your masculine essence in turn; in layman's terms, your woman already has a pussy, she doesn't need another one. But many of us come from broken homes, raised by single mothers or had a spineless man for a father; others absorbed the empowering feminist movement through movies, books, it was a cultural phenomenon that took flight since the 60's and, luckily, has no signs of slowing down. Women nowadays have no need for a man to take care of her, she got. Thanks, in part, to its success, which brought about plenty of good: a woman now had the right to vote, could decide how many children she'd bear, enter the workforce and not have to depend solely on a man to provide for her. But it also meant broken homes, children born out of wedlock, an increase in divorce and less need of marriage. Societies, more or less, favored the institution of marriage, it meant a couple, population control; men in power always laid down laws that limited the amount of women a regular man could have in a lifetime, unless that man be of power and had at his disposition vast resources. But now, since the sexual revolution that began with Alfred Kinsey, and peaked in the 60's, things had changed for good.
We now, in turn, created the wuss epidemic we're faced with today: a man more in touch with his "feminine side", and women wearing the pants in a relationship, a travesty! Fathers who could freely just pick up and leave their women with their young, for the minimum penalty of child support. "No judge can force a father to see his son; that's a moral obligation" said a black woman judge to the mother of my older child in a child support hearing. Still I see my sons every chance I get, giving to them plenty of my resources and time; I am not here to condone the bad aspects of masculinity but to throw light on some of its best assets.
Good literature dazzles. So does a great lover. It's what differentiates a writer like García Márquez to a typist like Stephen King. Good lovers take their partner's satisfaction into account; great lovers make it their business to please their partner first. And so, my erections are forged like mountains that were once buried under deep blue oceans... I climb every inch of her wet forest, claiming each soiled layer of terrain as a conquered faraway land... I can smell the ancient scent of her thighs and trace it back to the proverbial waves of desire... the wind rushing in, crystallized in each breath of air, the indivisible landscapes echoed in her trembling voice... only then I make home a dampened wilderness inside and build my foundation atop the exuberant hills below.
I had postponed venturing out into the night. In order to appease the gods of mayhem that lurk within a man's darkest desires, I decided to go out for a beer at the local joint. Not a bad place, and as soon as I cross the intersection between Lefters and Metropolitan, I spot a couple of idyllic femmes outside, smoking cigarettes, chitchatting with abandonment. The night is young and there must be little competition inside when the best group of girls steps outside and stay linger. I size them up faster than they can spot me; one glance will do to see the fertility and ripeness in a bunch. That's how they do when it comes to us: one look is all it takes and you're either in or out of their minds. And if you're in, then a second look to see if something was amiss. Initially, they avoid giving off the idea that they're looking, as they have the mating game down tight and it's the man who has to make an approach. Otherwise, he's not man enough for her. However, if a subject sparks their curiosity and shows no sign of interest, they may decide to entice him a bit more, see if he's just acting aloof. To women, the mating ritual throughout most of the history of the species meant survival and if a male does not return her the favor of showing interest, that is literally a death sentence to her subconscious mind. For what is this man whom I fancy not to love about every inch of me, she'd reason. One is petite, curves in places, a bit shy; the other is a medium size brunette with a body sculpted like a rock, fashionable and in charge; the third one, a spectacular blonde, the kind that could turn a pride of lions into a pack of meowing pussycats on all fours at her command.
Little do they know that this here is a different kind of breed, a bio-engineered cave lion who is not in the least bit intimidated by a Pink Panther (a strikingly beautiful blonde who exhibits man-like attributes due to men constantly kissing her ass, remains silent and animated, often insecure, self-entitled and quite pretentious, sort of like the one I recently dated). As I slowly go in for the kill, fully camouflaged like lions do, I come to a full stop and turn my back on them against the small iron fence that separates us, smoking my cigarette, arms stretched out, unmoved. It is as if the world had come to a standstill, you can hear the stunned deafening hush among their ranks, mute bricks of tension build up a wall of silence. You don't break the tension right off, let it boil like a pot and only gradually let it blow some steam; you don't break the ice, you melt it.
They rile in disbelief, the blonde walks back and forth as in a catwalk behind the gate I'm leaning up against, so I turn around to take a closer, unabashed look. I throw a bone her way, see if it's picked up: "You're not really a model, are you?" And not in a threatening tone, sort of a sarcastic, humorous undertone that says, "You look good, but I'm not gonna kiss your ass." All at once, I praised her, teased her, dissed her, my tonality left no room for aloofness on her part and now she has that look on her face that just wants to jump my bones, rip my clothes and make me pay for the audacity.
"I'll have you know, I have modeled before!" she fires back.
Oh, a fighter. It's boring when girls don't fight back, love it when they get down and dirty in a classy way like this girl just did. She restored her image, but I'm about to unleash mayhem upon her: "Yeah, I can see modeling has done wonders for your appetite." The petite girl laughed, the brunette stood her ground but was visibly shaken by the comment; the blonde was now ready to escalate her rhetoric, anxious to restore her place among the tribe. But before she could retaliate, I reassure her: "Who wants to be a model anymore? I'll put dancers over models any day, gotta have something to grab on to, really." My eyes fixed on her figure as I delivered the words "grab on", then graphically gesturing with my hands, as if lost in thought ever so present, a comically arrogant stance of mine. And it was the closest to an actual apology, since guilt was filling up my guts, that I had perhaps been a bit harsh to her, given that she reminded me somewhat of my former lover (the Pink Panther). That may have instilled in me a touch of ruthlessness, which I countered:
"Do you..?" Unlike the mime I had for a lover, she wasn't a puny feline, I could tell she was a formidable opponent and didn't want to risk antagonizing the group by slaying the dragon. Not just yet, anyway... intrigued as she was. "Do I what?" she shot back, confidently, putting aside her battered ego, almost as if she had suddenly become complacent and willing to play along. There's a dance of the egos to be observed, a synergy that is not about the words being said, more how and in what tone are they said; nothing to do with chance but a cold-cut, calculated, preconceived routine, one that ups any antics she may exhibit. If you punish rude behavior, and act not just as if but as you really have the control, if you see them objectively, you pay attention to behavior. How they may subtly inflict pain with indifference, unload their crap, show the slight hint of rebelliousness, test your resolve. People tell you exactly how they want to be treated by way of their behavior.
Beautiful women aren't challenged often, men let them get away with everything; then they develop this bitchy layer of skin; if you scratch it, she'll make you sorry for it. Best to go all in about, skin deep, rally the troops, conquer her. Ultimately, she'll only resist you if you hold back somehow; show no timidity, and your boldness will be rewarded. She may forgive a mistake or two, if they come from the heart; the body falls by its own weight. The mind is on auto-pilot. Like biking, you don't sit back and analyze anything; you don't divulge much, she's not your psychiatrist, and she isn't your mommy either. Don't go from a smile to "Can I take you out sometime?" That's cutting corners, what's worse, you're still locked up inside your head, thinking of the outcome. You need to be present, eyes locked, listen, speak up. It's not a game; it's a world you enter, inhabit and all of your own: impeccability, aplomb, kindness and pride.
Back to the girl, now: it is as if she intuited that I wasn't out to get her this time around; women can be oh so lethally perceptive.
I had lifted the iron curtain that had for a moment befallen us, pull/push, hate/love: polarities were in observance. Former enemies can make the most formidable allies. Tread cautiously, though, since the opposite is true, too: a friend can become a nightmarish rival.
For weeks, I had struggled with my finances. Lacking resources is always a reflection of the inner chaos an individual may be undergoing. It happened all at once. With the exception of work, where I kept a good footing, I was losing ground, love and the confidence it brings were shattered, something needed to change. Finally, I decided there was no way around it, cut emotional ties with the past once and for all, and the chains that hold you back will be broken. I thought, if something is dead, there's no need to let it rot; just bury it. I began by making a list of things to do in order to keep things in place, I fought back my eviction notice, called my 401K and found a clause that, in the event of an eviction, I could borrow the amount owed so long as I provided evidence of such case. In the end, I moved so many pieces that it wasn't necessary; I worked more, got two roommates, send check after check after check and by the time I decided to meet with her to give her back some of the money I owed her, not a disproportionate amount, she wasn't settling for any less than the entire sum. The end was near. She had moved out two weeks prior to that and I hadn't seen much of her ever since, though she showed up every time we made plans. Nothing will ever be the same, nothing was, nothing is. If my focus was on keeping things patched up, better do so if I feel she's in on the ticket; not a good dynamic when the man is the one invested, so I had to let her go.
I wanted to do so cleanly, but things got ugly quickly, as she abruptly stormed into my place demanding redemption, monetary retribution, tongue like a razor, she laid her traps and I fell for it. You can't please a lion with bird seed, she was spiteful, resolved, and I held her against me, little if any resistance, I kissed her forcibly, asked her to stop this madness. She took my computer and threw it on the floor, the battery came off, then took my tablet and threw it on the floor, and then also my other computer. Nothing was severely damaged, and I took the pair of sunglasses she had bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, in order to make her retreat. My intention wasn't to destroy them, but when I realized I had unsaved writings in my computer and gone forever were the equivalent of this entry tenfold (as part of my plan, writing always uplifts my spirit and centers me, so I had written quite a lot in the past few days, so much so that I didn't even bothered saving it). She knew so, I told her so, before she decided to throw the computer on the floor and the battery came off. Her sunglasses was a small price consolation, you can always buy a new pair, but when I lose (and it has happened before, because of carelessness, too, on my behalf) writing material, it's devastating, to say the least. Her crushed sunglasses were also a very definitive sign that I did not want anything to do with her anymore. She should have known that was the case when I packed her stuff and told her to leave, even though I brought her flowers later and told her to stay. Oh, the humanity. She left.
It was beautiful. I drank and we cried listening to music, helped her with her stuff and decided not to call her in a while. She told me during the heat of the fight not to bother call her, and then she decided that I should give her sometime. Then text me later in the afternoon the next day, "Wanna go for sushi." She picked up the tab, her generosity has no boundaries. Relationships make you fat: two dates with her in a single week -after sushi came the superb steak salad at Five Burros -and I gained three pounds already.
My financial footing was afloat, had sent countless checks to the landlord fighting back an eviction notice that dates back to April, 2014. Got myself two girl roommates to share the large room I have, put in plenty of overtime, paid off some outstanding debts and made strides towards rent money. I felt the momentum tipping the balance in my favor, so it was time to get back out. I am grieving still, drink a little more than usual, but also manage to exercise and, physically, I'm a lot stronger than ever before. As soon as the break-up happened, and Connie got word of it, she flew here twice in two months which is more than she has in the past year. Days before that, luckily, Esteban was on vacation and I took him with me every chance I got. I slept like a baby those nights, and insomnia has receded. From time to time, I feel the edge this sword called absence, guilt sets in, angry feelings stem, it's a process that may sound more dramatic in this piece of writing than it actually is. There's a melancholic element to composition, it appeases deniability, gets me in touch with the inner wuss I keep locked in a dark basement, sometimes I go downstairs and in the dark I can hear him cry. "Had enough, loser?" I tell myself, and he gives me back a serene look, without putting up much of a fight, and say: "Bring her back to me, hasn't your ego already caused enough damage?" he says. "We tried it your way, now it's my way or the highway, see you in forty days, weirdo" I say, then climb up the steps and lock the door, without the slightest hint of regret. That'll show him.
Yeah, in spiritual circles we speak of the devil in disguise this Ego character can be. But if it were up to the Wuss, we'd be in the same place and still more alienated. You show me how ridiculously Pride has gotten a hold of every one of your moves, and I show you how much of a prick I can be. You post a picture on Facebook of a night out with an older girlfriend who wants to enable you and have a different say in your decisions kind of the like the ones she didn't have for herself, and I delete two out of the four friends we have in common, then I raise you by putting down the engagement status. You delete me from Facebook, and I block you, put "Single," as you put "Ask if you want to know my relationship status." Oh, they know. There's no such a thing, and you look foolish which is what you were trying so desperately to avoid by meeting me half way. I put an end to that, too. I won't unblock you either, and I won't kiss your ass like all of your exes. Once I'm through with you, you will really feel that this is an indifference of a whole new level. I won't call, won't text, won't even mention your name.
I decided it was time to fuck around, but since finances haven't been good enough to spend money on nights out. Well, it's not just my finances; the work there is an ongoing process, so I use it as an excuse and leave barely enough money to get me by throughout the week. Going out isn't on my plans anytime soon.
I don't date, haven't done so in ages, unless it's my girl whom I'm entertaining, I don't see the reason to; after all, whenever I venture into the night, there are a lot of girls already out there. Why invest on a nest when there are so many birds flying in the sky above? I told her, text her really, that as a man, I don't need to have cozy feelings for a girl in order to fuck her. I lied. There's that erectile dysfunction I talked about when it comes to having sex without any emotional connection in the very beginning of this dissertation. I have been postponing going out, because I know the minute I do, I will find someone extraordinary and I am just not ready yet. Pleasure right now is in taking care of business, getting my license back, build some foundation and then, maybe then, go all out.
This was my predicament, but in order to appease this inner beast, I decide to go to the bar one block away from where I live. I had bought a gallon of cheap vodka, Giorgi brand, for $15 and had put aside $20 for the magnanimous occasion. At the local bar, the Hanger, watery draft Coors Light costs $4 and after the third round, the bartender gives you a buy-back, plus $6 tip. Yeah, I'm on a budget, so my plan is to get a few drinks home and then have a few cheap draft pints at the bar provided that the female-to-male ratio did not look as somber as usual: ten guys for every girl, counting the bartender.
Done right, the ratio should only include how many semi-hot girls are there, not just any girl, and girls by themselves, or with gay friends (easy to spot them: one time, I overheard the gay guy whisper something in this trashy girl's ear and I distinctively heard her answer aloud "Oh, no honey, he's not." I had seen her outside smoking earlier, when I went out for a smoke, and she asked me for a light. I have a strict policy lending my lighter to a stranger, especially more so if it's a girl, I tell her, and then embrace her and light her cigarette with the one I'm holding in my mouth). As beat-up as this place still is, the new owner has made, who also owns Tu Casa, has made some improvements, introduced flat screen TV sets, made it less depressing; the regular crowd that gathered there when it was called The Kew Club has left ever since, looking for a gloomier spot, I guess. And even so, I've seen countless beauties there before, regardless of how many guys, I have an untarnished reputation of seeing a full half glass where others see the need for a another shot and call it quits. I have succeeded where others saw many obstacles. I've been surrounded by the only girls left there, as the shock and awe in all the men there. This creates jealousy.
I never give off the vibe of being so and girls naturally gravitate towards my enigmatic pull. Topple that with the fact that I am an interesting, intelligent humanoid, who despite having a well-versed arsenal of conversation topics at his disposal, rarely makes use of the windbag. Instead, I put little, if any effort, I never catcalled a girl in my life. Initially, because I was pathologically shy, and then because when I decided to build the courage to do so and find out what it was that kept them away from me (at least the ones I found most appealing), I found it wasn't necessary, in fact it was quite foolish.
I've seen the blonde again, and avoided walking up to her and saying some chummy shit like: "Hey, remember me?" That's just outlandishly stupid. Instead, I know she gets that and more from guys who once may have sparked her interest. She may or may not have followed suite, but in the end she couldn't help but feel betrayed. A guy once asked me, "How do you get to be so lucky with women?" Normally, I'd play aloof, avoid bragging about it and I find no pleasure in humoring a lesser man. It's because, I'm superstitious, and because those who brag don't really have it. Tell me what you brag about and I tell you what you lack, that sort of thing. Instead I keep away from company, especially men who ask such stupid blunders. But I felt like answering his question: "It's because I don't rely on luck."
There's no denying I've yet to master certain aspects of it. True players are always fine-tuning their game. The blond with which I danced and dismissed the other night because at the time I felt that I didn't want anything to do with another blonde in a while is nearby. I'm beginning to change my mind. She comes up to me this time around: "Are you hiding from me?" Clever girl.
Women will always be intriguing and far more interesting than men in this respect. Like I said earlier, to them it was a matter of survival, if she can't have the one she wants, she wants him ten times more. Of course, you can always make the case that women can be just as logical and adopt the same predatory skills that men have been handed down generation after generation. I've seen them, the ones who would walk up to me and initiate. But I'm a hunter, and I'm not into being handed my food. I am also not into wasting time. So, my thing is, those who show defiance to the established rules of this game, particularly the one that says it is up to the man to choose, I stay away from. They're bad news, I look for supremely feminine girls who dream of one day finding the right guy, I am a prince with a mercenary heart, I learnt the game the way they wanted to see play out because of love, not ego. I'm not out to prove anything and I sincerely think women are far better players than the best of us so-called players, but they are kind, too. And let you slide if you miss, and you're bound to miss, just like any skilled player in a any given sport. Michael Jordan missed more shots in his career than he ever put in the basket; in baseball, it's the pitcher who usually beats the hitter time and again. Therefore it's women who choose us, we just don't have the intuitive eye they have to see it.
All of these things pervade my mind, but I don't take a second to smile and implicitly answer: "Yes." She's not the predator, I was just bidding my time and she felt like calling my bluff. "Well, don't" she says. "Here, take this empty glass to the counter, since you're going in." Okay, now she's pushing her luck.
"You take your damn glass and put it back yourself. I'm not your errand boy!"
"Fine!" she says and walks into the bar. I stay outside, now I gotta stay out here for a bit longer, can't succumb to the temptation of running up to her, grabbing her by the hair and bringing her home with me. Not just yet.
It is my decision before hand that once I drink three beers and I get my buy-back, I will leave a four dollar tip and leave. No harm done, just a bit of fun in an otherwise dull night out at the local joint. Outside, as I defy the blond, I see a a girl, she looks a bit worn-out, well in her thirties (I find later, she's in her mid forties), fragile. She approaches me and asks if I have a cigarette. "Sorry, I only got one left" I tell her. It was the truth. "But maybe when I come outside again, we can share it." She walks into the bar a few seconds behind me, sits across me. From where I stand, I can see the blonde come alive with her friends, she's in the prime of her life. I can also see on the other side the small frame brunette that had asked me for a cigarette, still beautiful despite her years, lonely, with a look of despair, sipping a glass of water. We make eye-contact, she smiles and I smile right back. She comes and sits next to me. Suddenly, the blonde is not so pleased, I have caught her attention by having a girl sit next to me. I ask the brunette, "What's your story?" It turns out, she's just had a fight with her abusive husband and long story short we end up back at my place where I left her sleeping, because she had no place to go. That's the story I tell the blonde when I walk back into the bar forty minutes later, but I skip the part where we had sex. No penetration, just oral, and very carefully because her upper lip was still swollen from the beating her husband had put on her.
I never thought it'd take me only a drink and one thing I won't stand for is physical abuse. I know you need the right victim, she's not without blame, but since she was out on a vengeance, I felt we could kill two birds with one stone. It all took less than an hour, and since I didn't have a condom, I told her I could only get an erection in my old days, after drinking and smoking, if she went down on me. I explain this when she's already at it. I tell her how I want it done: "Slower. Look at me." Etc.