I walked in one night to find the apartment empty, no sign of my baby or his mother. I took it she had left me. And that was that. I didn't call her in days, until I found some financial statements all out of order, there was a large amount of money taken out of my bank account. Beware of a scorned lover's wrath.
For weeks, I sank into a deep stupor, barely functioning, lost the upcoming FSD examination for the building I had studied so hard for, didn't even protest the results. I did subscribe once again to school and finished the course, but never took the time to go to Metro-Tech and take the second step. Suddenly, I woke up and decided to get a roommate, to split the bills in half, now that my baby's mom was out the door. I waited around a prudent three months, see if she decided to come back. Not that I'd want to stir the pot again, so late in the day now, but the story I'm about to tell started there.
We'd both go through these weird phases, these melodramatic episodes, as I often accused her while I engaged in my very own moody tantrums as well.
Being a flight attendant, the fact that she just took off in a plane with only a few hours of anticipation wasn't as bad as it sounds, that "one day she just picked up and left." She was used to doing just that, given her line of work, and it wasn't like she had gone through the trouble of buying a plane ticket or anything of that nature. It wasn't as sinister a prospect to simply one day pack and leave. What I did find appalling was the way she chose to do so: without the slightest regard for her lover. I knew there and then our relationship had been irreparably damaged. It was to be expected as we both are damaged good kids. We had a good run, sprinting as far as making a baby, renting an apartment and planning a life together.
My mind relived the abandonment of my youth, unstable years of my early formation, upbringing among relative strangers, the daunting task of migrating two days before the age of fifteen. It all looked worse than it was; often our state of mind is betrayed by our best efforts and you fall prey to insecurity which has been the bedrock of my personal Odyssey. Nothing makes misery more personal than being slighted by our loved one. And to add insult to injury, she didn't even say a word. Women are first to report abuse of physical nature but they can be rather sadistic in their emotional blows.
We'd both go through these weird phases, these melodramatic episodes, as I often accused her while I engaged in my very own moody tantrums as well.
Being a flight attendant, the fact that she just took off in a plane with only a few hours of anticipation wasn't as bad as it sounds, that "one day she just picked up and left." She was used to doing just that, given her line of work, and it wasn't like she had gone through the trouble of buying a plane ticket or anything of that nature. It wasn't as sinister a prospect to simply one day pack and leave. What I did find appalling was the way she chose to do so: without the slightest regard for her lover. I knew there and then our relationship had been irreparably damaged. It was to be expected as we both are damaged good kids. We had a good run, sprinting as far as making a baby, renting an apartment and planning a life together.
My mind relived the abandonment of my youth, unstable years of my early formation, upbringing among relative strangers, the daunting task of migrating two days before the age of fifteen. It all looked worse than it was; often our state of mind is betrayed by our best efforts and you fall prey to insecurity which has been the bedrock of my personal Odyssey. Nothing makes misery more personal than being slighted by our loved one. And to add insult to injury, she didn't even say a word. Women are first to report abuse of physical nature but they can be rather sadistic in their emotional blows.
Take for instance my mother. She claims our bond has been severed by my attitude towards her. That I'm an evil son of a bitch. She forgets she is the very son's mother she speaks of. She forgot how out of sheer laziness she refused to meet with my father's brother, the principal in a private school I attended briefly before I was taken out. All because my mother would refuse to sign off the consent, as my rightful parental guardian, for the scholarship my uncle wanted to give me. I had already done my part by passing the admission exam. I begged for weeks.
"If your uncle thinks he's going to humiliate me with his pity, he's dead wrong. If he's the principal, he should use his authority to get it done. Why does he need me for?
Mother forgets how she would hit me with anything she could get her hands on, for anything she may have found offensive. All it took was one of my sisters to say that I had hit them, for her that was enough. Having been abused by her brothers, she feared me incarnating that threat and turn the victimizer, I would reason.
But when she found I had forged her signature, she lost it completely and unleashed all her bitterness on me. That was the day I said enough is enough. I grabbed the broom stick she would hit me with and broke it in half. I looked dead into her eyes and told her she was an evil woman.
Connie met my mom. Of course, they got alone fine and they soon had plans to move in together. See, for my mom is not enough to doom my childhood. She wanted to do away with my life in adulthood. She fed Connie elaborated lies and Connie never needed too much to give in to the deception. It was a match made in hell. But I soon saw the patterns and Connie would find any excuse to fight, be a creator in the indefinite misery of her own melodrama and suck you in. Every time I deal with her, no matter the aplomb or soberness I deployed, she'd fit right in the shoe of the victim. It is fittingly tailored to her size.
So I needed to make sure she wasn't just bluffing. So I could find the excuse to move the fuck on with my life and deal only with the baby.
I wanted to make sure it wasn't just a sham, that she definitely was gone for good, so I waited, asked her, sometimes even insisted that once I moved on, I will stay the fuck out of her life, the important thing was doing so in a cordial and amicable way now that we had a baby.
I pledged to never again put her thru the motions. I called, made plans to bring the baby to New York, and eventually saw them again, not long after they had left. In time, it all acquired a degree of normalcy that resembled the reality of things, both of us growing apart and moving on with our lives. We couldn't do so in the same good old fashion that ex lovers do. As dully stated, we had a change.
That change of hearts, to come back again, did not come for her and I was glad that was the way because by then I had already met someone else. Of course, this is all ancient history now, but it serves as a good parting point to start with the story of how I went about to love again and then again.
I was still in love with her, but the minute that happened I knew things would no longer be the same. First, I needed to survive, and eventually, I'll thrive. I always do. Maybe that proud thought made things not work; I couldn't put all the blame on her. Postpartum, depressed and on good-feeling pills, she stopped nursing our baby in less than two weeks so that she could go back to what she missed the most for the past nine months: drinking. It wasn't all that bad, but to me, having had an autistic first child, made me more cautious this second time around. I didn't want to put this child through the same unnecessary turmoil the first one had endured. My guilt always had been that I didn't stay with my first boy and instead I had become, to some degree, my father.
First it wasn't me who left and secondly, I fought to get him back in my life, someway. Not in the most ideal way, but in matters of the heart, sometimes you have to settle for less than what your illusion aims. We were ill-prepared and unfit for the demands a life in common with child can exert.
Besides, I grew up in a Spanish culture where men have little, if any, tolerance for party girls who can't settle down and go stray for more than a few months at a time. That night I met her, first thing out of her tipsy mouth was: "Oh my God! I have a boyfriend." We were by then kissing, and it wasn't as flattering to hear as she might think. Now, it wasn't all her fault.
Connie was a regular at that bar and I have never been intimidated by a feminist, let alone one who only had friends when drinking, who talked more than she drank, if that's a possibility. It vexed me somehow to get back home from, my three-weeks old infant asleep in the bedroom, and it made me glad to see her happy again, even if it were as it usually is, having drank herself silly in the living room with her rambunctious, colors-flying-out-of his ass flaming gay.
"He's not obnoxious!" and that would be her, protesting, the one reading over my shoulder now.
I would have to explain to her and her own audience (her most current girlfriend, one she's yet to alienate, or a legion of drama queens on her Facebook page, ranging from family members to distant cousins and close friends) that, at no point in time, I never said "obnoxious", distinctively, I observe, as it reads: Rambunctious.
Just as the monster does not see its own monstrosity, similarly as there are hardened criminals in jail claiming their innocence (some rightfully so), it is often difficult for the insane to attest to their own madness, to see themselves as agents of chaos. We may fail to see with the same powers of observation our very own frail state, our sorrowful and decadent ways, our very unique insignificance. When confronted by others for our actions, we may retaliate way of denial, and as it is famously quoted in American Beauty, when it comes to denial, you can't underestimate its power.
Succinctly speaking, denial is that which we do not want to face about ourselves, so we decide to not acknowledge it. It never goes away, unless you confront such corrosive force and pit your efforts against it. And then at that, it may require more than willpower and clarity of mind, it may take therapeutic years of your life to come up to such realization. And once found, it can easily be all but forgotten.
I pledged to never again put her thru the motions. I called, made plans to bring the baby to New York, and eventually saw them again, not long after they had left. In time, it all acquired a degree of normalcy that resembled the reality of things, both of us growing apart and moving on with our lives. We couldn't do so in the same good old fashion that ex lovers do. As dully stated, we had a change.
That change of hearts, to come back again, did not come for her and I was glad that was the way because by then I had already met someone else. Of course, this is all ancient history now, but it serves as a good parting point to start with the story of how I went about to love again and then again.
I was still in love with her, but the minute that happened I knew things would no longer be the same. First, I needed to survive, and eventually, I'll thrive. I always do. Maybe that proud thought made things not work; I couldn't put all the blame on her. Postpartum, depressed and on good-feeling pills, she stopped nursing our baby in less than two weeks so that she could go back to what she missed the most for the past nine months: drinking. It wasn't all that bad, but to me, having had an autistic first child, made me more cautious this second time around. I didn't want to put this child through the same unnecessary turmoil the first one had endured. My guilt always had been that I didn't stay with my first boy and instead I had become, to some degree, my father.
First it wasn't me who left and secondly, I fought to get him back in my life, someway. Not in the most ideal way, but in matters of the heart, sometimes you have to settle for less than what your illusion aims. We were ill-prepared and unfit for the demands a life in common with child can exert.
Besides, I grew up in a Spanish culture where men have little, if any, tolerance for party girls who can't settle down and go stray for more than a few months at a time. That night I met her, first thing out of her tipsy mouth was: "Oh my God! I have a boyfriend." We were by then kissing, and it wasn't as flattering to hear as she might think. Now, it wasn't all her fault.
Connie was a regular at that bar and I have never been intimidated by a feminist, let alone one who only had friends when drinking, who talked more than she drank, if that's a possibility. It vexed me somehow to get back home from, my three-weeks old infant asleep in the bedroom, and it made me glad to see her happy again, even if it were as it usually is, having drank herself silly in the living room with her rambunctious, colors-flying-out-of his ass flaming gay.
"He's not obnoxious!" and that would be her, protesting, the one reading over my shoulder now.
I would have to explain to her and her own audience (her most current girlfriend, one she's yet to alienate, or a legion of drama queens on her Facebook page, ranging from family members to distant cousins and close friends) that, at no point in time, I never said "obnoxious", distinctively, I observe, as it reads: Rambunctious.
Just as the monster does not see its own monstrosity, similarly as there are hardened criminals in jail claiming their innocence (some rightfully so), it is often difficult for the insane to attest to their own madness, to see themselves as agents of chaos. We may fail to see with the same powers of observation our very own frail state, our sorrowful and decadent ways, our very unique insignificance. When confronted by others for our actions, we may retaliate way of denial, and as it is famously quoted in American Beauty, when it comes to denial, you can't underestimate its power.
Succinctly speaking, denial is that which we do not want to face about ourselves, so we decide to not acknowledge it. It never goes away, unless you confront such corrosive force and pit your efforts against it. And then at that, it may require more than willpower and clarity of mind, it may take therapeutic years of your life to come up to such realization. And once found, it can easily be all but forgotten.
We all know what matters most, how to go about bettering things for us and others around, making things better is always an option, in small, incremental ways. You do this not to get to another level; there's no "other" level, transcending your current state of affairs, as things are, all it takes a mere glance, and the most important issues to be taken care of surface, there's no denying that. You can tackle the essentials: workout, meditate, write, and pick up some of the cooking and dish washing around the kitchen, let others watch television as well, stick to your Chromebook and engage them, serve them drinks, meals you've cooked, let others feel your presence through the offerings only dedicated hands can give. It doesn't take a lot but it means a whole lot more. Other people will notice how you sometimes tend to go just out of your way, within the margins of norm, to help someone else. If you're of help, it helps you, it feels good. So long as they pay you, play their servant, bring them food and drinks, and let them feel at ease around you. The art of making others feel comfortable lies in accepting them, seeing their humanity, allowing their pretense or shyness to just be, and not give up immediately on them. There are those who prefer to be left alone, but most people is willing, to an extent, mingle. It's a human need, and finding someone who is like a clock, always there, paying close attention, present, it kind of defeats their regular defenses at large. They will get to see you over and over again, and the more impersonal and relax the welcoming, warmer than cold in your approach, honest smile, open heart, people know. People see, they notice manners, courtesy, and people respond to genuine, good nature individuals who pop out anywhere nowadays and light up the path they walk.
Most drag their bodies along to work, and as they enter their place of work, they're greeted first by me. So, in a subliminal way, it's likely that I may have an impact on how their rest of the day goes. Without blowing things out of proportion, I bring about that energy that can only come from waking up an hour ahead of time to spend plenty of time at the gym before I even get to clock in. I make sure I eat some eggs, lean meat, and have myself a medium cup of coffee, sometimes black with honey, sometimes some skim milk and one Splenda. Sometimes, only tea. Eventually, I think I'll have to give coffee up. That and every other additive in my diet, alcohol included. I want to be as sober and fit as I can possibly be.
We all have the ability to do this, to challenge the status quo, claim what's ours. Of course, the idea is to do things better or fix some problem that needs solving, come up with a to-do list, do the groceries, hit the gym and get a haircut.
Most drag their bodies along to work, and as they enter their place of work, they're greeted first by me. So, in a subliminal way, it's likely that I may have an impact on how their rest of the day goes. Without blowing things out of proportion, I bring about that energy that can only come from waking up an hour ahead of time to spend plenty of time at the gym before I even get to clock in. I make sure I eat some eggs, lean meat, and have myself a medium cup of coffee, sometimes black with honey, sometimes some skim milk and one Splenda. Sometimes, only tea. Eventually, I think I'll have to give coffee up. That and every other additive in my diet, alcohol included. I want to be as sober and fit as I can possibly be.
We all have the ability to do this, to challenge the status quo, claim what's ours. Of course, the idea is to do things better or fix some problem that needs solving, come up with a to-do list, do the groceries, hit the gym and get a haircut.
I should've understood she was going through this motherhood thing for the very first time, that it mustn't be any easier having moved back with her parents and I didn't manage those energies well. Instead, I became more edgy, like a girl, high perhaps in all of the sweet oxytocin cooked up in her womb. Juju was like a jewel we both marveled at and fed off our vindictive craves, we were rotten goods products of dysfunctional families, both missing fathers in our upbringing; hers, because of death, and mine, because of maternal neglect and paternal abandonment, we grew up more unsure of ourselves, less likely to thrive. Not ready to give up, us unwanted children find role models all around, I did my bidding through books; it worked, to some point. Not everything there is you will find in books. You may find something you never thought of; whatever the case is, reading has been a gift I used time and again to transcend this mind of mine, crush all of that which stands in your way, and bring down walls, climb up some towels, see if there's a princess trapped high above. We'll drive ourselves there, save the world and get the girl in time for watching the game live tonight across the bar from some beautiful strangers, surrounded by swaths of them everywhere, at every turn.
How many had not just been on their way from the ladies' room, stop and make out in some neutral corner after we both caught each other's gaze, enough to make us want to kiss right there and then. Why would I mess with this girl about kissing strangers when all I ever did was precisely that?
It was meet, make-out and rarely nothing else; in a very laudable few instances, it went beyond just that night at a bar and the morning after the ritual of finding a reason to stick around after having just mated. Some men are born to be in long-term relationships; it may not be what they're looking for, but they somehow always end up there. And yet, some others, are almost predestined to one night stands. Both are cold, manipulative, extremes of a more plausible solution. Enter: the mid-term relationship. It offers the best of both worlds: on the one hand, it offers the excitement of that first kiss, followed by that first time we slept together, followed by a zillion first time for everything that we had never done before. Including, of course, breaking up just to have that glorious make-up sex where we tore each other to shreds and the screamer next door, a girl who'd pass off as nothing more than just a regular 7, looks like a solid 8 after hearing her scream and get banged by the man she was cheating on her boyfriend with. The guy would show up after the short break-ups this girl successfully pitched to her lover, and ran to another guy, in the hopes that she will be free from that other dude. She was, of course, safe with him, one time I saw the boyfriend, heartbroken knock on her door and she never answered.
The crazy guy she was with did, and out of nowhere jumped out of bed and rushed to open the door, and they almost had a fight. But the ex boyfriend caved in and saw that the other guy was more built and obviously more prone to violence, given his sudden decision to prop the door open. Besides, he had to business to be there; they were no longer together and she could sleep with whoever she wanted to.
The crazy guy could've handled that differently, to spare the other man's feelings, but like a real man he didn't see the need for that and instead faced the fool. After that, he slammed the door in his face and ran mind-possessed screaming the girl's name. She was hiding in the bathroom, and saw the door knob snap at his mere pressure, he had broken the locked door with a single push, and grabbed her out of the shower like someone would a child, into the room, over the bed. Once there, he had his way with her. She didn't dare protest it, and went along with it. That's the report she gave to the police and a few days later she was reunited with her ex boyfriend after taking an order of protection against the lover, but judging for the screams and the things she spat back in his face, she would say: "That's my ass you're fucking! Oh my God, oh my God! Ah, shit!"
It was clearly heard in my apartment as I'm sure it was heard in any apartment on that floor, including the open window that made other neighbors aware of the screams. They were, in part, overblown because she loved to exaggerate in order to make it more exciting for her lover, and so I always liked that about her. Some of us love our women loud in bed but not that loud, graphic but not grotesque, panning, moaning, but not out-loud crying! In order for that to happen, you must inflict moderate amounts of pain. Subtle forms of pain involve detaching yourself from the situation, ignoring her, being indifferent, even able to look her in the eyes and not acknowledge her. They will know because of a microscopic smirk in your demeanor, but who knows, maybe you really mean it, how could this guy be so tough that he'd have the nerve to downright ignore me and even look me in the eye! Yeah, you have to inflict the kind of sedating pain that creates one moment tension, and the very next it releases it. Instead of ignoring her, try giving her some space to work and do her thing. Celebrate her independence if she suddenly has an initiative that involves letting you be for the time being. Get her a massage session or a spa pass.
It may sound crude to some, but men in their youth can only want quantity, rarely it is that they settle for anything less than something they haven't already tried. It'd be as pointless trying to shame them into shape, it's not like they're choosing to be cheaters. It's more like the decision process is completely null, reason bypassed, all logic tossed out.
High as only men are when their girl is expecting, the second born love child, a chance to start over with a new-found love, and another baby boy, oh the joy.
How many had not just been on their way from the ladies' room, stop and make out in some neutral corner after we both caught each other's gaze, enough to make us want to kiss right there and then. Why would I mess with this girl about kissing strangers when all I ever did was precisely that?
It was meet, make-out and rarely nothing else; in a very laudable few instances, it went beyond just that night at a bar and the morning after the ritual of finding a reason to stick around after having just mated. Some men are born to be in long-term relationships; it may not be what they're looking for, but they somehow always end up there. And yet, some others, are almost predestined to one night stands. Both are cold, manipulative, extremes of a more plausible solution. Enter: the mid-term relationship. It offers the best of both worlds: on the one hand, it offers the excitement of that first kiss, followed by that first time we slept together, followed by a zillion first time for everything that we had never done before. Including, of course, breaking up just to have that glorious make-up sex where we tore each other to shreds and the screamer next door, a girl who'd pass off as nothing more than just a regular 7, looks like a solid 8 after hearing her scream and get banged by the man she was cheating on her boyfriend with. The guy would show up after the short break-ups this girl successfully pitched to her lover, and ran to another guy, in the hopes that she will be free from that other dude. She was, of course, safe with him, one time I saw the boyfriend, heartbroken knock on her door and she never answered.
The crazy guy she was with did, and out of nowhere jumped out of bed and rushed to open the door, and they almost had a fight. But the ex boyfriend caved in and saw that the other guy was more built and obviously more prone to violence, given his sudden decision to prop the door open. Besides, he had to business to be there; they were no longer together and she could sleep with whoever she wanted to.
The crazy guy could've handled that differently, to spare the other man's feelings, but like a real man he didn't see the need for that and instead faced the fool. After that, he slammed the door in his face and ran mind-possessed screaming the girl's name. She was hiding in the bathroom, and saw the door knob snap at his mere pressure, he had broken the locked door with a single push, and grabbed her out of the shower like someone would a child, into the room, over the bed. Once there, he had his way with her. She didn't dare protest it, and went along with it. That's the report she gave to the police and a few days later she was reunited with her ex boyfriend after taking an order of protection against the lover, but judging for the screams and the things she spat back in his face, she would say: "That's my ass you're fucking! Oh my God, oh my God! Ah, shit!"
It was clearly heard in my apartment as I'm sure it was heard in any apartment on that floor, including the open window that made other neighbors aware of the screams. They were, in part, overblown because she loved to exaggerate in order to make it more exciting for her lover, and so I always liked that about her. Some of us love our women loud in bed but not that loud, graphic but not grotesque, panning, moaning, but not out-loud crying! In order for that to happen, you must inflict moderate amounts of pain. Subtle forms of pain involve detaching yourself from the situation, ignoring her, being indifferent, even able to look her in the eyes and not acknowledge her. They will know because of a microscopic smirk in your demeanor, but who knows, maybe you really mean it, how could this guy be so tough that he'd have the nerve to downright ignore me and even look me in the eye! Yeah, you have to inflict the kind of sedating pain that creates one moment tension, and the very next it releases it. Instead of ignoring her, try giving her some space to work and do her thing. Celebrate her independence if she suddenly has an initiative that involves letting you be for the time being. Get her a massage session or a spa pass.
It may sound crude to some, but men in their youth can only want quantity, rarely it is that they settle for anything less than something they haven't already tried. It'd be as pointless trying to shame them into shape, it's not like they're choosing to be cheaters. It's more like the decision process is completely null, reason bypassed, all logic tossed out.
High as only men are when their girl is expecting, the second born love child, a chance to start over with a new-found love, and another baby boy, oh the joy.
You hold your child like treasure gold, stare at it and toss it like a salad, clean up his poop, and anticipate his every tiny move, his eagerness to embrace the world around. At such stage in life, and all we ever want is to explore and experience all of this unraveled universe. We're not one in essence, we're in flux, everywhere at once, recreating itself constantly. The baby is one with the universe; the man is just a sad spectacle of raw emotions in front of the thing that they love most in the world. We never knew our most precious carbon stone could be so vulnerable. And so, the man can not be without the child, but the child will have to one day do without the man. Looking at our babies, we see the child we once were and how, if it weren't for your loved ones, you may not have ventured too far.
How in love you are with your one-month old boy to have his mom pack him up and leave one night. No notice.
Women love drama, some more than others. The less prone to drama our girl is, the better our life; of course, you won't find a relic of a drama-free girl but some had gotten to being there by not a whole lot. Of all the cruel things, women had unleashed madness upon me before, how sick it must've been to plan in detail such a blow, waking up that morning, packing our son and thinking tonight, when he gets back from work, I'll show him, he won't see me here. Was I physically abusive? God, no. Was I mentally so? Perhaps. But only because you can't expect to be any less in a turbulent and passionate relationship, we both had our fun and we loved putting the blame on one another. I've already written plenty on the subject if you know what I mean, then you'll do yourself a favor and take a hard look at yourself now, and ask: Was I such a monster? The fact is that the minute that thought entertained my mind, I was selfish to express it, the ego has a way of getting you in trouble with your significant other; you have to love enough to deny your own ego. And do so at your own expense. The fact is, the more selfless and the less narcissistic you are, others may choose to have their ego running rampant, shitting all over the place, throwing feces at you. You can only play the victim for so long before you end up one.
There was no need for such cruelty. But I let it be. It had been me who suggested it, and I had wanted the best for her and our child. And that place wasn't here, not now anyway. All of these thoughts would come in and out of my mind, angered inner voices will echo payback, retaliation, vengeance, vendetta. How could you suffer such blow and not return fire? At least put your fists up, cover some of those coming blows, you cannot take this anymore so I pattern-interrupt an action, just like I did now on this sentence, and wrote a Craigslist post about a room for rent. Of all the respondents, I chose the email that looked more promising: Russian, young, Anastasia, lived nearby.
I barely put on a t-shirt and some jeans to open the door. She was stunning. Magazine pretty. Main character in a romantic flick, heroine in a high budget film kind of beautiful. I wasn't fazed or anything, just noticed her flawless features, perfect medium height, slim but curvy, blonde, perky tight-as-fuck booty, slightly larger than what's considered average for her type, emerald green eyes, poise and grace, like a well-fed European model. Only once had I been this lucky before. With a girl from the Canary Islands, some ten years earlier. What I could consider flawless from top to bottom, one for the ages. Back then I was involved with a diva, Emma, who lived on the second floor in a residential house, we were the loudest there.
Emma had snatched me from under cougar Liz's claws. At the time, I was still at the mercy of predatory women who were out to get their hands on a catch. Women used to do the hunting, be the aggressor, take the lead. These women exhibit men-like attributes: they're ambitious, sure of themselves, know exactly what they're looking for and aren't afraid to go-get it. We met online, along with others, who decided to meet in real life, a New York chat on Terra.com. Some in that group stemmed from nearby New Jersey, and we'd meet one another, until we decided to make parties every Saturday at Emma's place.
Of all, Emma I met first and we video chatted before deciding to meet up. We both had had bad experiences with people who gave old, photoshopped versions of themselves in snap pics, only to be someone completely different once met.
It's not just pictures but also video chat that lies. On video chat, she looked perfect, flawless little thing, a stunning girl, no less.
All because she was the perfect relic bust: from her breasts up, perfection. Voluptuous, feminine, blue eyes and picture-picture facial traits, Angelina Pitt Jones, no less. It is as if midway her frame God had gotten bored of chiseling her sculpt, and rushed to add amphibian attributes to the rest: short legs, thick but sturdy midsection. She had an effeminate boyfriend who "uncomfortable" with me being her friend. But she put him in his place just so that I could take his in the short absences following one of their common catfights.
We had all witnessed them fight and a friend in common, one who lived in New Jersey, and had come all the way down to this house apartment get-together, all because he, too, wanted her. We all did, regardless of lower half of hers, like a mermaid. Once inebriated, we joked: "It'd be like fucking a mermaid. Half amphibian, half goddess."
She pretended to be all for him because I pursued another girl in the group, given that she was busy with her less than almighty male prototype. As soon as we walked in a cafe,
she worked out from time to time, light running for a couple of miles, a few dozen squats, abs pressed fight had her legs were up in the air as I drilled deep inside and out of her.
No comments:
Post a Comment