Thursday, April 05, 2007

On Hiatus

Most of you have probably realized this already, but I'm going to take a bit of time off from posting. It's become something of a chore recently, and I've been much more interested in pursuing other forms of writing. I'm not stopping the site permanently or anything like that, but I need to take a few weeks off to make some headway on my other projects. For now, I'm going to take a sabbatical for... let's say the month of April. There's a good chance I may decide to bring posts back sooner, or I may not. If you want to keep up to date, there are a couple of options. You can subscribe to the feed, which will automatically email you when I update, or you can email me at and I'll email you when I update.

Thanks for the loyalty, and sorry for the break, but a (Egg)man's gotta do what he's gotta do.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Yuma Wedding

First off, I want to apologize to Bob for this post. The wedding in Yuma had no drama, no burning secrets revealed, no shocking revelations. However, for the Eggman, this was good news. All in all, it was actually a pretty relaxing weekend for me. I could give you the full play-by-play, but it'd be pretty boring, and I'd have to reveal more details about my GF and her dad than I'm comfortable with. So rather than a full report in the typical detailed style of Raynok, I will simply give a few highlights.

Thursday night: My GF and I went to the Kings/Suns game with Lunatic Jim and my buddy Mitch from work. Sadly, Artest wasn't there because he had to appear in court for beating his wife. The game was uneventful, but I got pretty drunk. Straight from the game, GF drove us to Yuma. I had packed a picnic stoner kit for the car, and with a fair amount of booze already coursing through my body, the weed hit me hard and fast. I listened to 1st Wave and Left of Center, my two favorite Sirius stations, while I drifted away to visions of yellow headlights and slick black pavement.

Friday: Apparently there was some sort of breakfast/brunch event on Friday morning, which is why we arrived on Thursday night. From the beginning, GF told me that I didn't have to attend this event. I held fast to this, continuing to slumber until I had gotten my fill. I rose to meet the day around noon or maybe 1 pm, commencing with my marijuana high before my feet even touched the ground.
GF had returned from brunch and was in the bathroom when I heard a knock at the door. I was in my boxers, laying on a La-Z-boy with the pipe on my chest, watching the Food Network and scratching my hairy balls, hoping GF would come to the rescue. I was forced to answer the door myself, and this is how I came to meet the Bride for the first time. Both my GF and the Bride got a little high with me, but then they talked about wedding stuff, so I went back to the TV.
At 4, GF had to go somewhere to rehearse the wedding. She was one of the bridesmaids, so I guess they have to teach you special ways to walk and stand for the ceremony. I had to meet her and the rest of the wedding party for dinner at 6 PM for the Rehearsal Dinner. At the time, it was this event which I was dreading the most. I figured that at the wedding I'd be able to escape and do my own thing, but at the Rehearsal Dinner I'd have no choice but to grin and bear it, politely enduring the barrage of small talk.
I decided to start drinking at 4:30 PM in preparation for the event, and smoked a mega-sized bowl right before I was to be picked up. The boyfriend of one of the other bridesmaids was waiting outside in his truck, and as soon as I got in, he told me I smelled great. I was immediately puzzled by this remark, especially since I hadn't showered in four days, but I soon realized this guy smelled the pot smoke clinging to my body. I offered him some and we got super toasted and showed up to the dinner a little bit late.
This turned out to be fine though, as everyone else at dinner was already smashed. Alot of them even teased us about being noticeably high. About 20 minutes into the dinner, the mother of the Bride was sitting on my lap, loudly professing her love for me to the entire table. She later came back with us, along with the Bride and a few others, to get high after dinner as well.

Saturday: This was the big day, and GF had bridesmaid responsibilities starting at around noon, so again I was left to my own devices. I basically practiced the same drill from Friday, except this time I had GF's dad to hang out with. I had only one drink, right before we left for the wedding (around 6), but I was very high.
The ceremony took place outdoors, and it was a pretty area, but I was immediately disheartened when I saw 5 or 6 different guys wearing jeans. I, of course, was buttoned up in my fancy brown pants. The actual commitment ceremony was pretty stupid, and the pastor (minister? priest?) was a complete moron. He tried to be funny but his humor came off as cheap and sexist. After about 20 minutes, we were let loose on the bar.
Based on Friday night's events, I had expected a pretty rowdy time, but it just never happened. There were no professional bartenders, just 2 ladies (who looked to be friends of the families) serving the drinks. As such, the drinks were weak and poorly made. The dancefloor never really filled up, and people by and large seemed to be in control of their faculties. To achieve the level of drunk that I had originally sought would have required a monumental effort on my part, and it just didn't seem worth it.
An hour or two after daylight disappeared, the party started to fizzle out. Dinner was long gone, and I was hungry. I was talking to Sean, the bridesmaid's boyfriend who had brought me to the rehearsal dinner, and he was hungry also. Soon enough, the conversation turned to cheeseburgers, and Sean told me there was an In n' Out Burger close-by. I was sold. I told GF's dad about the proximity of the In n' Out, and this piqued his interest as well.
It took a while, but the two of us eventually convinced my girlfriend to leave the wedding early,so that we could purchase fast food cheeseburgers. All three of us got double doubles, and the apartment where we stayed was mere minutes from the In 'n Out. As soon as we walked in the door, I sprinted to remove my brown pants and button-down. I emerged from the bedroom in mesh shorts and attacked that double burger like I hadn't eaten in days.
I felt satisfaction wash over me. Not only did the cheeseburger sandwich quell my fierce appetite, but it also represented the end of my duties as the date of a bridesmaid. The wedding was over, I had juicy burger in my stomach, and not one single person asked me "What do you do?" the entire weekend. For the Eggman, that spelled sweet success.

I have to go back to Yuma in 2 or 3 weeks for another wedding.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Off to Yuma

I have to go to a wedding in Yuma this weekend. Yuma is a small town in Arizona near the border of Mexico. My girlfriend grew up there, and 2 of her best friends who still live there are getting married, so this will be the first of two weekend trips out there. I am not looking forward to this, for two main reasons:
1. I hate small talk. I hate a lot of things, but small talk definitely ranks among the things I hate most. Small talk, especially with strangers, is pure torture for me.
2. I have to wear brown pants. I hate wearing brown pants because they are constricting and uncomfortable. I especially hate wearing brown pants when I'm told that I have to wear them because everyone else is doing it.

To be fair, my girlfriend said I can get as drunk as I want to, and she's taking us to the Suns/Kings game tonight, so I can't really complain. Also, her dad will be at the wedding, so I'll be able to get stoned with him. From what I've heard, these western cowboys really like to party it up, so who knows, it might even end up being a good time. At any rate, this weekend is sure to be an interesting and new experience for me. You can expect a full report on Monday.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Craigslist Do

Late September, 2005
New York City

Gark strolled out of Striker's room with a shit-eating grin on his face. Striker had been out, likely with the Virus, the tiny demon to whom he was chained. It was through Striker that I originally met Gark, yet these days I rarely ever saw the two of them together. Gark held a seething hatred for the Virus in his steady, booze-slowed heart and he now had a mild distaste for Striker, for willingly dating such a demon.
Gark had begun to show up at our place in Miami the second year we were living there. It was back then that I learned not to ask Gark questions like "How did you get here?", "When are you leaving?" or "Did you take that out of my room?". Not because I was afraid of Gark (although I was) but because Gark simply couldn't answer questions like that. He'd respond in some sort of nonsensical tangential manner that would always end up involving pussy.
Gark and Striker had gotten along well in those days in Miami, as they both shared the common, all-consuming goal of getting pussy. Striker was able to communicate with the guy much better than I could. Evidently, they had grown up together, so Striker was able to understand Gark's fragmented, stream-of-consciousness ramblings.
Gark had been upset by Striker's decision to date the Virus, but to my surprise, this did not stop him from visiting the apartment. He'd stop by with a few 40s or a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps- whatever he could dig up- and just start boozing it up in our living room. He wouldn't say a word to Striker, but he'd constantly prod me to go out in search of pussy with him. Sometimes he'd come in boozing and just sit in Striker's room, perched against the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the women in the building across the street.
But on this Monday evening, it seemed Gark had done his homework. For weeks, he'd been singing the praises of Craigslist, prattling on about how it was going to revolutionize his sex life. I have to admit, I hadn't thought much of this drunkard's ramblings at the time. But now Gark was saying that a girl had responded to his ad, and he'd just spoken to her on the phone. Her referred to her only as Strauss, and he said Strauss wanted us to meet her at the Port Authority. "What do you mean us?", I queried. As Gark began to respond, I realized something shocking- this man was sober! I interrupted to ask if this was indeed the case, and Gark responded in the most coherent manner I'd ever heard. It was like meeting a new person. He explained that he hadn't yet had time to get drunk yet, and while explaining this, he poured himself a tall glass of vodka topped off with a splash of gatorade.
He also explained what he had meant by "us". He had posted the ad looking for a girl who wanted to get double teamed. Fresh off the last double team with Gark only weeks prior, I was not up for another round*. Gark assured me he had taken care of all the details this time- the girl was OK with getting banged by us separately, as long as she got to have two cocks in quick succession. I told him I refused to go to the Port Authority, but he could invite the girl to the apartment. If she looked OK, I'd bang her. If not, he was on his own. Gark was quick to agree to this, and he gulped down a large portion of his cocktail before retiring to Striker's room to make his phone call.
I made a vodka and gatorade cocktail for myself and settled down on the couch. Terminator was on TV. I hadn't seen it in a while, and I was surprised by how dated it looked compared to how cool I remembered it to be.
I thought about the ridiculous turn my evening had taken. I pondered this currency-free pre-arranged fucking, and wondered how close it was to prostitution. Ultimately, I decided I didn't care either way. I killed my drink and made another one. Gark was on his third.
The Terminator had already killed the first two Sarah Connors by the time Strauss arrived. Stoned up, lightly buzzed and enraptured by the awesome cyborg violence, I had nearly forgotten all about our guest. Gark jumped up and answered the door in a majestically creepy manner, hungrily eyeing his prey as he fixed her the house special, vodka gatorade. They sat on the couch, and I was introduced to this curious young nymph called Strauss. She was small and impish with a pale complexion and chin-length sandy colored hair. Her face was not entirely unpleasant, having a round and average look to it, only mildly spoiled by the dark circles under her eyes. Strauss was not somebody I'd approach in a bar, but I'd definitely fuck her in a bedroom of somebody's after-party. At any rate, I had decided that, yes, I will intercourse this strange wanderer, brought to my apartment at the hands of a ghoul called Gark.
Gark and Strauss sat next to each other on the smaller couch. The Terminator was repairing his arm and his glowing red eye. I said nothing, staring straight ahead at the screen as I became more immersed (and more impressed by Cameron) in this dark dystopian world. After a few moments of awkward silence, Gark stood up, downed his cocktail and pulled Strauss into Striker's room. He did not close the door.
I made myself a third stiff cocktail and smoked a bit more herb as I watched the Terminator kill an entire precinct full of cops. I heard a belt unbuckling and lowered the volume for a moment. I heard nothing. I listened for a good 10 seconds, and still nothing. I turned the volume up and got back to the task of boozing when I heard a loud slapping sound. I turned the volume back down. More silence. After about 5 seconds, I heard another very loud slap followed by more silence. This pattern continued for several minutes, and so I turned the volume back up.
Sarah Connor and Reese were in the motel room, about to conceive the baby who would ultimately lead the humans to victory against the evil machines. All of a sudden, Strauss exited Striker's room fully nude and went into the bathroom. She looked happy enough. She closed the door to pee, and Gark sauntered out in a pair of Striker's mesh shorts. He looked pleased. "What the fuck were you doing to her?," I asked, perplexed by the strange sounds I'd heard. Gark told me that he had been fucking her at an extremely slow rate, while slapping her on the ass extremely hard every few seconds. When I asked why or how he could possibly want to get off that way, he answered in the typical Gark nonsense I had come to expect.
Strauss exited the bathroom and approached me. She looked pretty good naked. I became aroused. She asked if I wanted her to start with clothes on, but I told her to just get in my bed. I had only been wearing shorts to begin with, so I got naked as well and jumped into after her. We did not kiss, but instead began immediately to explore the other's body. It was an interesting experience. Definitely not romantic, it reminded me of my first sexual experiences in the 6th grade. I got naked with Kirsten and Laura** one day after school, and we explored each others' bodies with earnest human curiosity, a far different prospect than the stumbling hormone driven encounters of high school or the artless thrust of drunken adult hookups. And this excitingly anonymous encounter brought back those first beautiful memories.
"I'm just gonna fuck you regular. I'm not gonna do anything weird like Gark," I assured her. After a minute or two of groping and stroking, I hovered over her in the missionary position. I took a condom from the night table and she sheathed it over my boner for me. I proceeded to bang her in a straightforward, no frills manner, finishing inside the condom rather than a more humiliating portion of her skin. When I was done, we immediately removed ourselves from each other's grasp. I pulled on mesh shorts and left her to collect herself.

The Terminator was hot on Sarah's trail, and Gark was sitting on one end of the couch. I sat on the other end of the couch, and Strauss, still nude, sat between us. I sat back and took a couple pipe hits as the blood from my rapidly softening boner began to disperse back into the body. Gark began fondling Strauss' leg and soon enough she on her hands and knees, facing away from him. He was back-fingering her, which was forcing her face onto my crotch. Gark took his other hand and put his fingers in her asshole. Strauss was now loudly moaning and my boner rose up to meet her face. She pulled it free from my shorts and choked herself with it, while her body swayed at Gark's command, his hands deep inside her like a puppeteer. After consuming this second, weakened load of my essence, Strauss wiped her mouth and, like a real trooper, turned around to take it from the other side. Having just lost 2 bales of semen in quick succession, I was feeling drowsy and contented, idly poking at her muggy birth canal as she sucked away at Gark's knob. The Terminator had emerged from the flames as a metal endoskeleton, his red eyes gleaming in the night. As this freight train of a movie began to slow to a stop, Strauss consumed Gark's seed. He had her back in her clothes and ready to leave even before the end credits started rolling.
Gark said he'd walk her out, and Strauss and I shared nothing more than a casual wave goodbye. Gark had impressed me on this ordinary Monday evening, and I resolved to think twice before doubting this strange and resourceful fellow again.

*I'll tell the story of the first double team with Gark another time.
**The hottest babes in the whole elementary school.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Why I Use Drugs

It's 3 pm on a Saturday afternoon- St. Patrick's Day actually, and I woke up about an hour ago. I've just railed two thick tracks of cocaine, roasted a deep bowl of marijuana, and cracked open my first, and likely only, beer of the day*. You may read that sentence and think that I have a severe substance abuse problem, and by most common standards, I do. But that's the problem with our hyper-labeling society; if you consider the facts, I believe my behavior is quite reasonable.
For one thing, both marijuana and cocaine are less harmful to the body than America's legal alternatives: alcohol and tobacco. In fact, if you employ a vaporizer for the inhalation of weed, there are no harmful effects on the body at all. As for cocaine, it's a simple amphetamine, negligibly different from the prescription meds we give our kids to focus, the diet pills we take to lose weight, or our morning coffee. But our government has used these particular drugs as tools to marginalize those who are bold enough to try them. If you are caught possessing or using these naturally occurring plants, it's like a black smear across the blue skies of your future. If word gets out about your secret life as a DRUGGIE you will be shun by society and passed over for that new promotion, in favor of one of your more straight-laced colleagues who doesn't "need drugs". Well, for any of you that 'don't need drugs', you'd be wise to consider quitting the booze- because it is by far the worst drug out there**. When I consider my own past and reflect upon the hundreds of alcohol-related incidents, I think of the thousands of dollars worth of property destruction, countless brushes with death, and an ocean of tears from women I've insulted- not to mention the irreparable damage I've done to my body. This website alone is a near monument to the poor-decision making that alcohol begets. But I am not against alcohol. Obviously, I love the stuff. I am merely lobbying against the unfair and unwarranted reputation of certain illicit drugs.

Earlier, I mentioned that the cocktail of drugs which I have ingested this afternoon could be considered reasonable, so let me defend that. For one thing, I will concede that cocaine is addictive. But that's not to say it can't be used responsibly. Personally, I have only purchased the drug a handful of times since I first tasted it, my sophomore year in college. Most of the times I've indulged in white devil it's been nothing more than a couple lines or a few key bumps per evening. As for this afternoon's nontraditional, solo ingestion, I have my reasons. I worked last night until after 3 AM, less than 12 hours ago. I am squatting in Quazar's abandoned apartment. The air conditioning is broken, and the place is littered with trash and fractured memories from the days when I first began my new life out here. The balmy, dingy air of the apartment wrought a fitful sleep for the Eggman, and as I sit here now, surrounded by refuse and covered in the residue from my own masturbation, I have to leave for work in about 30 minutes. I am over-tired, I am grumpy, and I am in no mood to deal with the boozy revelers who have likely already taken over Mill Avenue. Should I get in my car and head to Starbucks, squandering the few minutes of personal time allotted to me today, so that I might spend $6.50 on sugar-laden caffeine-delivery agent? Or should I snort the coke, which is free***, more effective, more fun, and sitting right in front of me on the table? To me, the answer is obvious.
I don't feel I have to explain my early afternoon beer, since as I write this, millions of Americans are (legally) getting wasted to celebrate a holiday which holds absolutely no meaning. So I've ingested a small bit of amphetamine to jumpstart my day, and enjoyed some alcohol to soothe my weary body. But what about the marijuana?
For me, marijuana is a daily vitamin, my tonic for the mind. It mellows my anxiety and allows my wind to wander, to think about things from a different perspective. Consider the following.
Sometimes, when I wake up, especially if I wake tired or hungry, I am in a poor mood. I check my blog email and find no new comments. I check the user stats and see that it stagnates around 100 per day, as it has for months now. I think of the life that I lead, and the hours I spend providing this content. Then I surf the web and check out the other more popular blogs. I see the painfully mundane things they write about, and the dozens upon dozens of comments from similarly vapid idiots, echoing the same hackneyed sentiment as the dogshit post they are responding to. I begin to lose hope. I ask myself what's the point. I think about how incredibly stupid the general public appears, and I write myself off as too extreme, too highbrow for the common idiot. Dark thoughts enter my mind like the sudden onset of a summer shower. I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like writing. I browse the internet and marvel at the apparent success of others. I lay around and despair about the hopelessness of the human condition. I watch as the masses conduct their daily business, blissfully ignorant, while we continue to hurtle toward the annihilation of our species and our planet at a breakneck speed.

People wonder why Americans today suffer such a greater amount of psychological disorders than ever before. To me the answer is obvious. It's this ridiculous electronic world we've created for ourselves. We have so many choices that we really have no choice at all. Everything in our society revolves around money and its accompanying superficialities. I have to toil day and night in search of money and fame. I must have a smoothly shaved face and perfectly carved abdominal muscles. I have to eat dinner in fancy restaurants and ensnare the best looking wife. I'm all but forced to compare myself to the ridiculous icons of success whom we worship in this country, simply because everybody else does. Even those who are decidedly unsuccessful funnel all their money into copying the rich and famous, as they try to substitute the appearance of being rich in lieu of saving up to become actually rich. The whole system is designed to show you how much worse your life is than everyone else's, and it all becomes a sick parade of lies. In these moments, things are incredibly bleak. I feel like I'm dead last in a race I never intended to compete in. The will to continue becomes weak in me, and the only thing that keeps my earthly body clinging to this planet is the thought that my suicide would cause undue pain for my family and a handful of loved ones.
But one breath of that sweet, sweet cheeba and I can finally see the world again. Not the world in which you live, that of glass and skyscrapers, diet soda cans and gasoline. But the real world, our home, the earth. I am reminded me of the simple pleasures in life, like the sun shining on my skin. I remember that there are other choices, other paths I can take. If it ever becomes too much, if the grind and society's expectations ever reach a breaking point for me, I can abandon my place here and move to some wilderness untarnished by the hand of man. I can forgo the daily trauma of this digital world and focus on the basic daily goal of acquiring food for sustenance. A lungful of pot smoke helps me to recall everything about life that makes it worth living. Without having to obsess over how to acquire money, my mind is able to daydream, and my imagination runs wild. Every idea becomes worthy of cogitation; movies and art can be seen in a different light; I can listen to music instead of just hearing it.

I question everything, even established beliefs, which allows me to have boundless ideas. This is arguably the most important aspect of the marijuana high. I don't smoke weed because it brings me to a fantasy world, but because it removes me from one. I assure you, the reality you inhabit is far less real than the truths I acknowledge on a daily basis. Those of you who think of nothing but the chase for the almighty dollar lose sense of the big picture, and that can be dangerous. As a whole, we are easy to mislead. If we accept whatever society tells us without thinking for ourselves, we invite exploitation. Those in search of evidence need only look as far as any of the world's major religions to see that humans can be convinced of literally anything. Or just take a look at what Hitler was able to do to Germany.

But I'm not so naive as to claim pot can save the world. Marijuana affects different people differently, but for me, it's a much needed respite from the drudgery of our civilization. When I smoke, my mind is free from the shackles of our intensely demanding society, if only for a short while.

Personally, I have chosen a difficult journey. I have abandoned the beaten path to prosperity and success, eschewing the 'rat race', in favor of following my dream. For now, my dream is simply to earn enough money from writing that I can sustain my own existence. But when I think about my life generally, I have many dreams I hope to accomplish. I have, deep in my heart, a very child-like and hopeful idealism. But that small bright center is surrounded by a tough black layer of thorny sinew, developed from years of being jaded by this shame-based society of deception and lies. By allowing me to smile or laugh at life's simple pleasures, this magical plant somehow unlocks that hidden part of me, the part of me that is still truly and naturally human.

That is, in essence, why I use drugs. For all the same reasons that you law-abiding pussies use alcohol and cigarettes, you workout fiends use supplements, and you fat slobs eat cake: because they make me feel good, and they help me get through life.

*Editor's Note: I ended up having 2 beers before work. The albino had numbed my throat and the ice cold beer went down so pleasantly that I treated myself to a second. I began this post at the time specified in the beginning, but finished it at a later time.
**I'm talking about the drugs that civilized people use, so I'm not including crystal meth, heroin, crank, or crack.
***Qz found this 1/4 full bag while cleaning out his place and obviously couldn't take it back with him on the plane.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

The Whore of Fortune

The past week has been extremely busy for our bar, and Mill Avenue in general. The convergence of several factors have contributed to this, those being ASU spring break, March Madness, and MLB spring training. This was a magical time for me in Arizona last year, but it's a different story now that I'm dealing with the obnoxious drunks rather than being one of them. Although the onset of Spring has been more tiring and keeps me out later than usual, I have to admit that it's pretty entertaining to watch this new brand of idiotic drunks.
On Wednesday night, I got to observe an interesting phenomenon: the Whore of Fortune. I first noticed her because she was hot. She was tall, thin, and blonde, with a pretty, lightly freckled face and an all-American look about her. At first, I couldn't see much of her physique because she was wearing a loose fitting dress. It was tight up top on her A cup breasts, but the bottom half was baggy and flowing, so you couldn't see her body. Luckily, Whore of Fortune, or WoF, was hiking the dress up as she was sluttily gyrating to the music, exposing her smooth, tan legs for all to see. At one point, she pulled the dress up so high on the side of her leg that the thin silk strap of her thong panties were visible.
This immediately attracted the attention of a large male at the table next to her. With a close cropped shaved head reflecting an early onset of male pattern baldness, and a general dopey look about him, this gentleman was one of the lesser males of his pack. Lucky for him, those other males had gone off to procure alcohol or to try to cram their fingers into the holes of women. This fellow wasted no time in approaching WoF. I anticipated a hasty rebuff, for, at firse glance, WoF looked to be well out of Male A's league. But to my surprise, she seemed to be very receptive to his advance. After some brief conversation, WoF introduced him to her pack, a wildly incongruous bunch which, until this point, I had not noticed. The first thing that caught my eye about this pack was its centerpiece, an overweight and largely immobile, tattoed-up black girl. The next largest was a busty asian with an expressionless face in a sexy black dress, and two rotund, haggardly hispanic girls for good measure. As Male A worked his way around the table, he paused for the longest at the fat black slob. I recognized this as a shrewd technique; he would ingratiate himself to the group by befriending its ugliest member, thereby gaining trust.
Apparently one of these creatures had been born on this particular date some 20 years ago. Male A accordingly ordered a round of drinks for the group. Oddly enough, while Male A was busy conversing with the great beast, the rest of the girls, including WoF, went up to the stage and started dancing. To my surprise, Male A continued his conversation for quite a while. I admired his commitment to the ruse.
Soon enough, Male A's pack returned to their table, right next to the den of WoF. When she and her mates returned from the table, WoF went around to the all of the new males and spent a little time with each one of them, whispering in their ears, acting coy, and snaking her body around in a general whorish manner. The males in question were all pretty typical looking, well-muscled fratboys. She spent the longest period of time with a black guy in a pastel-striped polo shirt. He seemed to do the best job at flirting with her, finding little ways to touch her arm or the small of her back as they leaned close to speak. I was pretty sure this guy was going to walk away with it, and I was a little disappointed. From her early moves at exposing her legs, I thought there was a chance she might flash a tit or show her ass cheeks; if she went home with this guy, the show was over for Raynok. But then I saw the two break out their cell phones and exchange phone numbers. This Whore of Fortune had not yet stopped spinning.

Throughout the evening, I observed her heavily flirting with at least 10 other guys, and she initiated first contact in each situation. I abandoned my hopes of seeing her young flesh, as she was clearly more interested in landing a prime cock for the evening, rather than giving a free show. All the while, she was enjoying free cocktails from a large percentage of her many suitors. The small bit of leg was all she needed to get the ball, or balls, rolling.
Without the promise of seeing her nipples or smooth hiney, I began to pay less attention to WoF. I had other, more pressing matters to deal with, such as ejecting the small girl who could no longer stand or the Mexican fellow who fell asleep on the pool table on two separate occasions.
I still kept tabs on her actions during the night, and as last call was just about to end, I saw her taking shots with a spiked haired frat boy from the original group of males. This guy seemed to think he was about to close, but as soon as the shot was taken, WoF's pack of friends stumbled past the bar on the way to the exit, grabbing her hand on the way and dragging her, giggling, out the door with them.
This WoF was more shrewd than I had anticipated, earning an entirely free evening at the bar for herself, as well as perks for the motley crew of hound dogs she ran around with. It was certainly an interesting phenomenon to observe, and WoF was a skilled grifter, but sadly, after seeing the dejected faces of the men she had bamboozled, I can only assume this will all end in date rape.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

A Better One That Got Away: Jessie

This story takes place around the same time that Striker and I were decimating the Neighborhood Girls. As luck would have it, I actually remember the day of the week. It was a Tuesday night, and the Grove was largely empty. Striker and I were strolling around, hopping from bar to bar in search of the best, or easiest, crop of babes. We weren't having much luck; for some reason it was a ghost town. As it would happen, this worked to our advantage. We turned the corner approaching Moe's when we saw 2 babes that we knew. They were from the hottest sorority, and we had hung out with them a bunch of times with our upstairs neighbors and other random times around town. One of the girls was the knockout that I referred to in yesterday's post. She was a gorgeous sophomore named Jessie. Striker and I actually had a fair bit of history with her.
Our neighbors*, the upstairs girls, were very important in their sorority organization. The hottest one was the President of the sorority if I'm not mistaken. As such, all kinds of sorority proceedings took place at our house. This gave Striker and I the unique opportunity to watch Jessie grow from a girlish and somewhat ungainly sapling into one of the dominant forces of hotness at the entire University, all in the span of less than two years.
Jessie was tall and leggy with dark brown hair and smoky eyes. She had an exotically beautiful face with subtle hints of Asian or Polynesian descent. Her body was womanly in the traditional sense, with a thin waist, smallish tits, big round hips and a sweet bulbous ass. Physical beauty aside, one of Jessie's best characteristics was that she was a party girl. From her earliest days as a freshman she could rip a bong like a pro and stay out all night without getting sick or bitching out. She displayed a preternatural skill for installing herself in the most important (read: richest and hottest) social circles in the city. But the best part was that she was never stuck-up or bitchy about it. She never turned up her nose at us or referred to me as "shoe guy" like some of the other puckered cunts in her circle. That's not to say she was easily approachable to any Charlie Nobody off the street, but she definitely displayed some semblance of human emotion, unlike the other reptilian whores which stalked the streets of South Beach. She was a veritable wild girl, possessing a rare mix of unpredictability, knowledge of her own beauty, and the adventurous spirit of a true partier. Perhaps her most enduring quality was her intangibility; her ethereal spirit which all men sought to possess, but which, by her very nature, allowed her to slip through your fingers like the passing of a dream. Imagine Jenny from Forrest Gump or Penny Lane from Almost Famous if they lived in modern day Miami.

On this night on the Grove, as the four of us approached each other, Jessie greeted both Striker and I with impetuous hugs and cheek kisses. Jessie was with a girl called Robin, a very pretty blonde freshman. Robin was a southern belle, and exhibited many of the same wild party-girl features as Jessie. Robin was a little better proportioned in the modern sense, with fat tits balancing out her healthy butt cheeks. We had met Robin a few times before, but were far less acquainted with her.
Almost immediately, the girls expressed their displeasure with the barren streets of the Grove, prodding Striker and I for suggestions on what to do. Before we realized what had happened, our two-man vagina search party had morphed into a perfectly balanced group of four. We were now 'with' the girls, as if we had pregamed and set out on the town with them from the start. It was already nearly 1 AM, and before encountering the babes, we had all but resigned to head back home. But these girls wanted to party, and we had no choice but to comply. Of course, we were worthless for ideas on where to bring our newly formed foursome. Striker and I were poor and possessed zero social status in the city of Miami. We had our pirate bartender fix us some blackout specials while we discussed the direction of the night, and out of nowhere the girls decided they wanted to go to the Playwright. The Playwright is a cool Irish bar, with its only downside being that it's on South Beach, a good 15-20 minute drive from the Grove.

Striker and I were typically smashed, but of course we weren't going to pass up a golden opportunity like this. We agreed to go with them, and it was an unspoken caveat that either Striker or I had to drive.
The girls wanted to do some cocaine before the long drive, so we went back to Jessie's dorm room with them. Just being in her bedroom confirmed everything I had ever thought about Jessie. There was sexy black lace lingerie casually hanging off the edge of the bed, cool band posters on the wall, a Pomeranian, and a ROOR bong. If you encounter a 19 year old girl who owns one of these, it's pretty fucking special. So Jessy brought out a little mirror and chopped up some tracks, and we had some drinks, and in 3o minutes time we were back on the road heading toward South Beach. I have no recollection of who drove us there.

It was after 2 AM by the time we had our first Playwright cocktails in our hands. The Playwright was not significantly more crowded than any of the bars in the Grove, but it was on South Beach, which was apparently enough to appease their capricious female minds. As the chips were falling, it seemed I was aligned with Jessie and Striker was with Robin. We spent a couple hours, and went through our usual bag of tricks, and the girls seemed to be really digging it. The only concrete memory I can conjure up from our time there is that of a morbidly obese gentleman in a velour track suit who was playing pool near us. I complimented him on his outfit, and he became very angry with me. I was able to assuage his anger, and at the end he gave me his business card which indicated that he was an independent contractor of whores.
It was very late in the night, and the Playwright crowd was dwindling down when we decided to head home. But before getting back on I-95, a porno emporium caught our eyes. For those of you familiar with the area, I'm referring to the gargantuan sex shop right next to the Burger King before you get onto the MacArthur Causeway. The girls wanted to go in, so we parked the car and the four of us flooded into the place like giddy schoolchildren. This absurd sex store was rife with possibilities for humor, and Striker and I were using our best comedic game. The girls were giggling up a storm and, though we didn't purchase anything, we definitely left the store on a high note.
We all wanted to get actually high to punctuate the night, so we headed back to our Ponce house. It was around 5 or 6 AM at this point. Our other roommates were asleep, so we went into my bedroom where we could listen to music or watch TV at a reasonable volume. Striker and Robin were sitting on the couch next to my bed, and Jessie and I were sitting up on my bed. There was an awkward lull in the conversation as we discussed what we should do next. Eventually, we decided on watching a movie, and the girls were clamoring for Zoolander. Jessie settled into my bed, pulling the covers over her lithe, nubile frame. Striker and Robin were getting close on the couch. I fetched the movie from the living room, inserted it into my XBOX and fired it up. And nothing happened. Despite my best efforts, I could not get the movie to play. The sun was starting to rise, and the fledgling daylight was beginning to filter through my blinds, bathing the room in a muted orange glow. The combination of the morning sun and my failure to accommodate the latest whim of these girls turned disastrous. After what seemed like an almost telepathic communication, the girls simultaneously decided they'd call it a night and asked us to drive them home. Striker retired to bed, and I walked out to my car with these beautiful young creatures as the first rays of a new morn guided my path. Both girls sat in the backseat together for the 1.5 mile drive to campus, and I took this as an insult. I postulated that Jessie didn't want to sit in the front seat next to me as a precaution against any awkward attempts at a goodnight kiss or something of that nature. I was insulted by this move, but I wasn't surprised, as it once again demonstrated Jessie's advanced skill as a wild party girl. We lived in two different worlds, and in the light of day, she had different allegiances to maintain.

Nothing notable ever happened after this landmark encounter with Jessie, although my sister once told me she heard that Jessie and I frenched. If it happened, I certainly don't remember it.
Striker was able to build upon this encounter and eventually established a somewhat regular schedule of hooking up with Robin, even getting himself into a few sessions of intercourse. Oddly enough, this young Robin would soon fail out of school and reemerge years later in New York City as the Black Crow. But all that will be discussed later in the NYC series.

As for Jessie, she got a boyfriend in the middle of Spring semester. He was the kind of guy who went tanning, wore hats with the Ferrari logo, and worked out in wifebeaters which cost more than I make in a week of work. Whether she is still dating him or some other beautiful man born into wealth, I do not know.
Jessie lives in a world with which I could never compete. Cartier jewelery, sushi dinners, champagne, and late afternoon boat trips; cigarette ash, eyeliner, expensive cocaine, miniature show dogs, and weekend jaunts to Europe. In the immortal words of Patrick Swayze, I'm "just a fool to believe I have anything she needs. She's like the wind.". Of course, the cruel irony is that Jessie, or any other wild party girl for that matter, can't keep up that pace forever. 10 or 15 years from now, when her natural looks have faded and her skin hangs a bit more loosely, those millionaires will not lavish her with the same attention. Only then will she look back and think about how she wasted her time, her energy, and her body on rich pricks to whom she's just another object that money can buy. By the time she realizes the true emptiness of status and rectangular strips of green paper, it will already be too late.
The wild party girl is a rare and fleetingly beautiful species, like a supernova, or Ginger from Casino, destined to burn so bright before inevitably burning out.

Before I moved away, Jessie told us that she had posed for Playboy and would be in the October college girls issue. I was working at the mortgage company in Jersey when I found confirmation on the internet that issue had hit newstands. I left work and drove to the first convenience store I saw, leaving the issue unopened until arrived at my house. Luckily no one was home, and I tore open the magazine before even untucking my shirt or loosening the firm grip of my fancy work pants. My eyes widened as I happened upon the sole image of Jessie, a full page photo of her in a bikini bottom with soft pert breasts fully exposed*. I ripped out my cock like a man possessed and furiously pumped at it while I stood over her picture, seconds later expelling the cumshot with the force of a shotgun blast. I felt a strange calm immediately after, having finally released that festering scum from the depths of my angry balls, a scum that should have rightly been released nearly 8 months prior.

*Just to clarify, Striker and I lived in a duplex where four sorority babes lived above us in a separate unit.
**I have to assume that many of you assholes will email or comment to me that you want to see pictures of Jessie, especially her topless shot. I do possess the picture, but I won't share it with you, simply because I don't want to get sued. I have provided enough clues throughout this post, and if you're halfway intelligent, you should be able to find the picture if you really want to.