by Balls Malone
After about an hour of driving she had one of her episodes where she compulsively needed semen. Happy to oblige, I pulled over and she blew me. For all her enthusiasm, she was never very good at head. It was like she was attacking it; little animalistic grunts with manic, jerky motions. A bit frightening, actually, but head is head.
Afterwards, inevitably, her mood soured. We stopped a while later for lunch and recriminations.
how to die
With a beautiful woman in a luxury high-rise hotel room overlooking a metropolis.
She gets me high. Bathes me. Pleasures me until there’s nothing left to be done.
When we’re finished, when I can’t manage another act, and I’m lying inside her in a fog of post-coital delirium, she cuts my throat with a straight razor.
I want to see my blood spurt across her breasts. Watch it pump black across white sheets in half light.
She slides from bed and moves to the bathroom, leaving me to die alone. The last thing I see is her ass, backlit from the bathroom light as she flicks it on.
I am a bona fide expert at fucking up opportunities for sex. (Believe it or not, I have had them over the years.) Whatever I have going on, it must work for women in that initial attraction stage, because since high school I’ve very rarely been turned down when I’ve asked a woman out.
At first I fucked up simply by missing the signals. (“No, I shouldn’t come in for coffee. It keeps me awake.”) My early attempts at romance were rife with such blunders. Finally, I had the misfortune to partner up for ten years of monogamous (so I thought) hell with the first woman psychotic enough to wrestle me to the ground and jump my bones. That’s all another story, however.
After recovering from my blessed release from the torments of my first true love, I got a lot better at reading the signals. At parties and whatnot I would see the opportunities and make my move. If the venue was quiet enough for me to work my mojo (I need to be able to communicate effectively) I generally would be successful at getting to the next set of signals. All there was left do was hang around until things wound down, listen to her talk, not say anything too terribly stupid, and I would get laid sooner or later.
Again and again, I couldn’t do it. The sex was simply not worth tolerating the person providing it, even if only for a few hours.
Now don’t confuse misanthropy for misogyny here. Eighty percent of humans are simply not worth bothering with, male or female. It’s just I don’t want to fuck the males. The lesson I took away from this was that my sex drive does not trump my dislike of most people; there is no reward great enough for tolerating any amount of bad company in my free time.
I simply cannot eat out someone who takes American Idol seriously.