FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Five) - JUNE

Okay, I admit it, I'm vain. I'm proud of my body, maintain it the way one would a vintage Harley, which I happen to own so therefore should know. I'm handsome by fate, in great shape by design. The gym is my sanctuary. It is where I seek perfection. A lot to ask for but greed is no crime, and pursuing anything less than the best, nothing but laziness.

I don't go to the gym to socialize like many of the flabby morons about me. Nor do I spend half my time flexing before mirrors peacock style. If there have been any new developments to my physique, I prefer to discover them in the privacy of my home. I simply walk in, do what needs to be done, then head out. Not even leotard clad she-devils distract me.

My work-out schedule is strict and unwavering. If I started up anything with a woman I met at the gym, avoiding her would be difficult. She could track me down consistently, screening calls or ignoring my buzzer would not suffice as blow off methods. Changing gyms would be an option I'd be reluctant to take, for I have a lifetime membership. Contrary to what you may have assumed by now, I am capable of loyalty.

Up until June, the girl and the month, I was able to comply to my rule without much difficulty. I moved about as if wearing blinders, paying nothing and no one any mind, regardless of how erotically they worked the Stairmaster. Then she introduced herself, brazenly appearing by my side as if conjured by a genie. She had a slight overbite that I found quite alluring; breasts perky as a puppy just removed from its cage in the pet store; a taut belly possessing a button I immediately longed to invade with my tongue. I briefly considered shunning her obvious lascivious intentions, but if there are men who can resist the temptation of a nubile girl in her upper teens, I believe I have made it clear by now that I am not one of them.

Over dinner I learned that June had recently completed her first year of college. I correctly guessed her age to be nineteen. She guessed my age to be eight years younger than I actually am. I told her she was right on the nose. Despite her initial zealousness, something about June's flirtation seemed strained, as if seducing me was a chore. I babbled on about my fictional career as a model until the truth finally came out.

June’s high school sweetheart had broken things off with her. His callous reason?  Becoming a college student had failed to convince June that it was time to shed her virginity. She did not regret her decision, and I concurred. The guy was a political science majoring, J.F.K wannabe named Roderick. Certainly she could do better.

That is what just what she had decided to do. She didn't want future relationships with more suitable partners to be jeopardized by maintenance of her virgin status. Not to mention that she was awfully curious. So June spent the months following her break-up in search of the perfect candidate for maker of a lifelong memory. Not somebody blessed with the dumb luck of fortuitous timing, but a studiously considered, well chosen man.  Other than one of her professors who turned out to be happily married, her pickings seemed slim. Unwilling to settle, after all she did only get one shot at this, she figured she had no choice but to wait it out. She joined a gym to work off some of the frustration. There she spied me. Three weeks later she worked up enough courage to make her move.

I should have known better. It takes no brain surgeon to realize that when a virgin says no strings attached, you don't take her at her word. Even Roderick was probably bright enough to know that if he had been granted permission to deflower June, he would have been promising to be in it for the long haul. There are too many beautiful young girls around with no strings whatsoever. Roderick had wisely gone off in search of them. When my turn came along, all I had to say was thanks, but no thanks. Instead I made a woman out of a girl, a mess of my life, and a major inconvenience to my work-out schedule.

It didn't take long for June to decide it was love. What else can regular sex with one partner be to a nineteen year old girl? Weights, sauna, shower, June, shower. Three times a week. By the time I decided to break the pattern, it was of course far too late.

I hate to see a woman cry. It was time for well intentioned lies and gentle truths. I told June that I was separated from my previously unmentioned wife, but she was moving back in and we would be giving our marriage another chance. I said she would find some guy her own age who would be better for her, who would make her happy. I told June I would never forget her, and I meant it.

She spent the next few weeks trying desperately to reclaim what we'd had, for the bonds of my pretend marriage were secondary to the pangs of her first major heartbreak. I was treated to a torrent of tears, hysterics, and name calling, until finally, a quiet, steady, manageable hatred for me settled in. What she lost had been voluntarily surrendered, but nevertheless, people usually feel a measure of regret when their life is unalterably changed, even when the change is for the better. I was to be forever cast in the role of slayer of innocence in the story of her life.

I too was changed by the experience, for I had been taught a valuable lesson. Never take away what you can't pay back. That's what I learned from June.


TALE CONTINUED

Previous Chapter

Send to Kindle

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Four) - JAMIE

I was in the supermarket one day when I spied what appeared to be the last remaining can of French Onion soup, which I had been craving and was the main reason I had come to the supermarket in the first place. My hand grabbed hold of the can an instant before another hand grasped mine. I turned towards the woman who shared my appetite.

She was in her early fifties, just beginning to turn gray, not bothering to hide it. It wasn't necessary, for the signs of age that showed were no match for her beauty. Her ample breasts still stood high, thanks to exercise and a good bra. Child bearing had added voluptuous rather than matronly inches to her hips. The faint crows’ feet that framed her pavement colored eyes did not diminish their sparkle. But what entranced me most was her neck, slender and unblemished, reminiscent of a porcelain swan I used to admire in my childhood home.

"How about I keep it but take you to lunch as a trade off? What are you in the mood for?"

She gestured to the can I held. I thought she meant that she still wanted it until she suggested a French restaurant a few blocks away.

Jamie was her name, and my asking her to lunch had been just what she needed to shake off the funk she was in. Two months prior she had become a grandmother.

"I know it's selfish to be anything but ecstatic. My granddaughter is a perfect little jewel. But I can't get used to the fact that I'm Grandma now. It doesn't seem like I was given enough time to just be Jamie. When did I grow old?"

"You haven't."

"You're being kind."

"That I am. But I happen only to be kind to young, vibrant, sexy women. And don't expect me to tell you that again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd rather show you."

Jamie's husband had died eighteen months earlier of a heart attack in the arms of his mistress. This event relieved her of the role of neglected wife she had played for many years. Her most crucial duties as a mother were also behind her. Now she was a grandmother. But she was also a woman, one grown tired of titles. To me Jamie was who she longed to be, at least for one more afternoon.

I had often seen lust and love in the eyes of conquests, but gratitude of this nature was something new. It made me feel proud, as if having performed a humanitarian deed. The pride acted as aphrodisiac and I do believe Jamie was the beneficiary of one of my finer love making exhibitions. It was a perfectly wonderful encounter, and when it was over, no expectations were held on either side. Jamie was reassured that becoming a mother squared had not turned off her libido or attractiveness. I ended up with another sweet memory, and a can of soup.

TALE CONTINUED

Previous Chapter

Send to Kindle

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Three) - CLARISE

Most of the women I hook up with have no connections between them. I meet them in different settings, initial encounters are brought about by a multitude of scenarios. I rarely stick around long enough to be introduced to sisters, co-workers or girlfriends. And I have more class than to come on to a woman introduced to me by a lover. But to every rule there are exceptions, and meeting Clarise on account of Michelle was just that. We met at Michelle's wedding reception, an affair I felt was not to be missed. I usually have a good time at such events, so many women around with romantic notions in their heads. Clarise ensured that this time would be no different.

If she was over five feet tall, she barely made it. This aroused me in the same way that a beautiful woman over six feet tall does. There's just something about extremes. Why walk upon common ground when you can be at the top of a mountain or bottom of the sea? Clarise and I met by inadvertently bumping elbows at the bar. She was Michelle's aerobics instructor. Judging by the amount of people in the place, everyone Michelle had ever met was there. I had picked out over a dozen potential targets, but fate threw Clarise in my path first. Or perhaps she threw herself there. I didn't bother to ask.

In case you were wondering, I don't use pre-prepared pick up lines. Any bullshit I end up tossing is usually invented on the spur of the moment, inspired by the particular situation I find myself in. Who I am depends largely on who she is, who she wants to be, and who she wants to be with.

For Clarise I was an ex-jock, my promising football career cut short when I injured my knee in a college Bowl game. I could almost see myself in uniform, pulling down a bullet pass from the back of the end zone. Claiming to have once dressed as a USC Trojan wasn't too much of a stretch, since that happens to be the brand of condom I don.

One night stands don't always take place entirely in the course of one night. Clarise and I exchanged no bodily fluids that day, only phone numbers. I am not one of those guys who leaves a woman waiting for days by the phone. I don't request a number unless I intend to dial it, usually within a day or two. I undertake all missions with intent to complete them.

Things seemed to be going well during what was to be our first and last date. Halfway through her second glass of wine however, the mood changed. Something gave Clarise an excuse to bring up her ex-boyfriend. They had been together for six years, marriage presumably just around the corner. But it turned out that her man was not inclined to make that turn any time soon. So she broke up with him, figuring it was just a temporary measure that would make him realize what a good thing he was losing out on. Unfortunately, he never did figure this out. Instead, he began seeing another woman and within three months was engaged to her.

Her ex and his fiancée had been at the wedding. No wonder Clarise was so friendly towards me. She had hoped to make him as jealous as he was making her, to win him back by acting like his presence wasn't even noticed. It seemed I was on a roll when it came to being used, but I wasn't such a hypocrite to let this upset me. I was simply glad that her little charade was ineffective, or else she wouldn't be with me. I told Clarise this, but the flattery didn't lift her spirits any. It appeared I was in danger of becoming one of those schmucks I pity most, guys with perennially dampened shoulders from letting women cry on them, but nothing else getting soaked by the heat of desire.

I turned the sympathy bit around on her, telling Clarise that I too had been the victim of a long term relationship that ended badly, at least from my perspective. According to my yarn, as soon as my knee was rehabilitated enough to make a pro team, we were to be wed. But once I knew for certain that my knee would never get strong enough, not only did I have to deal with the loss of my dream, but my girlfriend dumped me for one of the New York Jets. Clarise was money in the bank after that bit of concocted melodrama, and her third glass of wine probably aided my cause as well.

Those are the details of the tale I wove, but a tale on its own will not suffice. Women like Clarise believe firmly in love that strikes instantly, long before familiarity settles in. They feel not only that love can exist without knowing a person particularly well, but that "true love", the takes-your-breath-away kind that romance novelists and serial killers cash in on, exists only in such a climate. I can honestly say that this mindset makes a fair amount of sense to me, so it was with little difficulty that I continued to ham it up along these lines. I told Clarise how overwhelming my attraction to her was, that I had not expected to feel so strongly about another woman for a long time, but there was just something about her that I was helplessly drawn to. These are the sort of Hallmark card declarations that can make many a man, and also a few women, gag as if having accidentally swallowed a kitchen utensil. Even in the most conducive of circumstances, such sentiments must be expressed judiciously and timed perfectly in order not to come off cartoonish.

In my expert hands there was no danger of this. Not only did I not choke on the words, but to some extent I even meant them. I described myself to you as a liar earlier. But like many a method actor, I often sincerely believe what I’m saying at the moment I’m saying it. Then the mercifully brief moment passes, other moments transpire, and what I had almost convinced myself of no longer applies. I have as little control over the changing of my mind as I do over the passage of time. Reality is no less transient than fantasy, so perhaps then, it is no more real.

Within a few strokes I can tell if the woman beneath me thinks she's fucking or making love, and Clarise clearly felt the latter. She thought we were two wounded souls whom destiny had brought together to heal one another. Clarise believed we had something substantial because I allowed her to stop feeling sorry for herself by feeling sorry for me. She was ready to be a naughty nurse rather than a helpless patient so I let her tend to my imaginary wounds of the heart. After several consecutive days of undesired phone calls, I told her I had reconciled with my old girlfriend. One too many losses by the Jets had done the trick. Clarise should have understood, since she would have dumped me first had her ex come back around. But he didn't, so she didn't, and sometimes that's just the way things go.

Was the sexual workout she put me through worth the emotional wringer I subjected her to? The answer is yes. It's always yes. Why else would I keep doing it?


TALE CONTINUED

Previous Chapter

Send to Kindle

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Two) - NATALIE

There has never been any need for me to hold down a nine-to-five gig, a fact that I never cease to be grateful for. Corporate America holds absolutely zero appeal to me. Just about everyone I know who is caught in that trap complains endlessly about it, and the rare few who don’t seem to mind their captivity are to a man or woman the least interesting people I’ve encountered.

Having been spared from such a fate by a generous inheritance, I have never experienced one of the more popular forms of interplay amongst the sexes – the interoffice romance. On the plus side, this has exempted me from the risk of being accused of sexual harassment. It also means I’ve never been the boy-toy of a female superior, which strikes me as a considerable perk that I’ve missed out on. Although I do not don a suit and tie five days per week and schlep a heavy briefcase to some office, or worse yet, some cubicle, I have done beyond my fair share of hiring. Since my home and my office are one and the same, and in part because I was raised by a woman who came pretty close to the textbook definition of germaphobe, I am rather obsessive about cleanliness and order. As result, I have gone through a great number of cleaning services in search of a crew who would meet my demanding white glove standards. One after another they failed to measure up until the day Gladys and Carmela entered my home and removed every last speck of dust from all nooks and crannies to be found. I was nearly brought to tears by their thoroughness. At last my search was over. For three years they dutifully showed up once a week and worked their magic, sweeping, mopping and dusting with a fervor that allowed me total peace of mind.

One day Gladys showed up with a new comrade. Carmela was feeling under the weather, so Natalie had agreed to temporarily step in for her. In three years I had not had a single sexual urge while my apartment was being cleaned, and one look at Gladys and Carmela is all it would take for anyone to figure out why this was so. They were both darling women, but neither of these middle aged Columbian women warranted a second glance. As for Gladys’ twenty four year old daughter, I never took a second look at Natalie because I was incapable of unlocking my initial gaze, even though I had much difficulty fixing it to one particular area. Her pouty lips seemed custom designed for the activity I most loved to be performed on my favorite body part. A snug, abbreviated shirt could barely constrain natural breasts that were remarkably perky for their impressive size, and also showcased an athletically taut abdomen. Tight shorts highlighted flawless legs and an ass that surpassed perfection. Apparently she had no idea how to properly dress for a cleaning gig, much to my distraction and delight. Her incredible array of curves had me hypnotized, mesmerized, and if I be permitted the artistic license to invent a word here – hornyized as hell.

As luck would have it, Gladys needed to run out for five minutes to restock her cleaning fluid. This gave me a minute and half longer than I needed to convince Natalie to stop by later that evening on her own. Her command of English was rather shaky, but the passion burning in her eyes spoke the same language as my own. I did suspect that her lust was perhaps of a slightly different variety than mine. She may have been in search of a sugar daddy who would guarantee that this would be her last time cleaning someone’s apartment for spending money. It could have been that she had a thing for older men, not so old that stamina would be an issue, but old enough to have mastered what they were doing to a woman’s appreciative body. Or maybe she simply got a mildly perverse kick out of being paid to make a man’s bed only to return and mess it up again. I could not say for sure, nor did I really care. My only interest was in paying homage to the magnificent job that God had done in molding such a splendid specimen of womanhood. I have known women who spent a fortune on personal trainers, Botox injections, liposuction, plastic surgery, the most exclusive make-up, hairstylists, facials, etc. simply to be a distant runner up to the likes of Natalie. The sex would no doubt be amazing even if she was relatively inexperienced, earth shattering if she possessed the basic requisite skills, and due to our language barrier, conversation before and afterwards would be minimal. I had no complaints whatsoever.

Natalie became my weekly fix for the next few months. Our affair was kept secret from Gladys upon my request. Natalie did not have a problem with this. Her love life was her business and now also my leisure. At first she surpassed my most erotic wishes to such a degree that I was genuinely smitten, my version of it anyway, which means an erection would start forming as soon as the buzzer of my apartment let me know each Wednesday that she had arrived. But by our fourth bout of furniture breaking fornication it had become obvious that her biggest language flaw was not a limited grasp of English, but rather, that she had very few interesting things to say. We had virtually nothing in common. She didn’t seem especially interested in learning anything new about the world from me, and since I was already acquainted with the words of Spanish she screamed out in the heat of the moment due to previous dalliances with Latinas, there was little for me to learn from her. This was a guaranteed recipe for boredom regardless of how good the sex was, and once I was thoroughly familiar with her body and no longer needed to fantasize about what every naked square inch looked like, even the sex became merely ordinary. When she started to hint that it would be nice for me to expand our routine by taking her out to the movies, or clubbing, or shopping, or getting together with her friends rather than just erotically occupying ourselves in the confines of my apartment, it was clear that the status quo would have to change one way or another. She was interested in dating as well as fucking, whereas simply the latter served me quite fine. I was almost surprised to discover that my appetite for her was not insatiable. Apparently I preferred a relationship with Natalie that was sort of similar to the one I had with her mother. I wanted her to come to me and service my needs, at which point I was content for her to leave. Since I did not pay Natalie for her time as I did her mother, the writing was on the wall that our time together had run its course. She seemed to handle it pretty well. There were no tears, no anger, no doe eyed asking for another chance. Natalie was so composed and mature about our break up that I almost rescinded it at the last minute. But the big head prevailed over the satisfied one, primarily because I waited until after we had made love one last time to deliver my prepared speech. The following week Gladys and Carmela did not punctually arrive at my door as was their habit. Once they were past fifteen minutes late I began to fear the worst case scenario. It was confirmed when I called Gladys’ cell phone and was cursed out in Spanglish for messing around with her beloved daughter.

No matter how poor the service, I know not to treat wait staff rudely if I don’t want something unappetizing to be placed in my food as revenge. I would never offend the barber who was cutting my hair because I’d rather not have to shave my head or wear a hat every day for several weeks. And thanks to Natalie, who ended up teaching me something valuable after all, I’ve learned that regardless of how fine her daughter may be, never to jeopardize my relationship with a top notch cleaning woman. They are too few and far between. I’ve lost track of how many I’ve gone through in the year since I last saw Gladys and Carmela. I remain picky and dissatisfied about the one facet of my life that was happily settled for awhile, with no one but myself to blame.

TALE CONTINUED

Previous Chapter

If you missed the start of the tale, backtrack to the Prologue via this link and read forward from there.

Send to Kindle

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter One): MICHELLE

I was reaching for a napkin when our eyes first met. Some Wall Street type whose lighter side was showcased by the cartoon characters on his suspenders was plying her with drinks which had sexually explicit names, hoping to put ideas as well as alcohol into her head. Being no fool she accepted the free drinks and scanned the bar while feigning interest in his stock portfolio. If one third of the shit he was spouting was accurate, the guy could probably afford a woman like her, at least for a few weeks. But it was plain to see, at least to me, that she was in search of less fiscal pleasures. 

She broke eye contact within a few seconds but conveyed in that time all I needed to know. I turned back to my White Russian. The night was young and I am nothing if not a patient man. 

The guy obviously didn't want to risk letting her out of his sights, but his bladder was stronger than his will, so an hour down the road he took a gamble. The moment his ass was off the stool, the woman he hoped to be going home with set her sights on me, her gaze now locked and loaded. I gave no indication that I noticed. In fact, I had disregarded most of the glances cast my way throughout the evening, acted as if transfixed by the mixture of Kahlua, vodka, milk and a splash of coke in my glass. She struck me as someone used to getting what she wanted, so I knew my best bet lay in putting the matter in doubt. When I finally did acknowledge her, the hardness of her stare was as blatant as a punch to the face. She wordlessly demanded to know if I was qualified to handle such a precious commodity. I headed over to answer the question posed by her midnight eyes.

As I approached she stood up, meaning that she was ready to leave, with me if I said the right thing, alone if I said anything less. She was taller than expected, proportioned like a fashion model who wasn't hooked on heroin just yet, attired in money-is-no-object style. Such women inevitably tend to be preoccupied with themselves, which I suppose is excusable, since everyone else is preoccupied with them as well. Unfortunately, such a personality trait usually forebodes a lousy lay. But from the first words she spoke, I knew I had pressed a wrong key in my stereotype. 

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let that guy buy me half of Saks?" 

"Saks doesn't sell vibrators." 

"Do you?" 

"I have a trunk load at home. But you won't be needing them." 

"Good."

In the midnight hours of a Manhattan night, a cab can go from the top of the city to the bottom, or vice versa, without catching a single red light. The absence of those sudden stops and starts can make for one hell of a blow job if you find the right mouth to accommodate you. I had no complaints.

In a more conventional lovemaking locale, as we sprawled out on my bed during rest periods, I learned that Michelle had married and widowed well. She claimed not to have had decent sex in over four years, the last time being with the stripper from her bachelorette party. Michelle had been a good girl for a long time. I let her be bad again, and again, and again. 

I told Michelle I was a writer, for that is what I fancy myself, and impressive lies were unnecessary by this point. Not having to work for a living allows me the opportunity to attempt whatever comes to mind. Writing the Great American Novel seemed like a good idea. Starting it has not been a problem. I have written thirty-four first chapters, at which point I always run out of steam. I didn't tell Michelle this. I just bent her over my writing desk. Lack of steam was not an issue. 

I suppose I could have griped that unlike the stripper, I did not have advance notification of Michelle's upcoming nuptials. But I'm not one to complain. Knowing that I was having my way with someone who was about to become another man’s wife would have sprinkled additional spice on what had been a red hot night. I would have put in some extra effort to guarantee that the end of her single days be as memorable as possible. Marriage is a pretty tough gig from what I hear, so best to enter such a state on the highest possible note.

TALE CONTINUED

If you missed the Prologue take this link to it, then return here.

Send to Kindle

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: A Novella Serialized (Prologue) - MICHAEL

I have decided to present my novella Feeding the Squirrels, which is published by SynergEbooks exclusively as an eBook, here at A LINE A DAY in serial format.  Every three days a new installment will post until the tale has been told in its entirety.  The story is Rated R, falling short of 50 Shades of Grey degree of explicitness.  I don't believe it would be categorized as erotica but it most definitely is about sex, about a man who can't get enough of it, a man who has no trouble finding one ready and willing partner after another.  Michael is not merely fulfilled but defined by these sexual conquests.  Each chapter in between the first and last is named after a woman he has been intimate with, and thus helped to shape his identity.  His single-minded pursuit of pleasure is the common thread that unites them. But although the succession of affairs are singular experiences to a man who rarely thinks of yesterday or tomorrow, they eventually intertwine and leave him with a web of his own design to untangle.  Enjoy!


“The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman's love with no intention of loving her.” - Bob Marley

You may be envious once I've related a little about myself. Or perhaps you will despise me. No matter. I seek neither acceptance nor punishment. And as for peace of mind, that elusive serum for hobgoblins which sets so many self-indulgent tongues in motion, I never held much stock in the stuff. I choose to spill my guts for no other reason than that they overflow.


This is not my life story. About myself there isn't much to tell. Not because the passage of time has been uneventful. My travels have been numerous, though no topographer could chart the shores I have landed upon. For it is not places that have been my destination, but women. I am drawn to them by a force I have never questioned. To their infinite variety of charms I am helpless. But the hold of none has been strong enough to keep me from wandering aimlessly to others. No matter how sweet the pollen of a particular flower, the supply quickly runs out. Rather than settle in the embrace of petals, I move onward, because my thirst has yet to be quenched.


I suppose I am blessed. Those who dream exclusively of riches do not find money where others see only leaves. A desire for fame is usually unfulfilled by the obscure. Longing for immortality adds not a second to one's allotted time. And I know there are men with carnal natures equal to mine who find relief mostly in the palm of their hands. But that which I seek, I tend to find.


I have done nothing to earn such good fortune. Genetics showed favor without regarding my worthiness for the gift. Of course, more important than appearance is knowledge of what to say, who to say it to, and who not to bother with. This too was bestowed upon me, though I am less certain how this came to be. Unlike the origin of my physical features, climbing the family tree provides few clues.

I would love to claim the ability to posses any woman I choose, but such a notion is ludicrous. Rather, I am gifted at knowing whom to eliminate as possibilities and whom to pursue wholeheartedly. My talent is looking into a woman's eyes and instinctively knowing what I need to. If she's lonely or bored; neglected or abused; timid or adventurous; satisfied or confused; looking to recapture the past or re-invent the present; making plans for tomorrow or merely concerned about tonight. I discover what a woman is looking for and promise it to her. If all she wants is a good time, she gets everything. If she wants more, I lie and take what she has to give. Then I move on.


You can say I'm taking advantage of the vibes I sense, or make a case that the vibes are exploiting my weakness. I take nothing that is not willingly offered. I hunt only for the bodies. Is it my fault that trust occasionally comes along for the ride?


I love them all in my fashion. For me, love means never forgetting. Every moment of the ecstasy is preserved, the agony as well. I remember who they were, and who I pretended to be. Or perhaps it's who they brought out of me. It seems I am unable to tell the difference. Does the answer lay in the truth beneath my lies, or the lies beneath my truths?

I determine what a woman's fantasy is, then play the part. This is done for my benefit as much as theirs, for most women will and do settle for far less than their ideal. You see, I’ve found that I need to be someone else. Or maybe I just need to be someone. The lies set up the foundation. The women fill in the empty spots. Take away the lies and the women, and who am I? Your guess is as good as mine.


My name is Michael. I don't lie about my name. Something has to be sacred, it might as well be something inconsequential. My father passed away when I was in my early teens, leaving me independently comfortable and on my own to determine what it meant to be a man. Bequeathed the luxury of spending time as I saw fit, my cock decided early on to run my itinerary. Since further back than I can remember, as I suckled on my mother's breasts, I have been a hedonist. Having no brothers or sisters, parental attention did not have to be split. I got it all, just as I like it.


I sense your misinterpretation already. You think I'm selfish, but in fact, giving pleasure is far more important to me than receiving. Seeing a woman's satisfied smile, hearing her contented moans, that's my reward. Sometimes I think I am the sum of the orgasms I bring about. When they cease to come I will likely cease to be. If I satisfy a woman's physical desires, it must mean I am worthy of her appreciation. When she clutches my back and tries to draw me in deeper, the moment could only be enhanced if she absorbed me entirely.

That's enough about me. I want to speak of them. The ethereal beings who give purpose and meaning to my existence. They are as varied as can be. My lust may not be blind, for standards must be met, but what stirs my loins is more spiritual than physical. I am equally content laying my head on pillow-like breasts or slurping substantially smaller versions like a pair of Hershey's chocolate Kisses. An ass tight as a fist brings my blood to a boil, but one that voluptuously stretches elastic to its limit has a similar effect. As long as a woman's legs are wrapped around my torso, short or long, thick or thin makes little difference. And as for the fiery region between those legs, I have yet to encounter one I did not find sublime.

If I brought about solely pleasure, I suppose I would be a happy man. But I am also responsible for pain on occasion, and this shames me, though only in retrospect. The pain is caused by them wanting more than I am willing to give. I make promises I know I won't keep, and some people grow attached faster and stronger than others. The thing is, for the most part I can detect these situations in advance. It's my gift, remember? I'm fully cognizant of what they desire, and need only be honest to avoid the inevitable scene of heartbreak. But then I wouldn't get to experience what they have to share, and my greed never fails to vanquish my conscience. The women who want the most are the ones I most desire, because they have the longest distance to travel towards contentment. They're in search of a man who will make their dreams of day a reality of night. The look in their eyes when they see the possibility of that in mine is a drug I cannot decline. I need to make the oaths as much as they need to hear them. Then I must callously break them.

If you are inclined to listen, I will tell you about a few of the women who have flitted in and out of my life. All beautiful in a way unique to the individual possessor. Each one touching me in a fashion, adding to the blank slate that I am. Some wanting me to stay regardless of the circumstances, but all being left behind. They had to be. How else was I to find out who and what lay ahead?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

TALE CONTINUED 

                     

                       

Send to Kindle