GIRL 92
ANAL THIRD BASE GIRL
It was more than a year since the birthday of Girl 6, Alayna, a day I'd spent staring at the wall through tears. And now, a little over a year later, I was numb. I told myself I was healed not only from her, but from the divorce that had made me single in the first place.
Despite my telling myself I was closing in on a relationship, in actuality I had become a super-player. I took phone calls from one girl while driving to the house of another. My post-coital leisure time, while the girl took a shower, was spent text messaging another woman. Perhaps inside I felt burned by all the relationship wreckage behind me and how the world looked at me for now being a two-time loser. All I knew is that the second marriage was supposed to be "it," the ultimate. It was supposed to define me as a guy who not only knew women but himself. Turns out, it was neither. When the marriage came apart, when I looked back on it, I saw how awful it had been. All my interest in death and the afterlife and near death experiences, and the recurring dream of being creamed in a turnpike collision with a tanker truck, were wishes to be taken out of my life.
I got taken out, all right. It just felt like the taking out had been done by some mob soldiers dragging me out of bed and throwing me in the back seat of a Lincoln at three in the morning. Now I'd been dumped in this oddball reality where no woman lasted more than a date or two. Since Girl 82, I don't think I'd put the cock into the same vagina more than three times, even with Girl 89, Dominatrix Girl - with her the sex had mostly been, shall we say, "alternative." That New York attorney I'd romanced on the phone - unsuccessfully as it turned out - had said in a fake British accent, "Michael, you're a Land Rover, going from vagina to vagina." Her assessment made her pull away from me, a pity since she was adorable and had a beautiful life, and nothing I could say or do would get her interested again. So my endless girlfriend search continued.
Anal Third Base Girl was proof. Her pictures were marginal. She had some things I liked, and in a few pictures she was gorgeous. But in others she was plain, and in another one she was a clone of my first wife. Klaxon alarm! In one she had her forehead touching that of a smiling man. Forehead to forehead with the ex is a stupid photo to put on Match.
But what did I care?
Perhaps it was my failure to connect with Next Door Neighbor Southern Belle Girl that fueled my bitterness. Belle was a gorgeous 35 year old blonde in my neighborhood whom I'd never met, but I had more instant messages and phone conversations with her than anyone in months, perhaps a year, and I was falling for a woman "Sleepless in Seattle" style. When she grew remote - inevitably after I did her friend, Girl 91, Unfit Friend Girl - I think I mourned her loss. After all, what did I care? Your loss, toots! Or so I told myself.
So with Anal Third Base Girl I made a brave face and acted half as a player and half as a lonely guy searching for "the girl." No wonder the woman was confused. One moment she'd tell me her deepest sexual fantasy about fucking her last boyfriend's buddy, the next she'd tell me how loyal and faithful she was.
Turns out the man in the picture was, in fact, her ex. I should have pulled the plug there, but I was no longer protecting myself. My affair with Anal Third Base Girl, as I see it now, was an anguished scream in the night.
Perhaps the most memorable story she told was her night in "The Grotto" (not its real name). The Grotto is a male revue in a well-known city near here, a girls-only joint where male midgets in G-strings serve test tube liquor, where muscle-bound well-hung male strippers roam the floor and give table dances, lap dances and face dances, and where all the bachelorette parties are held. What frosted me about the story was that my own wife had her bachelorette party there, after attending two other parties in the place, and her report of the establishment was that it was innocent fun. I later was informed that a "face dance" is where the stripper takes off the G-string and flaps his hardon against the soon-to-be-bride's face, and if she wants, he wraps a large beach towel around his waist and the girl's head so that she can give him a public blowjob. I've seen half a dozen pictures of bachelorette face dances, but so far no female I know has confessed to being near one or having one, as it is the ultimate confession of being a slut - blowing a stranger in public - so I have no idea whether the stripper climaxes in or on the girl's face, whether it is a three minute suck-off to completion or merely a once in-and-out playful thing. I smile to myself thinking about a photographer roaming the floor, giving women eight by ten shots of them sucking big stripper cock, like the photo from the log plume ride at Six Flags. "Here's your blowjob shot, miss, and have a nice wedding!" Hell, they could put it right into the wedding album. "And here's Suzy the weekend before, sucking off Man-Bull-Mark at The Grotto!"
Ah, a double standard, you say? Why is it okay for men to do that, but not women? I don't know, if you put me in a room duct taped to a hard chair with a swinging light bulb in my eyes, I'd probably tell you that it makes no more sense for a guy to do that than a woman. If you're in love and about to get married, what need to you have of two hookers sucking your cock at once while your friends watch? I suppose the answer is that those bachelors don't have a single life like that and want to "get it all in" before the wedding ring goes on. My single life was full-featured. I didn't need dildo-humping hookers at my bachelor party. Certainly there were strippers, but it was my married future brothers-in-law getting the three hundred dollar blowjobs in the privacy booths, not me - I was in love, and no other woman was going to touch my cock. At least, not while her four brothers were ten feet away, for God's sake.
The point is that The Grotto was by the accounts of my ex a fun, innocent, upstanding place where the men never revealed their penises and women were not allowed to touch them, and the men did not want to touch the women nor were they permitted to.
That lie came tumbling down with Anal Third Base Girl's account. I learned this in answer to my "slut quiz" question - "have you ever had an orgasm in public and if so, describe it." At The Grotto, a black stripper stuck his hand up her miniskirt and got to anal third base. She was half bent over at the bar, surrounded by people, she invited him "in" with her eyes, and he did this thing that she said brought her off three times while she was shoulder-to-shoulder with her friends, her face beaded with sweat, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. According to Anal Third Base Girl, his method was this: first he inserted his right index finger up her ass, her quivering opening clenching around his finger, but also loosening up and inviting more of him in. His middle finger then went up her pussy. He would withdraw both fingers almost all the way, then he re-inserted index finger into asshole, middle finger into pussy but also pushed in his ring finger into her lathered-up vagina. This then left his pinky to tickle her clit. He finger-fucked her for a few minutes, and she had public orgasm number one while watching a lap-dancing stripper at the bar in front of her. Then he withdrew the three fingers and got his thumb into her asshole at the same time as his index finger, the two middle fingers in her cunt, and the pinky working on the clit, and this brought Anal Third Base Girl into multiple orgasms. She said she lost count after three more.
I asked her, did you do anything else with this guy? Slip him your number, ask him to your house? No, she said, she was in a live-in relationship, had two teenage sons at home, so going to the house was impractical. She wanted to suck him and fuck him, either there at The Grotto or in his car, but he vanished back into the crowd. In my mind's eye, I could just see a smirking black stripper rushing to the men's room to wash his hands and tell the tale.
Was this typical at The Grotto, I asked. She smiled and claimed she didn't know.
The story polarized me. Half of me wanted her in my bed right then so I could fuck the shit out of that admittedly lustful anus of hers. The other half wanted nothing to do with a woman who'd go to a strip club to be finger fucked by a stranger. Odds are, I sent mixed signals. The end objective became to get my penis taken care of and then get out as fast as possible.
She made a date with me to come to my house and stay overnight. I was skeptical and urged her to meet me for a drink for an hour first, because "pack-your-bag-fuck-me-up-the-ass" first dates never work out. I didn't say that, of course, because the male hope is that one of those first dates WILL work out.
But, just as I'd privately predicted, the idea of driving 40 miles to a guy's bachelor pad townhouse and climbing directly into bed with him was too daunting even for Anal Third Base Girl. What a letdown - a woman who got hand-fucked in a club wouldn't come over for sex. What did that say about my charms? Not much, I'm afraid.
So, humiliatingly stood up, I should have left her alone. God knows, she wouldn't take my phone calls for two days. But I was pissed. I'd invested countless moonlight hours whispering in this girl's ear while she touched herself. She was "a sure thing." I'd be damned if her cold feet would stop me after all this.
The rule is, you don't get into the blog unless I see you in person. And a near-miss like Anal Third Base Girl did not get to the page.
So I re-charmed her. I emailed her, instant messaged her, and romanced her all over again. I told her it was completely understandable that she'd be too nervous to come up for a Saturday afternoon AND night, and that I regretted agreeing to it - not out of lack of desire, of course, but because of her feelings.
You heard it here first. I lied.
I always say that in an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. "I lied." It was arguably the best line in Terminator 3, with the runner-up being, "I'm back."
Anyway, the ploy worked. Anal Third warmed back up and agreed to meet me for lunch where she worked, down south a half hour. I got into the truck with the intentions of picking her up at her office and taking her out for a salad.
I admit to being tempted to stand her up. She and her coworkers got all excited about the date. She'd even arranged to have me meet her in front of "The Goldfish Bowl," a conference room at the front of the building with large plate glass windows, where all her female friends would be tittering and giggling as she met me. Sort of a real life dating show. And standing her up publicly would nicely pay her back for what she did the Saturday before.
But then she wouldn't hit the pages of the blog, and there were no exceptions. At this point it was clear that the Hundred Girls would be an exercise in futility. So, what the hell, I thought, I'd meet her. Who knows, Anal Third Base Girl might even turn out to look like her better pictures, thereby thrilling my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I got out of the truck, slammed the door, looked up at the plate glass windows of the The Goldfish Bowl and saw Anal Third Base Girl in the flesh as she came walking jauntily out of the building.
Ever since my training at the Naval Academy, I've known that acting is as integral to real life as any other skill. As the commanding officer of a ship in combat, an officer must know how to control his face and body language. If the crew were to realize that the captain is frightened, the battle could be lost, so even if a man is terrified, when in command, he must act as if it is all under control. "I meant to do that" was an expression invented by Captain John Paul Jones, father of the U.S. Navy, or so we were led to believe. Later in life, it became paramount in parenting. Many have been the times I've felt like hugging my children and kissing away their angst but instead deliberately wore a frown and screamed convincingly at them, and then when they were out of earshot, sobbing in their rooms, cradled my head in my hands and cried for them.
Like that line from the movie "Fight Club" - "I'd like to thank the Academy…" - in this case, the Academy Awards, not the naval version.
Hi! I said, smiling widely, my facial expression giving Anal Third Base Girl the impression I was thrilled. How are you? It's so good to meet you! At long last! Then I kissed her on the cheek.
As I drove her to the restaurant, Tyrannosaurus Rex appeared in the back seat. He leaned up between us. To my knowledge, he's never materialized as an apparition on an actual date. Always before or after. But there he was, wearing his usual Indiana Jones leather jacket despite the heat, the opaque Ray-Bans, and was chomping on a cigar. I'm surprised Anal Third Base Girl didn't smell the cigar smoke and ask about it.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked.
I'm driving her to the restaurant, I said mentally. He should be able to hear it, I thought, ghost that he was.
"Stop the truck and kick her out. She's hideous!"
Hey, I said, you picked her. You live with this choice.
"I'm leaving," he said. "You're on your own on this date. You think you have a personality without me inside you, you're dead wrong. Anything about you that's good? That's all me, brother."
With that he faded away, and almost instantly I felt weak.
Over salad, Anal Third Base Girl looked at me with concern.
"Are you okay? You look pale."
I'm fine, I said.
I dropped her off at her office an hour later, kissed her cheek, and told her I'd call her.
I zoomed away as fast as I could, feeling much better as Rex rejoined me.
"How was it?" he asked.
Awful, I said. But at least I got her on the page as part of The Hundred.
"Yeah, well, good for you, you writer geek. You just keep feeding that stupid journal of yours. As for me, I'm hunting down some tasty brunette meat."
That should be interesting, I thought.
Anyone in mind?
He smiled. "As a matter of fact, I found a thirty year old woman who looks like Cleopatra, and who is as slutty as they come."
Really? What's her name?
He grinned. "Israeli Air Force Girl."
Thirty years old, I thought. Oh dear God. That sounded like marriage and children.
You sure you know what you're doing?
"Trust me," he said. "I've got your back."
And my front, I hope, I said. By that time we were home, and I signed onto Match for Rex to show me the girl.
When I saw her, my heart stopped.
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