GIRL 90
ROPE NURSE (DATE RAPE) GIRL
I had become supernaturally adept at finding diamonds in the rough, that is, at detecting complete, degenerate, cock-sucking, cum-slurping, fuck-me-up-the-ass-right-now sluts who hid behind Polly Purebread holier-than-thou profiles.
Case in point - Rope Nurse Girl.
Later she would pay me the compliment that I had successfully brought out the inner slut in her.
Not true.
She was already a high heels, thigh highs, peek-a-boo bra wearing slut long before I heaved to in her life and threw over my lines. I merely did what no other man before had done - I refused to believe her press release that even she had come to think represented reality.
I’m not sure what it is that gave her away. I’d like to claim credit from my profile slut linear regression I’d been working on for more than a year. I was pretty proud of it, actually. I’d looked back on the women who were not necessarily attracted to me so much as they were sluts in the absolute, and I reviewed their profile words. The words reflected warmth and openness. My best example was Girl 29, Separated Mom Girl, who spoke of “heating up a room as we gaze into each other’s eyes.” Perhaps subliminally, Rope Nurse Girl used “hot” words that tipped off my subconscious to what her subconscious wanted.
Or perhaps it was her pictures. Despite a female’s attempt to appear nonsexual in a profile to avoid weird men, they cannot disguise their identity in pictures. At some point, the true woman comes out. Not just in appearance, but in the mere selection of what pictures to post. Just another reason I avoided women with no picture in the profile - they are hiding from the male examination. Terrible way to kick off a relationship.
The woman who presented herself as a “nice girl” had what other men would describe as nice girl photographs, but there was something in her eyes, a particular fire, a small spark, but I knew there was something there.
She was a nurse, and I wrote her erotic emails, almost expecting that she wouldn’t reply. I immediately named her “Rope Nurse Girl” in a soliloquy about S&M, about her tying me up to take a rectal temperature.Her response was extraordinary. It was as if she broke into perspiration and was fanning herself in embarrassment. She literally stuttered in her reply email! “I just - just - just don’t know what to say to that!” I smiled so hard I thought my face would freeze like that. Despite what seemed like a rejection, I kept soldiering on, not taking no for an answer.
On the phone, she said, “oh my God, I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me!” But there was an exasperated delight in her voice. This woman appreciated a bad boy. She badly needed a bad boy.
She showed up at the restaurant in north Jersey wearing a khaki sleeveless outfit that coordinated the bottom and top with flat shoes. The sleeveless top had pockets over the breasts. The bottom was culottes. Now, first off, I hate when women wear sleeveless tops - it almost always makes their upper arms look fat. Second, I hate culottes. Not shorts. Not a skirt. Some unholy bastard son of the two. It’s a perfect representation of how women can’t decide what they want. They don’t want to look like a fat, greasy mom at Disney World wearing shorts. They don’t want to dare to wear an actual skirt with “easy access” to the pot o’gold at rainbow’s end, the pussy. Culottes are a failure of courage.
Now, that said, the woman’s upper arms were tanned and thin and toned. And her legs were to fuckin’ die for. You’d look at that damned body and think of one thing and one thing only - fucking! Any boy alive would want those gorgeous arms and legs wrapped around him, bar none. Despite the awful packaging, Rope Nurse Girl had a completely bitchin’ figure. Beneath those breast pockets were awesome breasts.
Normally I would have worked on how to get the outfit off the girl, but reality intruded.
In person, Rope Nurse Girl was all about three things. First, she seemed honor bound to make the point that she truly WAS Polly Purebread, not Sally Suck-the-Cock Slut. Second, she was spoiling over her failed marriage, and was having blame problems. It was his fault, that old song. Third, she was all about not liking me.
The date became combat from the start. Since she’d gone for the gun first, I didn’t mind taking my own sword from its scabbard, and for the rest of the evening we fought.
I don’t remember it all. I tried to address the slut issue, saying there was nothing wrong with that, but I was shouted down with feminist rhetoric. I’ll spare my neo-anti-feminism theories here, but let’s say there are biological imperatives that if ignored, lead to unhappiness. I tried to address the divorce blame issue by bringing up the Bilateral Blame Theory.
The "Nancy Wallitsch Bilateral Fault Theory" came from my umpteenth divorce attorney during the first divorce, who watched me boil over in her palatial office one afternoon after a hearing we lost. I'm usually calm in the face of severe stress, but even I break when it goes too far, and this day, it took me apart. I blew up and began to list how my ex was grossly at fault for everything that happened in the failed marriage.
Nancy stood over me and put her finger in my face.
"This divorce is one hundred percent YOUR fault," she said in controlled fury.
"My fault?! But -- "
"Listen," she commanded. "YOU found this idiot, YOU dated her, YOU got engaged to her, YOU insisted she meet you at the end of the altar, YOU forsook all others for her. Michael, this bitch from hell is YOUR creation! It is one hundred percent YOUR fault."
Oh, I said, I see your point.
The Wallitsch Theory of Bilateral Fault began to take over my thinking every time I would resent a situation I was in. I began to see that whenever there is something unique happening to me, it is attributable to me. If you don’t believe that, take a look at Girl 25, Penis Picture Girl.
At one point we sat outside the restaurant on a park bench while I lit up a Cohiba. See that Mercedes over there, I asked, my frustration level rising. Imagine that lovely, shiny, gorgeous car with an empty gas tank. That’s you. You have one flaw, you’re goddamned attitude toward men and sex. You change that, you’re perfect.
I looked at her stormy brown eyes, made even darker by her blonde locks. Next time, I said, consider fucking the boy on the first date.
I stood. The date was over. It had been a spectacular failure, one that I’d need to analyze in detail. The post-mortem would be difficult and painful, I thought.
I offered to walk her to her car, a new Audi A6. I’d parked the SaleenMustang GT about a mile away, because Westfield, NJ is a popular place on a Saturday night. My car was on a quiet residential street in front of a row of Victorian houses.
I was surprised when Rope Nurse girl told me to get in, and that she would drive me to my car. I shrugged and climbed into the rich leather passenger seat. You can tell a lot about someone by their choice in cars, but also by how they keep it. Rope Nurse Girl’s car was tidy yet lived-in.
She pulled up behind the red Mustang, turned off the engine and looked at me. I had my hand on the door release, thinking she was about to toss off a comment that she intended to be the last word. I was debating whether to let her have her victory or to come back with something witty. But as her lips parted to speak, there were no words.
And then those lips planted themselves on my mouth, and her tongue came into me and her hand caressed my cock and in no time at all my penis was throbbing in my pants. Two seconds later her long, elegant, feminine fingers were unlatching my belt buckle, and when I looked up at her, her clothes had melted away, and that gorgeous body was naked and asking to be touched. Before I could even reach for one of those creamy breasts, I witnessed the miracle of her smooth, long thigh sailing over my exposed midsection as she straddled me. One of her hands grabbed my penis and let it touch her right at her moist pussy lips. Once I was lubricated with her, she slid down on me, slowly at first, then jammed herself down on my lap, my cock going deep inside her. She tilted her head far back and moaned, then began to bounce on my cock.
I stared at her in disbelief. I was being date raped. I couldn’t imagine this was really happening to me. I reached back behind her, spread her ass and jammed one, then two fingers into her quivering asshole and pulled her up off my cock, then slammed her back down on it. After a wonderful time interval, that could have been fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds, she jumped off my cock, got on her knees and put it in her mouth, and the sight of that woman sucking on my cock is a memory I’ll treasure for a long time.
I don’t think either of us came. It was confining in the car, and there was the danger of being caught. To some, that would add excitement, but I like room to maneuver and the knowledge that no cop will be banging his flashlight on the window. At some point we disconnected, kissed and drove our separate ways.
I called her almost immediately. She said it didn’t count as my calling her until the next day.
I was in a romantic haze, and despite the struggle of the date, I wanted to carry on with Rope Nurse (Date Rape) Girl. I wrote her a long, sweet email and I sent it, but just as I hit the send button, I got an email from her. It was a hate-mail.
I couldn’t believe it. She date rapes me, I call her afterward, I write her a sweet letter, and in return I get a “fuck-you” email.
So I fired back with a “fuck you too” email, and in return, I get her email replying to my sweet email, and it’s conciliatory and in it she admitted that she had feelings for me. So I respond to that, but in return I get hate mail from her as she read my first hate letter.
We went on like that for an entire day before we both gave up, laughed it off and agreed to be friends.
At one point a few weeks later, she sent me the loveliest pictures of herself wearing nothing but high heels, an open lab coat and a smile. Oo la la! But I was done assessing her motivations. No one knew what she really wanted, least of all Rope Nurse Girl.
There are times I wish I’d met her later in her post-divorce experience. Once she works through the high seas of being single, she’ll make some lucky guy one hell of a girlfriend. But until then, her conflicted psyche might make the boy seasick. Perhaps I should have renamed her Push Me Pull You Girl.
Nah. Rope Nurse (Date Rape) Girl is the perfect name for her.
A final word - Rope Nurse Girl will undoubtedly want the last word. Here are a few of her gems -
*************************
I am an attorney representing [real name deleted] herein known
as, Rope Nurse Girl. This letter is to inform you
that, when writing her blog entry, by order of the
court you will refrain from using any and all such
expressions as "face-fucking a corpse" "Mercedes with
an empty tank" "bitch" "cunt"*(*the latter may be used
in a positive way, however). And, last but not least,
"lab coat photo" Failing to comply with the above
order will result in severe penalties.
*************************
G'head I can take it...
I don't want to influence your writing, but I'm lying
naked in a warm bath right now, a rusty blade poised
at my wrist.
*************************
Great...my sense of humor gives you carte blanche to
skewer me to your heart's content. Wonderful.
I could see it now...
...finally, the date ended. Couldn't wait to get away
from this uptight bitch. I excused myself to go to
the men's room. THAT was when it happened. She
slipped the roofie in my Merlot. Next thing I knew I
was on my back in her car, pants down, wrists tied
tightly with rope (how do you think she got her
name?)...through a drugged-out haze I remember her
mounting me, throwing her head back shrieking "You're
mine, all mine!!!!" That hideous sound - forever
etched in my brain...the last thing I remember is the
heel of her stiletto boot in my back, kicking me out
of the car. I lay in the parking lot half-nude, dazed
and humiliated - watching as her tires peeled out -
her Bush/Cheney bumper sticker under a street lamp in
the distance...
Am I close?
*************************
You're scaring me now...
My only consolation is that Dominatrix Girl will be
such a whopper of a story, most readers will yawn and
quickly pass over mine - so there!
*************************
So better check the “comments” after this entry to see what the woman says. I’m sure she’ll take issue with everything I wrote about her! It will be typical!
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