GIRL 50 ~ NAPLES BISTRO GIRL

GIRL 50

NAPLES BISTRO GIRL

I'm not one for dating New York City chicks. Forty miles away, but may as well be on Pluto. Bridges, tunnels, and one big-assed hassle. Every female profile on Match says, in addition to "I love cozy nights by the fire, sunset walks on the beach" and other such bullshit, they invariably say, "I love the city."

God, please. The female idea of loving the city is being driven in by a limo (which is paid for by the guy), being taken to a play (guy bought the tickets), being taken to a five star restaurant (which all suck in NYC, yet cost hundreds a plate, all due to snotty snob appeal, but anyway, ALSO paid for by the boy) and then chauffeured back home again, where the girl is dropped off early enough to get a good night's sleep but too late to have sex. Gee, sorry Mr. Man! I guess you'll have to suffer blue balls!

I say, fuck the city. To me, New York City is as much a place of work as a cubicle on Monday morning. I go there, get my ass chewed by agents, editors, editors in chief, cover artists, marketing gurus - and that's my "fun" writing career. The "real" work, heavy industrial construction, means going to the city and negotiating for my supper. You try sitting across the starched tableclothed Italian restaurant table from Tony Soprano and explain to him why you're taking a million off his invoice. See if you can do that without floating face down in the East River, I dare you! For me, that's just a normal Tuesday. And there's no champagne limos either, it's a mud-encrusted 4Runner in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

And don't get me started about the "finest restaurants in the world." They are about as good as Cleveland's at seven times the price. Although, I'm sorry, that was an insult to Cleveland, which didn't do anything mean to me.

So when the stunning Italian woman hit on me and hit hard, I was put off a bit. Naples Bistro Girl had this beautiful Italian accent, was only here for ten years, and ran a very cool restaurant in the Village (for you folks from west of the Hudson River, that's a cute little area on Manhattan, New York City, where various artists and weirdos hang out; the bars are good, but the restaurants - did I mention this before? - suck). So I had a double stand-up comedy routine for her, my hate of the city and of the city's garbage-bin food merchants. Fortunately, she had a sense of humor.

There's a lot to be said about foreign cultures. Wake up, America! French girls, Italian Girls, even fuckin' British bitches with short hair and their eyes too close together from all that island inbreeding, are superior to American females when it comes to romance. American materialistic cunts are all about the money. They want the NBA player, the doctor, the lawyer, the CEO, the entrepreneur, and they don't want that guy out of true love, but to suck all the money out of his wallet. And they'll only suck the cum out of his cock to get to the wallet. You guys of wealth, listen up. Never try to impress a girl with money. Act like you are penniless. If she loves you, if she's one of those truly rare American females of character, THEN reveal that you've got a smokin' hot wallet. I swear, the degree of prostitution in this country is amazing. I hear about it every goddamned day, I just want to clap my hands over my ears! Attention American females - earn your own goddamned money.

Okay, speech over. Now, little Naples Bistro Girl was very unusual. She was 50, but let me tell you, she was gorgeous. She had to be the hottest woman I'd seen on the other side of the table in, well, days. I couldn't believe she was that old. She had the face of a 30 year old in her picture. I'd never dated many females older than me. What was the point? Hell, women ten years older than me are more mature than I am. Of course, there IS that mommy-fantasy thing! But Naples Bistro Girl had to be seen in person.

I met her this side of the bridges and tunnels, in neutral territory at a cozy candlelit restaurant I knew in Morristown. You can say all you want about Jersey, I don't give a damn, the state can sink into the earth for all I care (hey, I'm from Denver), but the restaurants are a damned sight better than New York's.

When I walked up, she was waiting for me in the vestibule, and as I walked uptoher she took off her coat to hand it to the coat girl. She did it in slow motion, and as she did, the most gorgeous chest came into view. And when I looked up, I saw an incredible, sultry, feminine, sexy face. Wide gorgeous brown eyes, sleek black hair, olive skin without a single blemish or wrinkle, an upturned delicate sculpted nose, and apple red thick cocksucking lips. This just had to be a dream. This shit just didn't happen in real life.

I might as well fuck it up as soon as possible, I thought. I walked up to her and kissed her and brushed her nipple as I did. It was a polite, warm, hello kiss, but she got the immediate message that I felt sexual about her.

I watched for her response. She smiled slowly, an expression of girlish delight coming to her face.

Dinner was amazing. The food tasted wonderful, the wine sparkled, even the water seemed an elixir. There was something about this woman. I kept thinking about how YOUNG she was, not how old she was. I was through the looking glass, it was that strange.

No matter how much I was myself, she still seemed to like me. I couldn't understand it. I am, after all, a total jerk when I let it all hang out. As evidence, Exhibit A, this blog. You'll see one comment after another about how much of an ass I am. And how can I argue? It's all true. I swear to you, even my mother doesn't like me, and never has. No comments, please, about how that explains everything.

So I figured I'd just completely make her hate me by going for the tit in the parking lot. In her shiny brand new metallic blue convertible BMW, I kissed her deeply, my cock raging in my jeans - despite the frumpy formality of the restaurant, I'd worn jeans, and I haven't been kicked out of a restaurant for them yet - and my fingers closed in on her nipples. The woman actually removed her blouse and her bra so I could get to her breasts!

Oh my God, I thought, I love Italian women!

After kissing me for ten minutes, she pointed down the road. "Follow me," she said in that damned hot accent.

Where are we going?

"There's a bed and breakfast, a cute inn just a few blocks down the street. They have soaking tubs. The owner is a girlfriend of mine."

Wow, an old girls' club. I loved it.

It couldn't have been twenty minutes later that Italian Bistro Girl was naked and moving under me, my cock hammering her. I'd seen possibilities early on during dinner, and had downed the break-glass-in-case-of-emergency Viagra pill I carry in my wallet just like we all used to carry a rubber when we were teenagers. And thank God, because Italian Bistro Girl loved the cock. She came in little multiple orgasms, not the 11 Richter Scale boomers of Girl 51 or the hydrogen bomb thermonuclear detonation orgasms of Girl 94, but she looked at me with sparkling eyes like she'd known me forever, and I just got the oddest feeling about her. She looked at me like she truly was in love with me, when we were two hours into knowing each other.

The next morning was an initial meeting with a Baltimore construction contractor client of mine, and I needed to be on my game. I could have climbed out of bed at 10 and gone home to sleep until door time, but I wanted Girl 50. I entertained, just for a moment, the hopeful thought that the hundred I'd foreseen being the final number of females dated might be able to be cut in half. Fifty Girls didn't have the ring of The Hundred Girls Project, but I wasn't doing this to write about it. I was doing it to turn around a life that had been loveless for too damned long, and there is simply nothing on earth like the caress of the female hand attached to the female soul who loves you. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

So I stayed with her until 3 in the morning, fucking her, resting, then sucking her, resting again, then doing her one more time. She stood completely naked in the kitchen of the suite she'd thrown her Amex card at and made me coffee in a road cup at 3:15, after my hurried shower, and there in front of me she danced as carefree as a teenager. My own personal stripper, I thought, mesmerized.

We met at my Snake Ranch for an entire weekend of decadence. Making love as snow piled up around us, the silence of it sweet as waking up eighteen. I loved every inch of her body, exploring the achingly tight warmth of her anus as she gasped in surprise and delight, never having been opened up there. She thrilled me with those full lips of hers, and when we were done we talked about her business and her partners who were her cousins, each one nastier than the next.

It was that last that did it, I realized. The age gap, culture gap, the New York thing, even her never-been-married-childless state didn't bother me. She was beautiful and intelligent and successful and a dream in bed. But after our second sex session, our conversations became flat. Had you transcribed them, never in a hundred years would you think we'd known each other as lovers. I was her management consultant. She'd complain about a partner or a lawsuit, and I'd weigh in on it in my typically Machiavellian ruthless business macho style. She would ask fifty questions about something I'd advise her to do, then she'd do it, and she'd report to me about the results and who reacted which way. After the second week I felt like I should be invoicing her a hefty per-hour fee for all of this. I remember the evening I was returning from blackmailing a client to pay me, and I sat there with my finger poised above the cell phone's SEND button, with the speed dial highlighting her name:

NAPLES BISTRO GIRL
cell
212-867-5309

For what seemed thirty seconds my finger paused there. I thought about her, about how lovely she was, what if felt like to have those lips sucking me, how good she smelled, how amazing she had tasted, and how boring she was on the phone, and how many problems she had with her business partners.

I put my hand back on the steering wheel, pulled off the hands-free headset and threw it to the other side of the truck.

I drove the remainder of the way home in silence.

Many times since that day I've wondered about her. How hasty was I to dismiss her for the crime of having bored me. Today it seems petty. But for all I know, Girl 51 saved me from Girl 50. If I had gotten into a relationship with Naples Bistro Girl, I might have ended up sad and alone and broken inside yet another cage.

Or maybe it was not that I was bored, but it was Girl 51, the fabulous Corvette Girl, who took my attention away from unpretentious and loving Naples Bistro Girl.

But I can't tell you how many times I see in my mind the image of Naples Bistro Girl dancing happily naked in the kitchen of the B&B suite, her hips gyrating as if she couldn't contain her joy. How her eyes had looked at mine as if, after a half-century long search, she had finally found me again.

I asked her during that snowed-in weekend what it was about me that had attracted her to me.

She'd looked into my eyes and answered with a simple directness.

"I loved you from the moment I saw you."

She never wavered from that certainty. She was mine if I'd wanted her.

People ask me if I have any regrets about my dating life. I always tell them that I was true to myself, that if in doing so I could help someone or open a door or let some light shine on them, then I was happy. I tell myself that though this search was about feeing my soul and my heart and my life, that it was not fundamentally selfish. That in the end, connecting to another human being is what it was about.

But the snow fell outside the window, and Naples Bistro Girl offered herself to me, and my finger hesitated over the cell phone button. And when it did, I lost her.

And I'm not so sure, when I tell this story, if the meaning I always insist is present is really there. I look back on it, and I wonder if we really met, or if we were just in each others' dreams for three nights.

When an animal is old and sick, sometimes it refuses to eat, and by starvation it grows weaker until it dies. This one bothers me. The supreme being put her in front of me, and like a dying dog, I refused to accept her.

Or maybe it is just that 50 is a number that isn't a hundred.

I do know this. The real life Girl 48, Literary Agent Girl, read the entry on her, and her sweet joyful voice filled my ears as she said, "you know, in your story, you made me love you a hell of a lot more than I did in real life. I liked you, but I wasn't that into you. On New Year's Eve, it was you texting me furiously, not the other way around."

I swear on the blood in my heart that I have never lied in these words, not even one of those corrosive "chick lies" of self-deception. But reality is different when you're wearing male flesh than when you're female. Literary Agent Girl is wrong. In her memory, I rejected her, and in the spirit of sour grapes, she didn't love me that much. Naples Bistro Girl was different than the usual American self-hypnotizing female. If I were to ask her today how she felt about me, I can almost hear her voice:

"I loved you from the moment I saw you."

I'll end this entry feeling like a driver who sped by a rain-soaked woman in distress by the side of the road, trying to justify why he didn't stop and render assistance. I sped by Girl 50 and kept on driving, even though she represented a destination. I still don't know why I did what I did.

That day I didn't call her, I walked into the Snake Ranch. I opened my email and there it was. The famous email from Corvette Girl.

"Dear Book Boy, tell me, what is your naughtiest, nastiest, hottest and sweatiest sexual fantasy? I promise you, if you tell me what it is, I will do my UTMOST to fulfill it for you, in a way you will never forget. Here's a kiss that you can put ANYWHERE you want or need it. <SMOOCH!>Love always, Corvette Girl"

I stared at the screen, my mouth hanging open.

"Dear Corvette Girl," I typed.

Ten seconds later, Naples Bistro Girl ceased to exist.

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, girls, women, hundred girls

GIRL 51 ~ CORVETTE GIRL (PART 1)

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GIRL 51 ~ CORVETTE GIRL (PART 2)

 GIRL 51

CORVETTE GIRL

PART II - TIMESHARE GIRLFRIEND

While I dated her and fucked her, Corvette Girl also dated and fucked Land Rover Boy. She was sexual with him when she found me, and after we fucked the first time, Corvette Girl was writing up Land Rover Boy's walking papers, and I suddenly got insecure and ordered her to keep seeing Land Rover Boy.

What? she asked. Nothing says you have to fuck only one guy at a time, I said. Personally, if it were up to me, we'd have Land Rover Boy doing your mouth while I fuck your ass. Do you think he'd join us? She shook her head. Homophobic, she said. No way he wants to be in the same room as another guy, much less a naked guy, and even much less with a naked guy with a hardon. Damn, I said.

So we carved up the week. Land Rover Boy had her (and had her and had her) Tuesday. (Monday was rest, and with Corvette Girl, both Land Rover Boy and I needed it.) On Wednesday she was mine, and we'd warm up with her telling me how Land Rover Boy had fucked her. Land Rover Boy had a pretty cock but it was smaller than mine by 15% although was bigger in girth, but the thing about Land Rover Boy is that he was a heavy cummer. He could cum four times in a night, and every load was like the first in a year, cum blasting out on every cock convulsion. He loved to pull his cock out of her mouth and soak her face with cum for the first time. More than once she'd gotten her eyelids glued shut with cum, or the irritation and redness from cum hitting her in the eye. The second time he'd pump it into her pussy, the third time into her ass, and then deep in her throat. We'd both get so turned on talking about how Land Rover Boy ravaged her that I would just throw her body down and fuck her and fuck her and fuck her.

Now, I wasn't the cum maniac that Land Rover Boy was, but I was long, I got all those hard-to-reach places, and I had stamina unheard-of in Land Rover Boy Land. When Corvette Girl told Land Rover Boy about my performance, he was at once turned on and jealous. Land Rover Boy played dirty - he didn't masturbate at all and saved all his cum for Corvette Girl. I just couldn't do it. My sex drive is just too damned high, I need it all the time. I triednot to spunk off the day I'd see Corvette Girl, but I'd get excited that she would be coming over, and it would make me think of all the dirty stuff she did, which get me foaming over horny, and I'd have to touch myself.

And dear God, the dirty stuff she did. She'd bend over my desk with dirty downloads running onscreen, taking it up the ass while some triple-X porn played. She'd do her usual cocksucking and climaxing from semen in her mouth. One time I stroked myself while she fingered me, and just from that, when I came on my stomach, she climaxed as well. When I asked her how, she smiled and said it was from watching me and smelling me. In the mornings she was with me, I'd set the alarm an hour early, make coffee, put a steaming cup on her nightstand, then lick my finger and ram it up her ass, and she'd moan and then growl. Soon I was fucking her until she came in a screaming orgasm and when she came down from it, I'd hug her and hand her the coffee, and since she always came so fast, it would still be steaming hot. She called this routine being "fucked up." The remainder of the hour, after she got a cup of coffee in her, would naturally be her sucking me before her shower.

Corvette Girl was deliciously local. Once, at 3:15 in the morning, I was surfing for sluts on Match (remember, we were non-exclusive, I was allowed, even encouraged, to search for sluts!) and I saw that Corvette Girl was on AOL, so I instant messaged her, and at 3:20 I typed, I am so horny. She replied, "God so am I." I typed, well, then, come on over. By 3:30 am, my cock was wet.

Then there were the toys. I'd experimented with toys way back. Wife number one had done them to me. Different kind of orgasm, all internal and intense, with a soft cock splashing cum everywhere. Very sexy if the girl likes it, but it seemed a tough sell to a girl. But Girl 6 had loved toy play, and one day I'd had a double-ender in hers and mine at the same time - very erotic. But I was inhibited around her. Enema Nurse Girl had used a toy at one point, but it was really Corvette Girl who was my training ground. Trouble was, even with her, I was inhibited, and after an intense play session I felt too embarrassed that I needed that kind of sex to look her in the eye. Wife two, Girl Zero, had insisted I never do that. It insulted her Catholic sensitivities. I couldn't, so I went underground with it, using the odd household improvised dildo when she was out of the house. Why is there shit on the spatula handle? Corvette Girl used the strapon once, which I'd bought back with Girl 6, but had never used. That may have contributed to the end, as I'd had to nag the hell out of Corvette Girl to do it. Perhaps she was too submissive for me, I thought. Submissive was fine when you wanted to be the aggressor, but if you needed your girl to occasionally be the aggressor and harness on a strapon, too submissive means you have to beg her to do it, which takes all the pleasure away.

Then there was St. Patrick's Day. I picked her up at the airport from a business trip. At home were $300 worth of new toys and bondage gear. I tied her up, bound her hand and foot, and while taking pictures, put each of a dozen toys into every hole, then used my cock on them, and Corvette Girl took the best pictures. She looked gorgeous with a cock in her mouth, even better with one in her ass with a vibrator stuffed into her pussy.

Finally, there was the matter of Land Rover Boy. On a Tuesday, which was his day, he opted out. Busy or something. My usual standing date with my daughter had been canceled, so I told Corvette Girl. She did the dance, saying she was horny, then I confessed I was too and invited her over, and as I hung up the phone, she knocked on the door. I opened it and said, what took you so long? She'd laugh, come in, grab a drink, drop off her bag, sit on the bed, pull off her boots, her pants, her blouse, her bra, her panties, and without a word, get on her knees with her head down, her back arched and she'd be ready for a hard cock in her ass. God, I loved Corvette Girl!

But Land Rover Boy, as a result of Corvette Girl's total disclosure policy, became furious that on "his day," she fucked me. In his mind, Corvette Girl fucking me on a Tuesday was cheating. But if she fucked me on Wednesday, that was fine. At first I thought it was a joke, but he was truly upset. The madder he got, the angrier Corvette Girl got with him, until she dumped him. I felt uncomfortable about it. I wanted her to make it back up with him, but she wouldn't. Suddenly I was alone in the room with her, and it made me feel strange.

Two things happened simultaneously. She went away for ten days to the west coast for vacation with her grown daughter and grandchildren (yikes, I'm fucking a grandmother! But Corvette Girl and her lovely daughter could do a mother-daughter porno if they ever wanted to). Just as she left, I felt something kick in. Actual relationship feelings for her, rather than just the lust-friendship thing we'd had so far. I genuinely missed her. I pined for her. I wanted her. On the phone I told her that she mattered to me.

It got away from me. We went too far, too fast, and maybe it was just "you're in Washington state and I'm horny" emptiness that made me confess to big feelings that perhaps weren't as big as I thought. I picked her up from the airport, and the rush of good feelings I expected didn't quite arrive with her.

Something was different. Perhaps Land Rover Boy being gone. Perhaps both of us saying the L-word, and hearing ourselves say it aloud made molecules of inhibition form.

A three day weekend in early April came. We argued about the townhouse I was moving into, because it was the exact same unit as the one Girl Zero and I had lived in 1996 and 1997. She thought it would be improper. My son liked the idea - I was taking custody of him for his last two years in high school. Corvette Girl thought there would be too many ghosts there. That and the fact that she absolutely fucked me into a coma for two days straight, until there was nothing left of my mojo at all, and the general malaise plus the fight contributed to a mood. I went to see the townhouse alone, sneaking out instead of taking her with me. When I got back, she'd gone back to her place. I sat at the computer and typed up a quick Dear Jane letter.

Her replies were bitter and long and filled my email every day. I patiently waited two weeks, then approached her again, apologized, and asked if we could be friends, and I meant it. Shyly, she confessed that she was already two boyfriends down the road.

You slut! I shouted playfully. Give me details. Oh man, the stuff she told me about Muffin Boy would curl your hair.

Over the next few months we consulted with each other about relationships. Today I like to think we arranged each other's safe landing. She's with a guy who seems completely perfect, and I found Bat Girl.

I always considered Corvette Girl a monument to what female sexuality can be at its peak. She is the proof of what a woman can be in bed. When women tell me that females are constructed differently than men, I beg to differ. I hold up Corvette Girl as the example, and she helped me keep my standard for females high.

After her, almost no one measured up. It was a long wait for Bat Girl. But today, I am absolutely convinced that there would BE no Bat Girl unless there had been a Corvette Girl. I think of Girl 6 and Corvette Girl as sort of the Moses and John the Baptist to Bat Girl's Christ. Theycame first and paved the way.

Thank you for existing, Corvette Girl. Many happy orgasms to you. I hope you're still furiously fucking and sucking until you're 106 and they force you to stop.

All my love,
Book Boy
Aka Playboy Author Boy

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, girls, women, hundred girls

GIRL 52 ~ SEX TOY GIRL

GIRL 52

SEX TOY GIRL

She owned an interior decorating business and a woman's in-home party sex toy business. The latter functioned like the old fashioned Tupperware parties, but instead of showing how to burp the 2-quarters, they show how to operate the Jackrabbit vibrator. Good lord, females. No one has to teach men how to masturbate, but you girls, duh, I know I'm blonde, but how do I do this again? Can you repeat that, I just can't seem to get it right.

Anyway, there was a head shot of this cute chick, she was very sexual, and very New York whiny and nasally. I was five minutes away from the restaurant to meet Girl 50, Naples Bistro Girl, when I was first on the phone with Sex Toy Girl. I told her what I was up to.

"What? You're going on a DATE? What are you calling me for?" she screamed into the phone.

Wait a minute, hold on, I said. Are you telling me I have to be exclusive with you before I even meet you?

"Well, I guess if you put it that way, no, but still, I don't like the idea of you going out with another woman! What are you doing?" And she'd work her way into the same goddamned frenzy over Naples Bistro Girl.

Look, fuck you, Sex Toy Girl, you bitch, I said roughly. (Sometimes you have to show them who's boss, though 60% of the time that backfires, but failing to be aggressive when facing down a domineering cunt will get you castrated in no time.) I'll date whomever I feel like dating. You can either like it or go away. Got it?

She was meek suddenly. "Yes, sir."

Jesus.

I met her at the Princeton Brew Pub. That was my top shelf place, where I would line up the A-girls. Listen, Sex Toy Girl may have sounded like a bitch, but the stuff she told me she did to herself with those vibrators and dildos, oo la la, va va voom! She had me hotter than an F-14's jet exhaust on full afterburners.

But when I first saw her at the door, I could not believe my eyes. She was huge, and making things worse was her full length mink coat. She looked like a goddamned bear in it!

All through dinner, in that whining New York accent, she kept asking, how do you like my looks? Do you think I'm pretty?

Why did I dodge that question? It cost me the dinner tab, then I had to take her back to the Snake Ranch, then she gave me a bunch of shit about my lifestyle, then she wanted to fuck me and I didn't think I could get erect for that, but I shut my eyes, thought of duty, honor, country. Inside twenty minutes I did mouth, vagina, and figured, what the hell. As usual, without asking, straight up the poop chute.

"Ahhhhh! What are you doing?"

You're a sex toy expert and you don't know?

"Ow! You're hurting me! You're too big! Ow! It hurts."

No, it doesn't, it feels great.

But hey, good news. Can I be done now?

Turns out, yes, I could. She got up in a huff, nagged at me because I kept falling asleep and she wanted directions.

Computer's out there, I mumbled. You can mapquest. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

"Damn you!" she screamed. "Don't you CARE if I get home SAFELY?"

I popped an eye open.

No, I said, I don't.

"You fucking asshole!"

Well, if I didn't care before, I really don't care now.

The woman couldn't believe I refused to treat her like a helpless female of the 1930s. Hell, 1830s. I waited till the front door slammed, then sank into blessed slumber.

Cell phone rang.

"It's me," her drill-piercing-your-eardrums nasal tone shrieked. "I'm lost! You have to help me find my way RIGHT NOW! Get in your car and come help me navigate!"

I waited for her to take a breath.

Sex Toy Girl, I said. Fuck you.

Click.

I don't know why, but this date felt great. The next morning, I was a new man.

Tags: sex, love, dating, romance, girls, women, hundred girls

GIRL 53 ~ ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER GIRL

GIRL 53

ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER GIRL

I was in Philadelphia at a casting agency - it wouldn't surprise me if they did the casting for the film shot there, ANNAPOLIS -- to get a book jacket photo shot. It took all goddamned day. While I was there, the girls who worked for "the man" giggled and flirted, and they were lovely specimens indeed, one Latina, the other black, but way too young for me. We got to chatting during a break, and I told them I was internet dating, and one of them was also. The black girl asked me for my screen name. I wrote it on one of my absurdly arrogant author business cards, which has my name logo between a very phallic black submarine and submariner's dolphins, and below it, it says NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR. Mr. Humble, that would be me. I looked at it, scratched my head, and made some remark about not being as brashly into myself as the card would suggest, then gave the girl my usual self-deprecating smile.

And that night I got hit on by a woman who said she had been turned on to me by the black lady in the casting office. She was an entertainment lawyer who came by every once in a while, and from her pictures, she was a beautiful, tall, slender black woman with achingly thick lips that make a highly sexed male like me think of one thing - what would those lips feel like on my cock? Now, while I usually can't get into the body chemistry of black chicks for some reason, I decided to make an exception for Entertainment Lawyer Girl.

Unfortunately, Entertainment Lawyer Girl made a few mistakes:

First, the restaurant she picked for lunch was an Ethiopian joint. Okay, show of hands, how many of you, on Friday night, order in Ethiopian? It was right out of a redneck joke. The joint was filled with African sculpture and shields and spears on the wall. The portions were microscopic. You ate them with your hand. They had mushy tortilla things to grab them with. The beef tasted like dog - and I know what that tastes like from a little culinary mishap I suffered in Bangkok some time back. The cheapest wine bottle on the list was $40, which boded ill for the check. When the tab came, it was far north of the outer limit of an A-Girl's dinner check, $200.

Now, I'm no cheapskate. This entire project had been extremely expensive, particularly if you count some of the indirect expenses, like the Viagra prescriptions, teeth whitening and the 425 horsepower red shark car tied up out front. 

So a $200 lunch wouldn't kill me. In fact, if it led to a fabulous fucking session, it would be well worth it. At that price, you're still at two thirds of the going rate with tip of a good call girl, but with the added bonus that you got her to spread the girl's legs by convincing her - which is an ego boost, while the call girl makes you feel like a dork when you have to pay for pussy or mouth, and let's face it, call girls enforce the condom rules, you can't cum in their mouths or in their faces, they very rarely take it up the ass, they get frustrated if it takes the boy longer than five minutes to cum, and worst of all, I've never met one with a sense of humor. Now that, gentlemen, would make one hell of a doctoral thesis - why don't upscale call girls laugh? Don't go for the obvious, that they are fucking for money, so they have to be down on their luck. That's bogus, because on the upper end of the whore food chain, you're got girls who bought those goofy little Mercedes convertibles for cash. No, there's a humor-whore interlock in operation here, and no one has figured out why. Come on, all you supposed academics, help me out here. Why is there no hooker humor?

But listen, two hundred clams for a lunch that could be outdone by a sprig of parsley at a place that was many miles from my pad or hers, a lunch that ended on one o'clock on a work day, just didn't get my juices flowing.

I think part of it was the nature of the conversations. If you had transcribed the conversation, you'd realize something interesting. It was the most upright conversation I've ever had with a sexual target. There was no flirtation on either side. I was not my usual slutty self. I wasn't intimidated. I wasn't frightened. I wasn't put off or disgusted.

There was nothing really wrong with the girl. She was really hot. And after the date, when I didn't call her again, she called me. A lot. And at one point, I'm not bragging or kidding here, she actually begged me to come over and fuck her. And what did I do?

Nothing.

So any respect I got from my home boys with Girl 52 is probably lost on this one. Two hundred bucks, the girl begs me to fuck her, and I turn away.

Some player I am.

Tags: sex, love, dating, women, girls, hundred girls

GIRL 54 ~ KENDALL JACKSON GIRL

GIRL 54

KENDALL JACKSON GIRL

How much do you believe in the unseen?

I don't even remember who hit on whom. Probably she hit on me, because her pictures weren't that great, but in person she was cute as hell. Her profile said nothing at all about her, perhaps one of the most boring writeups on Match. All she said that I could get a grip on was that she liked Kendall Jackson chardonnay.

I chatted her up on the phone. I'm an effective player when I'm in that gear. The secret, gentlemen, is keeping diplomatic relations going with at least a dozen females at once. Check in with them daily. Tease them, kid them, and get slutty and flirt with them shamelessly to see how they like it, then suddenly back off and get cool and distant. You need to press them to show them you are sexual and excited by them, but then the withdrawal gives them room to breathe and makes them feel like you're not a psycho stalker. I kid you not, men, if you do that without your sexual needs showing except for those very brief slutty flashes, you will get a woman into bed every time. The multiple girl in the pipeline trick allows you to avoid focusing too much on one woman, which will give her entirely too much power in the relationship. Plus, a woman needs to feel that she is competing with other females, because there is something primal about the female jealousy streak. Let it slip that you have a date with Sex Toy Girl on Saturday, but you're not that into her. She'll accelerate the schedule for meeting you. I don't recommend diverging from the truth, because on the off chance that the new girl turns into someone significant, she will remember every single syllable you ever said to her long after you forgot what month you met her. Which is why honesty is beautiful, you can't accused of manipulation AND dishonesty in the same tantrum - if you're honest in revealing the existence of other females, it's true that you are firing for effect, to get the jealous juices flowing in your sexual target, but she will never pout that you lied to her.

So my first date with Kendall Jackson Girl was a bit startling. Instead of the bland, homely chick I expected, she's gorgeous and tall and slender, smells great, lovely breasts, intoxicating blue eyes, and blonde hair that will just make a man weak in the knees. The voice was not good, but if you have to take on a girlfriend, let thedefect be her voice. You can tease her by imitating it. In Kendall Jackson's case, she had this Brooklyn accent that sounded just like a 70s TV star, and I used to imitate her like crazy. She would laugh so hard she'd wet her pants, and never forget lesson 23 - get a woman laughing and you will get a woman sucking your cock.

So date one, at the Brew Pub, she was lovely, but she apologized that she had to leave early, at 9, to go meet Phone Boy. It sounded like my jealousy trick in reverse. Now guys, remember, we suffer infidelity by a female for all of, say, one tenth of a second. Doesn't matter if it is a wife, girlfriend, or casual acquaintance. If she cheats, you never even knew her, which is the face you show the world as you carefully load all her stuff into the dumpster. It is perfectly acceptable to cry, as long as you are behind at least two locked doors. Never, ever, let any other human being detect tears in your eyes. Women can get away with that all the time, but not us. Like Atlas, we bear the world on our shoulders, and it frightens those we take care of if they see us cry. Does that mean we're heartless? No way. I'd wager that during my Hundred Girls project I cried more in 20 months than I did the previous 20 years. It was mostly Girl 6 who got to me. Even today I get misty eyed, not about Girl 6, but out of profound grief as I remember how goddamned lonely and broken I was when we ended. But never, never did I show that to anyone. When my friends asked how it was, I would laugh sarcastically and make a funny crack.

The exception to the female infidelity/jealousy rule is when it is the guy's idea. As with Girl 51, Corvette Girl, she was mytimeshare girlfriend whom I was fucking while dating other girls, and fucking other girls. I'd tall Corvette Girl about them, and together we would critique them. And meanwhile, she would fuck the shit out of Land Rover Boy and tell me how it was. That wasn't really infidelity. Kendall Jackson's date with Phone Boy was another exception. I laughed when she described the guy, and made him out to be a complete ass. As I walked her to her car, I regaled her with an imaginary scene of him clumsily trying to kiss her, imitating him as if he were a retard and could barely speak. Then I pulled a Sharpie out of my pocket, grabbed her hand, and using the permanent black ink, wrote "Book Boy + Kendall Jackson Girl, Love Forever," then drew a huge heart around it, a heart pierced by a well-drawn penis. Veins and all. She dropped her jaw and looked at me, then doubled over in laughter.

"How the hell am I going to show up on my date with THIS on my palm?"

I grinned as I shrugged. Hell if I know, I said. I think that's your problem.

Humor, gentlemen, is the pussy's next door neighbor.

I don't even remember date two, and I'm surprised I didn't nail her then, but date three kicked off at a candlelit Italian restaurant. She guided my hand to her thigh under her black, tight miniskirt. I ran my hands higher on her stocking-clad leg, which was beautiful, by the way, until the stocking ended.

Thigh-highs. The international signal that the boy is getting fucked that night.

This entry would have ended here but for something strange. In bed, the best I can say about her is that she allowed me to penetrate her almost immediately. She didn't demand foreplay and she didn't show any sign of going for the belt line to suck on me. At first I figured she was just really excited and wanted to get fucked right away, which is important. Never give cunnilingus on fuck number one, because the girl wants to be fucked and fucked hard. Save pussy eating for the ramp up to fuck two, which must be delivered that very night. Leave a woman fucked only once, you're leaving yourself open to charges of being lousy in bed. So I gave her what she wanted, and she had this pretty little orgasm. Afterward, I tried to get down there and lick her, but she prohibited it. When you WANT to suck the pussy and the girl says no, that amounts to sexual stinginess. So the woman failed the sexual audition, but it didn't really matter. I don't think either of us really cared that much.

So we're just kind of talking, holding each other, when suddenly the sound of a bucket of water pouring, spilling onto the carpeting, is loud in the room. At first I thought one of the candles leaked its wax. That sound is unmistakable, like someone peeing right on the carpeting. It makes you vault out of bed to find out what it was. So I do, all naked and silly looking. Turn on the lights. Nothing out of place. No leaking candles. No water. It was, apparently, an audible apparition. A sound hallucination. I look at Kendall Jackson Girl. She's stunned -- she heard it too. What the hell was that?

And then the room grew freakishly cold. We put aside all thoughts of playing any more that night. In the morning Kendall Jackson Girl left for a ski trip, and I never heard from her again.

So the next day I'm on the phone with Literary Agent Girl, Girl 48. Sort of an ex-girlfriend. We were great friends, loved each other, but couldn't get sex to work. Tab A just didn't fit into Slot B. Never could explain it. We fell apart about the time she was talking to me on the phone late one night and her lamp started flashing. Her ex-boyfriend, a guy she was deeply in love with, was on his way to her house two years ago. There's a circle, a rotary, off the Parkway near her town. She gets a call from the State Police. "Do you know James Whateverhisnameis?" She says yes. She goes to the hospital but he's dead on arrival. Killed from an accident in the circle. Be careful, she'd say to me, in the circle when you're on your way here. So her lamp used to flash in her bedroom. "James, is that you?" she'd ask. The lamp would flash off, then back on. But this had never happened to her in her office, just the bedroom, but there she is talking to me and the lamp goes off, then on again. "Hold on, honey," she says to me. "James, is that you?" Lamp goes off, then on. "Is this something about Michael?" No answer.

I took it as a warning. Why would he speak to her with me on the phone if it were encouragement? No reason. But warning? That, he'd do.

So that night, I'm on the phone with her. She hears pouring water, then splashing onto her carpet. She turns on all the lights, gets everyone up there. What spilled? What leaked? What happened? Nothing. Just ghost water. I told her about my incident, and she said, "the fact that this happened to you and then to me - when you're on the phone with me - makes me believe this is coming from you. Why are you creating this?"

I don't know. I don't think I have that kind of power.

But the ghost water seemed connected to another incident that happened a few months before, when I was supposed to rise at 4 am to work on a book project. At exactly 4, I was awakened by water leaking above my head. It sounded like an HVAC unit on the roof had a pipe rupture, and the water was flowing downthe wall over my head. I sprang up and looked, but there was nothing. I went to the (pink) spare bedroom to the adjacent wall, but again, all was quiet. I can't remember being more freaked out.

Except that sometimes when I would take a bubble bath to relax, I would get the oddest feeling of a presence in the Snake Ranch, coming from the bedroom. Or sometimes, the presence would come from the hallway as if walking toward me from the front TV room, and I always got the impression this spirit was not well-meaning, sort of werewolf-like. I never really saw or heard anything, but that vulnerable feeling set in perhaps once a month.

Finally, I had my 4 year old daughter post about thirty hand-drawn kid pictures on the walls, concentrating on the corners. Her mission was to be a little ghost buster. She relished the task, since one of her main concerns has been how to scare ghosts away from her house (I used to tell her that her mom's dogs scare ghosts, and when she was afraid because I didn't have pets, I told her that Daddy's whiskers scare away ghosts just as well).

After the kid pictures were posted, there were no more troubles in the master bedroom.

A postscript to the story - In May I moved out of the Snake Ranch condo and into Ranchero de la Serpiente, a townhouse with 3 bedrooms and 3 floors. Before I locked the door of the Snake Ranch the last time, I took survey photos after my stuff was moved out, to show the landlord the condition of the condo and to serve for his insurance purposes. In two photos of the bedroom, all is normal. But then, in subsequent photos, the room was filled with what seemed like spheres, white orbs. At first I figured the room was dusty and the light was refracting around the dust, or that dust had gotten onto the lens. But then, pictures taken minutes later of the front TV room in the same light were clear, with no "dust orbs" despite the lens not having been cleaned, and despite the light being exactly the same.

Then, very strangely, something odd shows up in a photo of the dining room, something I can't explain: a floating, disembodiedpearl necklace.

I can't really say what was going on. Perhaps it was energy coming from Kendall Jackson Girl. Or from me. Or the place was just haunted and rotten with ghosts. Either way, I couldn't think about Kendall Jackson Girl without thinking about the haunting, so it was natural that I didn't call her again.

Fortunately, there were only two other supernatural women in the remainder of the Hundred.

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, girls, women, hundred girls

GIRL 55 ~ GAP-TOOTHED LIMEY GIRL

GIRL 55

GAP TOOTHED LIMEY GIRL

Almost February and though I was still in the midst of dating Girl 51, Corvette Girl, I kept thinking about Valentines Day. I know. No smooth player would ever think thoughts like that, but I kept them to myself.

When the gap-toothed British girl wrote me, I was skeptical. She was totally into me, and wrote me erotic poetry, but I didn't really feel her. But I kept my mind open.

So at 8 pm I entered the bar of Princeton's Alchemist & Barrister. I noticed a woman in long leather coat, boots, tights -- all in black -- and a green scarf. Gap Toothed Limey Girl, my date. I had previously joked with her on the phone that I don't give good-bye kisses, that I would throw my tongue down her throat when I first saw her. I hadn't been serious, I just wanted to see her reaction.

When she turned to see me, her eyes lit up and her lips parted, in that "kiss the fuck out of me, mister" way women have. How embarrassing -- there I was, all cigar breath, from walking around Princeton before the date. What the hell, I thought. It would be a good test of her. I grabbed her and put my tongue in her mouth, and she laughed and tried to talk around it. That funny "dick in her mouth" language. "You weren't kidding, were you?" she laughed. Nope, I said, smiling. She had that "oh God, you're gorgeous" look on her face. She was better looking than her pictures. Dinner was a B-, maybe C+ as far as the food goes.

Conversation was better. Get this. She found her 17 year old son fucking his girlfriend and she freaked out about it. I poured her some spring water and put it in perspective. "I'd rather have the kids fucking than doing drugs or drinking. Drunk, they'll wrap themselves around a tree and you're at the funeral home. Horny, they'll be safe in the basement sucking on each other or fucking or recovering from fucking. What's the worst that can happen? An STD or unintended pregnancy? Big deal." Oh, she says, what about AIDS? Overblown threat, I replied. Good for scaring them. We all know someone who has lost a teenager to drunken driving. Whom do you know who's lost a heterosexual one to AIDS? My attitude comes from my surgeon buddy. It's why I quit using latex after the vasectomy. That shocks women, some women, but the women I fuck are so careful and so shocked that I don't use condoms that -- face it -- how big a risk could they be? If they need a condom-shrouded cock, just let them use a jelly dildo, they don't need me. As for me, masturbation feels better by far than a latexy vagina.

We went on to talk about my fiction. I told her about the movie deal I walked out on. She asked about the romance book proposal. Some of it got so emotional I was leaking tears. Great, I thought. Crying on a first date. Happened four times. Doubt she'll imagine me the bad boy I was trying to project. Gap Toothed Limey Girl didn't have much dating experience, but was a scrapper in her career. Not very wild sexually though. My kind of horizontal weekend would be a new sensation, it would probably wear her out, and she seemed the kind of girl who is good in bed when the relationship is good and who cuts off the man the instant she's annoyed about something, and women are always annoyed. When she kissed she seemed 17 again. When she was sad, her age came crashing back onto her.

I talked at length about my doubts about ever being exclusive with anyone again. I believe in lust and friendship, I said, I want to fuck women who are friends whom I trust and lust for. I think romantic love is the ghost-in-the-machine, it is supernatural and is greater than the sum of its lust and friendship parts. But I also think the universe may no longer trust me with romantic love, as the last time I had it, with Girl 6, I went to pieces. The end of the relationship was my fault. I fucked up with a woman who loved me and lusted for me more than any other girl in my life, a woman I loved more than my next breath. If that can happen, why would God give it to me again? I'd just damage another one of His daughters with it. I can live without it, I said, I'm content to experience mere lust and friendship. Never again will I combine finances with someone, or be a roommate to a woman, or stand at the end of the altar with her. All those things kill romance. Hell, even being introduced to her parents and brothers kills romance. Being introduced to sisters is somehow different, but male relatives all ask with their eyes, "are you fucking her? Will you make an honest woman of her?" My answers are "yes and never." They make me feel guilty. The guilt causes pain. The pain kicks me out of my feelings. Then the love dies. She kissed me and said, you're just afraid of getting hurt. I scoffed. I ain't fraid o no ghosts, I said. But inside I thought, fuck. Some bad boy I am. Note to self -- avoid dating women who make me cry on the first date.

There were other dates with her. We tried to fool around. It didn't work. She was on her knees once, giving a blowjob. It was like face-fucking a corpse. I stopped after two minutes. What's wrong? she asked. This is, I said. You suck cock like it's a stick of dynamite that will kill you if sucked wrong.

Part of the trouble had to be my clairvoyance. I could see into her, and there was nothing there for a guy like me. She had to be yet another closet lesbo, I thought. She just didn't like the cock that much.

A later time I threw her on a table and tried to pork her, but I could barely put my cock into her, she was so damned dry, and nothing worked. Are on you antidepressants, I asked. She nodded. No sex drive. No lubrication. I'd need a leaf blower to get the cobwebs and dust out of that vagina. I backed up and tried to put my finger in it. It wouldn't fit.

I pulled my pants back on. I decided to just be her friend. I loaned her self-help books she refused to read. So I would read passages out loud to her, then look over and find her fast asleep on the Snake Ranch's couch.

I shook my head. Maybe something would rub off, but I doubted it. Gap Toothed Limey Girl was somehow too damaged by her past. Men to her were dangerous, to be pacified, not loved as equals.

I didn't overanalyze. I didn't really care that much. But Gap Toothed Limey Girl kicked off a slump the likes of which I'd never seen.

Tags: sex, love, dating romance, women, girls, hundred girls

GIRL 56 ~ KID VOICE GIRL

GIRL 56

KID VOICE GIRL

Her picture was ugly.

Her writeup was boring.

She wanted a date.

On the phone, she sounded like an 8 year old.

I met her in Princeton for an ice cream cone at the Halo Pub.

I showed up an hour late, on purpose. I scoped her out from across the street while I lit a cigar.

She was a short-haired hag and much older than she'd looked in the picture.

I could have flaked (disappeared).

I decided to wade in. I had an hour until sunset, when the next date was scheduled to start.

I shook her hand. It was limp and cold.

We talked. Her spirit was limp and cold.

I looked at her. Kid Voice Girl, I said, I'm not for you and you're not for me.

She freaked out. What? How could you be like that? How could you be so mean?

I stood up. I guess I'll stop torturing you, I said.

I walked away.

Yikes. I should have just stood her up.

Lesson learned.

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, women, girls, hundred girls

GIRL 57 ~ SECRET GARDEN GIRL

GIRL 57

SECRET GARDEN GIRL

Two weeks before Valentines Day, she winked at me from a profile with no picture. The subtitle of the profile read, "Come into my secret garden."

Secret garden. Isn't that a code word for pussy?

The score so far on pictureless profiles was one married chick (who said she was separated) and half a dozen butt-ugly run-for-your-lives hos.

So I was unmoved.

I wrote her back. My usual, sarcastic, why no picture routine.

So then she sent me pictures.

Wow. She was gorgeous!

I made a date to meet her and lingered an hour or so on the phone the next day. I loved her voice. I loved her spirit, she was sweet and gentle and optimistic and tall and slender and blonde. My kind of girl!

She gave me cause for concern about whether she were sexual enough. There was not a hint of sexuality about her, and I couldn't seem to get into her head about it. I avoided being brashly slutty on the phone. You can sometimes spoil a good thing that way. I decided to wait and see.

The woman who arrived at the log cabin bar was much shorter than I had hoped for, and seemed old, really old. She walked stooped over. She wore a shawl over her hair. She had thick wire-framed glasses. She seemed like she could barely move. Obviously a major malfunction. I was tempted to glance at the Rolex and claim a prior appointment. She pulled the bar stool up. I asked if she wanted to remove her coat, and she shook her head no. She slowly removed the shawl, and revealed the first glimpse of something positive - gleaming blonde hair, but tightly pulled back into an old fashioned school marm's bun.

Now, I've formed a reputation for being able to identify stealth sluts. They're the best kind. These are sluts who, for all purposes, seem "normal" and pure, and present a nonsexual face to the world, but there are key signals. How do you spot a stealth slut? Same way you read minds.

A word about clairvoyance and mental telepathy. Most women have some of these abilities and they laugh at us that we don't have them. Functionally, they run rings around us because they have "the gift" and we don't. So they know when we're lyingto them, they know when the outing to the strip club included that "extra" blowjob in the back room, and they know when we exchanged a drunken kiss with that girl at the party in the coat room.

I'm here to report that this is a learned skill. You have to drop your learned male traits to do it, and after you say a prayer to the image of your father, you clear your mind completely of yourself and your own feelings. Like meditation. You construct a blank screen out of your mind. And then you look at the girl, look at her eyes, look at her hands, look at her motions, look at her body language, the rate of her respiration, the sound of her breathing.

I meant it when I said you have to put down your male flesh for a moment. We are all spirits who are both male and female. We have all lived many times, and in our past lives, we have been men and women. Except me. I'm pretty sure I lived about thirty lives as a female. I'm fairly certain that past lives for me involved being a fantastic mother. I am an outspoken critic of female behavior and motherhood because I believe that I have known those two institutions from the inside, and that in my past lives I was a great woman, both as a lover to a man and as a nurturing mother. I believe truly that this is my first life as a man. I also think in the past triumphs as a female I was critical of men, called them stupid, and said to the universe that being male was easy.

I believe that the purpose of this life is demonstrate to my spirit that it ain't as easy as it looks. Men feel pain just as profoundly as women. Men feel stress and fear and anxiety just as females do, but we are by nature and by training creatures who do not show that fear to the world. Nor do we show grief or pain. Perhaps only pleasure shows up on our faces. I had no idea what the inner world of men was like, but I can report to you now, that it is much like being female without the support system.

The male is the creature who has to endure without complaint, without being surrounded by people who will help him. When my second marriage ended, I was more alone than I could imagine. I had no one who could say, I'm really sorry that happened to you. There was no one to commiserate with. My friends were all married, and to a man they wished they were me, suddenly free of the shrew cunt-bag ball-and-chain.

The thing I did that helped me was find female friends. They then became my life support. Some of them were sexual while being friends (witness Corvette Girl). Corvette Girl would go out and buy flu medicine for me and help me get out of the bubble bath, dry me off, put pajamas on me and put me to bed. And when I woke from a feverish nap, she was still there. Show me a guy friend who will do that for you. And when I woke up finally feeling better, she didn't even make me shower, she just pulled down my pajama bottoms, stood over the bed fully dressed, and sucked my cock, swallowed my cum, licked her lips, tucked me back in and told me to go back to sleep.

No male friend on earth could compare to that. That's what we men miss in this flesh. Our guy friends are comrades. Brothers in arms. But no one wants to know how we feel about things.

The reason I say to drop off your maleness to be able to be clairvoyant is that when a male beholds a female who is a sexual target, he sees her through the eyes of his penis. He sees breasts and legs and lips and eyes. He sees her sexually. To read the mind of the female, you have to temporarily stop being male. You have to see her not as a woman with a pussy who could please you, but as a spirit.

As a spirit. Remember, the woman in front of you is as a much a soul inside a flesh costume as you are. Think of her as having existed for thousands of years. Maybe you knew her in the between-lives. Maybe you were brothers or sisters or friends in the past. Try to shut your eyes and listen to the past. Open your eyes and see her spirit separate from her body. Now look in her eyes, past her eyes, through her eyes, and listen quietly. Form no opinions. Carry no bias. Have no preconceptions. Just listen. Watch her hands. Watch her body language.

I beheld Secret Garden Girl. I saw her clenched body language, her tight bunned hair. Her buttoned up jacket. Her legs clamped together. I looked past those thick glasses to her eyes.

And beyond.

Trauma, I heard. Horrible fear. Fear of men. Men. Knives. Big knives.

I came out of my trance and just tried to talk to her. As one minute melted into the next, she got a feeling for my warmth, for the father spirit inside of me, for the maternal spirit, for my nurturing side. And she seemed to bask in its glow.

And as I watched, her jacket came off. Her glasses came off. She sat straight up. Her thighs unclamped. She arched her back as she reached for her bun with both hands and shook out her long, blonde, gleaming hair. As she did so, her tight sweater revealed two lovingly crafted breasts, and my palms tingled with a desire to touch her. As I watched, a ninety year old woman bloomed into a thirty-five year old. The hag blossomed into a bombshell. There in front of me sat the gorgeous woman of the pictures.

I was at a fork in the road. I could either proceed and ignore the previous strangeness of the appearance she projected when she arrived, or I could probe what I'd detected in the dark cellar of her mind.

Men, I thought. Knives. Big knives.

Curiosity overcame me. I took the other road, that of the reporter.

So tell me, baby, I said. What happened to you?

At first she acted confused. I had to go back into her mind and tell her it was okay to speak to me. When I came back out, she looked at me and told the tale.

Thirteen years old. Playing with her friend in the woods beyond the back fence. A blonde man with blue eyes. Early twenties. Carrying a machete. He took her and her friend deeper in the woods. By knifepoint, he made her take off her clothes.

Her memory blacked out. When her memory tape restarted, she was screaming and running naked from the woods into the back yard of her next door neighbor, who was a benevolent old man in his seventies, a hobbyist bee-keeper. He was wearing his white bee suit and hood. Secret Garden Girl ran shrieking for him and hugged him in abject fear.

When she pulled away, she saw red. Blood staining the entire front of bee-keeping neighbor's white smock.

They never caught him, she said, small misty tears forming in her eyes.

For the next hour I spoke to her as one friend to another. I walked her to her truck, a massive Ford F-250, gleaming white, bristling with power, a vehicle that said, "don't fuck with me."

I looked at her. Her coat was unbuttoned, her hair shone as it lay like a halo on her shoulders. Her face was beautiful. Her expression was deeply sad. She knew she was losing me.

I have to do this, she whispered. She drew me to her and kissed me. I hadn't been kissed like that in a long time, and I felt it all the way to my bones.

Then she got into the truck and roared off.

I stood there for a long time with my hands in my pockets. Snowflakes began to fall then, until I was surrounded in a constellation of white stars.

I walked to the truck and started the engine.

The dry spell would last for the next dozen women.

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, women, girls, hundred girls

GIRL 58 ~ NO ONE HOME GIRL

GIRL 58

NO ONE HOME GIRL

She was fabulously beautiful, and she knew it.

She kept her email reply abbreviated, and my phone conversation was all of fifteen words.

But I met her in the best restaurant in New Hope, an artists' village on the other side of the Delaware River.

In the bar, while I feasted my eyes on her miniskirt-clad ass, her long legs, her beautiful eyes and lips that would send a man to orgasm just by brushing them on his cock, she told me the story of how she came to be single.

The trouble was, the woman was about as single as a newlywed. She was married to a Russian ballerina guy who drank to excess, threw the occasional slap at her, and cheated on her like crazy, then would come home and rape the shit out of her.

And she was fascinated in her separated ex, far beyond being in love with him. The only words she said that night had to do with her ballerina. Anything else got monosyllables from her.

There's a linkage between a woman's sense of humor and her intelligence level. I was unable to make this woman laugh. After I found out about the husband, I tried to have fun on the date. Entertain the girl.

But she had no use for me, my stories, or my company. That night I ended up entertaining only myself, the two tables next to ours and the waiter. That waiter was doubled over laughing at my stuff. No One Home girl didn't crack a smile.

Trouble is, when the conversation is one-sided, you don't get to eat your dinner. Every time I took a bite of steak, the table crashed into quiet.

I walked No One Home Girl to her old, dented minivan and walked to my truck.

Amazing, I thought, the connection between beauty and intelligence. It was certain that the old equation I + B = C. The sum of intelligence and beauty is a constant. God gives too much of one, the other suffers. Now, this is on the bell curve. You will find exceptional women who are loaded with both. They tend to be diva singers or movie stars. The world rewards them well. But as in most correlations that are curves fit to the unruly data of real life, there will be exceptions, but despite exceptions, the rule stands. In other words, don't try to disprove my equation by telling me you know a smart chick who is also beautiful, or vice versa, a gorgeous chick who is brilliant. Certainly they exist far beyond six standard deviations from the bell curve's mean. But on average, the curve-fit of I + B = C is rock solid. If she looks amazing on her Match profile, odds are someone else wrote those killer words for her. Beauty opens too many doors. The gorgeous ones have arrested development, as the world comes to them.

No One Home Girl was just another proof data point.

Months later, I got an IM from No One's Possession Girl. This was a chick I'd done video sex with, beyond phone sex. We had a phone line open and mutual web cams going. I was stroking Rex and she was inserting anal dildos and stroking her clit and moaning on the phone, and when I splashed the video monitor with cum, she sighed about how she would love to lick it up.

So there I am, answering an IM from her, out of the blue, when she mentions No One Home Girl.

Here's the IM:

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:30 P.M.]: Michael... its me No One's Possession Girl. Anyway... do you recall dating a woman named Linda from Southampton PA with 4 children, recently separated from a Russian Ballet dancer????

Me [4:30 P.M.]: yes

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:30 P.M.]: is she profiled in your list?

Me [4:30 P.M.]: Girl 58

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:30 P.M.]: ohhhh... so shes coming up soon??

Me [4:31 P.M.]: I just wrote 54 up

Me [4:31 P.M.]: how do you know her?

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:31 P.M.]: I don't ... I have a date tomorrow night with a man who went out with her.

Me [4:31 P.M.]: interesting

Me [4:32 P.M.]: how do you know he dated her

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:32 P.M.]: Earlier, I gave him your site... I thought he would find it interesting reading. So after he reads a bit, he tells me you sound like a girl he dated who told him about you...

Me [4:33 P.M.]: I didn't think she even noticed that she was out on a date with me

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:33 P.M.]: she described you as an egotistical writer from Princeton who talked about sex all night long

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:33 P.M.]: lol

Me [4:33 P.M.]: ah

Me [4:33 P.M.]: correct

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:33 P.M.]: he said you probably found her to be a *PollyPurebred* type of girl

Me [4:33 P.M.]: um

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:34 P.M.]: lol

Me [4:34 P.M.]: I found her to be No One Home Girl

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:34 P.M.]: too funny

Me [4:34 P.M.]: her eyes were glazed over the whole date

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:34 P.M.]: drugs? or just mesmerized by your charm and wit?

Me [4:34 P.M.]: so since she had NOTHING to say, I entertained myself, half the restaurant and the waiter with my stories of dating

Me [4:35 P.M.]: the only thing that chick is mesmerized by is her husband

Me [4:35 P.M.]: she still loves him

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:35 P.M.]: hmm

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:35 P.M.]: this date should be fun tomorrow

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:35 P.M.]: he already reserved a hotel room

Me [4:36 P.M.]: be careful

Me [4:36 P.M.]: the last girl I knew who was as "out there" as you got date raped

Me [4:36 P.M.]: of course, I got date raped by Rope Nurse Girl

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:37 P.M.]: I already have too much info on him... where he works, work number, etc... he's safe. Besides.. I already know we are going to fuck... so how can I be raped? Or, perhaps, maybe I want to be raped....

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL [4:38 P.M.]: have to run

NO ONE'S POSSESSION GIRL is away at 4:41 P.M.

Like I said, intelligence and beauty rarely come in the same package. And if they do, be careful, you may get a raving intellect with no character. Or if you're really unlucky, you might find yourself sitting next to a woman who is evil, who sold her soul to the evil one.

As we'll soon see in Girl 59.

Tags: sex, love, romance, dating, girls, women, hundred girls

GIRL 59 ~ DEAD RAT GIRL

GIRL 59

DEAD RAT GIRL

It was the day after Valentines Day and my cock was throbbing in pain.

I didn't have a real date for the occasion. Girl 51, Corvette Girl was still my timeshare girlfriend, but I had thought she would be going out for the evening with Land Rover Boy. As it turns out, she would be sitting home herself. I thought, what the hell, we might as well go out.

We got into a nice Italian place, cozy, maybe too cozy, because the other tables could hear us talking. We were still lusty friends, and were having the occasional bouts of sex, each of which evenly distributed cock time in pussy, mouth and ass. You miss one of those with Corvette Girl and she would be pissed. I could never tell exactly which hole gave her the strongest orgasms, but I'm assuming it was her ass, as she'd pull the sheet off the mattress and scream as if she were being murdered. Yeah. Definitely asshole orgasms.

Anyway, so there we were at the Italian place, and we got bored, so we played the "tell me your fantasy game," except we did our own version, where I started it off and she'd have to carry on. Naturally I had her in an orgy room surrounded by naked people, I threw her onto the big dining table and started fucking her, and a guy with a huge cock approached. Oh my God, I handed the fantasy narrative off to her there, and when she gave it back to me she'd gone through four more cocks in all three holes and was covered with hot, sticky cum.

The two tables nearest us, well, they were young, in their twenties, and later Corvette Girl and I laughed that we'd created children through those two couples that night. We also made the waiter very happy. I don't think I've had a waiter be that attentive in years. It helps if, when he comes to see if we need more bread, beautiful dirty blonde-haired Corvette Girl is saying, "so then the guy's cock convulses so hard in my ass that the cum spills out onto the table and the sight of it makes the guy I'm jerking off in my right hand spurt cum all over my face, and I'm just lapping it up." Then she'd look up at the waiter like, hey big boy, did you like that? Brazen slutty Corvette Girl.

So when we got back to her place, I was so horny my cock was just ripping out of my pants, but she put me off. Double trouble - she was on her period and was wearing a tampon, and she wanted to go into the kitchen and havea cigarette. So I let her, then had an idea. There in the kitchen, I bent her over the kitchen table, pulled down her thong and just rammed my cock up her asshole. She screamed bloody murder, and at first I thought she was furious at my raping her ass all of a sudden and that she was signaling I was hurting her.

I stopped and said, "are you okay?"

She shouted, "don't stop, you moron, keep fucking me! Fuck me deeper in my asshole! Oh, my GOD!"

So I did. I fucked her until she came about three times, then carried her into the bedroom, went to wash the asshole off my cock, and when I got to the bedroom she was waiting for me. I lay down and she got on her knees between my legs and sucked every drop of cum out of my cock, but refused to let me go and just kept sucking me.

That Corvette Girl!

It seemed like all that fucking would give me good luck. It would shield me from the usual awful Match women and bring me to true love.

So there I was, the next day, hitting on a blonde woman in my neighborhood.

For some reason, on Match dating, it always seems like everyone who likes you is an hour away, if not two. So I decided that I would only flirt with local girls. The thin blonde in my town was only shown in a photo taken a mile away, and she wore a baseball cap. I figured that she was hiding, maybe she wasn't confident about her looks. Or was married, as the baseball hat girls are likely to be.

Her screen name was Best_There_Is_Girl. I thought that was pushing it, but perhaps she had earned the name somehow.

We traded exactly one email and no phone calls. I told her I would be at the corner pub that very night at 8 and to meet me there, and she agreed.

I felt her before I saw her, and it was not a good thing. A shadow seemed to pass across the bar, then across my soul. Something dark and disturbing, I thought, hoping it wasn't coming for me.

When I looked up, a coldly beautiful tall blonde stood there in a fitted pinstripe suit. She reached out to shake my hand - no thought at all of kissing her, it would be like kissing a corpse, I thought - and her hand was icy. I shivered as I looked at her, realizing that coal black eyes don't go well with yellow-blonde hair.

I asked her about her work. She began to talk instead about the jerk of an ex-husband, or rather separated ex, she had, and how she wished he would die in a traffic accident. The first time she smiled, she was imagining a tanker truck hitting him head on at eighty-five miles per on the turnpike.

I tried to steer the conversation to safer topics, and tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, going through a divorce can make anyone homicidal.

But the next thing she wanted to talk about was dead rats. She said they somehow got washed into her basement, some got trapped behind the dishwasher in the kitchen and roasted from the heat, and the smell filled the downstairs. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke of the other dead rats and where she found their carcasses in the basement.

I didn't realize it till later, but what seemed interesting is that the rats came to her house to die.

The darkness in this woman's aura seemed to grow denser and darker, and tendrils of it seemed to reach out for me, as if the stench of a dead body could be seen approaching my nose.

I hastily excused myself for the men's room and leaned against the shut door, feeling a momentary safety.

Jesus Christ, I thought, help me.

I splashed warm water of my face and looked in the mirror, and tried to put on my tough guy face.

I walked back to the bar and ordered another beer. She leaned forward, darkly hungry.

So, she said, what do you think we should do the rest of the night?

I looked at her with that tough expression, but said nothing.

Something wrong? She seemed menacing. Her eyes seemed even blacker.

Best-There-Is-Girl, I said, listen, I'm not for you and you're not for me. I'm leaving the bar now. Have a nice evening.

I put two twenties on the bar and walked deliberately to the door.

My hands shook as I drove home, and when I got in, I double locked the front door and crawled under the covers. I made a call and waited. Thirty minutes later the door buzzed.

It was Corvette Girl, with an overnight bag on her shoulder.

What's the matter? She asked. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.

I looked left and right of the doorway and pulled her in, then double locked the door, and I didn't say a word until she was under the covers with me.

I told her the story. She nodded in understanding.

Evil people do exist, she said. I know a few.

But this was frightening, Corvette Girl. This woman looked like she could start a fire with her eyes.

Come here, baby, Corvette Girl said. Let Mommy suck your cock and you'll feel much better.

And I did. I sank into sleep, fucked Corvette Girl before she had to get into the shower, and drove in to the construction site at the refinery.

For once it felt good to be in the crisp cold outdoors in the sunlight. This world with its cranes and technicians and engineers and scientific accuracy seemed as far away from witches and warlocks and ghosts and goblins as anyplace.

That night, I arranged a date for the next evening, at the same corner pub. Once you fall off the horse, get right back on it, I thought.

As it turned out, it was a dumb idea.

Tags: sex, love, dating, romance, girls, women, hundred girls