Thursday, October 11, 2007

THE HUNDRED GIRLS PROJECT

THE HUNDRED GIRLS PROJECT

Introduction

In a span of twenty months I dated a hundred women I met from the Internet.

There are those who would say this was compulsive behavior, but I had my reasons. Had I merely been seeking a girlfriend, I would have stopped at Girl 6. But I was trying to find myself, and after the nameless thing that happened to me, I decided that my life's purpose was to understand women, to burrow into the female soul and see what riches there were, and to claim them as my own.

And though my life was enriched and I learned more in two years than I had in a previous lifetime of experience with women, the real reward of the journey was the story I can now tell. When you read these words and see the female lust and desire I experienced, you may discount it as the ravings of a delusional warped soul, or perhaps you dismiss them thinking I'm famous or handsome or rich and that only I could do these things. This is false. I am ordinary. I am every man. I am you. The only difference, perhaps, is that I risked when other men were cautious, and because I knew I was brave, I came across as self-assured. I knew I was becoming the Flying Dutchman of dating, and to the women who met me, it made me seem unaffected by their attention. Nothing drives a woman wilder than a man who can take her or leave her. A lesson learned late in life, but a lesson nonetheless.

If you read carefully, you’ll see the changes in the author that intimate contact with a hundred women brought about. It was a positive but painful experience, as all learning is, but when the lessons were done, I was ten times the man I was when I dialed the cell number of Girl One.

I won't say anything about what started this journey except that obviously a great sadness blew into my life, and I needed this to set the world right again.

One item of business before the journey begins: You must know that the identities of The Hundred are deliberately altered to protect the identities of the women discussed. The changes, however, do not alter the events of the encounters. The photos are not the actual women but do bear a striking resemblance to the actual female of each entry. I’ve also removed references to real people in my life to protect their identities. Otherwise, what you are reading is the truth.

Anonymous

silentfastdeep@aol.com

GIRL 1 ~ BANK GIRL

GIRL 1 ~ BANK GIRL

    I looked at my wife’s face, her large dancing dark eyes framed by shining locks of jet black hair.  My project to get my marriage back on track seemed to be going better than expected, after my discovery that there was another man my wife was interested in.

She was the second wife and my heart’s dearest love.  The divorce from wife one had gone badly and it had taken longer to break up with her than it had to get through college and grad school, but the woman sitting on the bar stool next to me had been my reward. 

Of late, work had come between us, as had our daughter’s infancy.  But she was three now, and it was time to get our sex life rolling again.

It was a night out, we'd gone to a hotel to get away from the three year old, it was the hotel we'd gotten married in, we had a great time at the bar, she was all over me in the elevator, and she wouldn't even wait for me to light the candles. We had hot steamy sex, and when it was over, I lay there stroking her hair and she said the most amazing thing.

"I'm not in love with you anymore. I'm not attracted to you anymore. I never want to touch you again. I never want to fuck you again."

Time froze. I could barely see her eyes, it was so dark. I paused a few seconds, hearing the echo of her words, and remembering why I'd pushed so hard to get her to go out to the hotel with me every weekend, because she had become so reluctant to have sex with me.

I remembered how she had asked me to move into the spare bedroom because I snored. I told her, the day I sleep in a separate bedroom it'll be in a separate house with a separate woman in the bed.

I remembered how she kept talking about this client rep named Bob and how he was so handsome and reminded her of what I looked like when she first met me and fell head over heels for me. Bob seemed to come up in every single conversation with her. I had wondered secretly whether my wife were bobbing on Bob.

I remembered how she always hated long fingernails or any kind of nail polish, and just about the time she started talking about Bob, she'd started going to the nail salon every week and got long red nails. When I communicated appreciation for them, saying something like, "I want you to use those to scratch my cock," she growled, "they're not for you, it's for business."

I remembered how she had started going to the garage and locking herself in her car so she could talk on the phone at night while I put the kid to sleep.

And finally I remembered that Monday, how we were in our small bathroom at the same time and my hand brushed her forearm and she shivered in disgust like a spider had touched her, then tried to act like it didn't happen.

I came back to the present. It had been twenty seconds since her "inverse wedding vow." I got up from the bed and started getting dressed, and said, "This marriage is over. I want us to disassemble it like the adults we are. I'm moving to a hotel tomorrow. When you're ready, we'll talk about how we're going to split the dishes."

She got dressed and started crying on the walk to the car. Normally if she ever cried I'd hug her and comfort her, but not tonight. I drove her home in silence and went to bed. She slept in the guest room. In the morning I got up, packed a bag, and took off my wedding ring and put it in her jewelry drawer. I kissed my daughter good-bye and drove to a hotel by the construction site where Iworked.

I never touched her again. We negotiated the property settlement by email. I got an apartment near the house and had my daughter half the time.

She tried to make a go of it with Bob, but once she was single he freaked out -- he liked that she couldn't ask for more of a commitment from him. Now free and available, he wanted nothing to do with her. A few months later Bob was walked to the parking lot for looking at internet porn at work and emailing naked pictures of his new girlfriend to coworkers.

It was definitely time to start dating, I thought, after almost hitting on the head-case secretary at work.  But would the solution to my problems really come in the arms of a woman? When the problems seemed to originate there? Could it be that the answer to love gone wrong was love gone right?  Oddly enough, instinct told me the answer was a resounding yes.

The initial result seemed encouraging. At the time I didn’t call her “Girl 1,” nor did I mentally refer to her as “Bank Girl.” The nickname thing was something that came into play a dozen females later, as an attempt to make my Monday morning Girl Briefing with my guy pals – all married, all wishing like hell they were me and single – go faster. Were I to call the woman “Laura,” the guys would complain – there are a million Lauras, which one are you talking about? The one who works at the bank, I’d say. Bank Girl. Then the guys would nod and encourage me to continue, which is how this story started in the first place.

                                 * * *

I met Bank Girl in New Brunswick at a microbrew pub. I saw her across the street, her tall, slender form topped off by a halo of yellow-blonde hair, which blew in the breeze. She wore fashionable sunglasses. She smiled when she saw me.

When I looked at her across the table, I could see subtle signs of age, but they were sexy. I liked it. I liked her. She was a vice president for a major bank, and had the big career with the big chair and the plate glass window. She smiled as we talked about life.

I made the mistake of being extremely gentlemanly to her. I played the wrong role: nice guy. Two hours into the date, I had no idea whether she liked me or not. She seemed drawn to me, hung on my words, but there was a thread of something dark. There was something she didn’t like about me.

My body at that point was too heavy. I’d gained twenty, maybe thirty, pounds of bad-marriage-trauma fat.

Is it my weight? I asked.

She nodded. “For God’s sake, go work out once in a while.”

I blinked at her for a moment.

It wasn’t enough that I had to suffer the last two years with a disapproving, bitchy, sexually shut-down wife, but now I had to put up with first dates who milked me for drinks and dinner and only then told me I was unsuitable? The fucking bitch, I thought.

But then, wasn’t it also just as much my fault? I’d written a profile with a set of pictures that obviously didn’t represent me. And I needed to get back in shape. But the more immediate issue was making my exit. This nonrevealing female would torture me for another three drinks over the next hour-and-a-half if I kept acting like a gentleman.

And then I discovered the real secret, one date too late: women don’t like nice guys. They prize bad boys. I thought that girls had gotten over that in their twenties, but as I would see over and over again, if a man is terse and stern with a woman, she warms to the treatment much faster than when he’s gentle and sweet and considerate.

So I tried my first practice run at doing what Tarzan of the Divorced Apes would do.

I put five twenties on the bar and walked out without saying another word to the woman, without even looking her direction.

As I walked to my truck, I realized that walking out on her in annoyance and disgust felt even better than a first kiss, or my memory of a first kiss.

Perhaps, for me, the revolution had begun.

It was time to start a search for Girl 2.
 

GIRL 2 ~ FINDING EAGLES GIRL

GIRL 2

FINDING EAGLES GIRL


Her picture only showed her eyes, and her eyes were gorgeous. She contacted me, and her approach was completely sexual. "I'd love to feel your hands on my tits."

Wow. It had been a while since I'd been with a sexual woman. How could that be?

I radioed back, and soon we were completely in the gutter.

She asked what I wanted her to wear. I told her, miniskirt and heels.

When she showed up, she weighed fifty pounds more than me. I was a gentleman.

We talked, had a few drinks, had dinner. She wanted to take me to her place. Her ex had the kids. Her house was lovely. She took off her clothes. She was huge.

She reached for me. There was nothing there. I looked down in amazement. My penis had never before failed me. And here it was, runway in sight, with nothing going on.

I looked up at Finding Eagles Girl. I'm really sorry, I said. Happens to the best of them, she said. And the worst, she added.

It was a long drive home. The last time I'd really dated I was a twenty-three year old submarine officer. Back then, I could pretty much fuck anything with a pulse. Not any more. This was the moment I realized that my penis not only had his own mind, but was a traitor to my leadership. His name was given to him by a forgotten woman decades before: Rex. I later modified his name to Tyrannosaurus Rex, because he was so primitive and aggressive and carnivorous. But from now on, he would be known as "my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex."

Up to this moment, when I would talk to Rex, it was not like I bent over and spoke to my own crotch. No, Rex would come alive in my mind, a sort of quiet thought appearing in my head, a thought I hadn't created.  An alien spirit voice. 

But this time instead of just thinking thoughts to communicate with that outside spirit, I decided to speak out loud to Rex as I drove. I wasin a strange mood, and I figured that hearing my own voice would be theraputic, but when I said, "Hey, sorry about that, Rex," a voice, an actual human voice, answered me. I almost drove off the road when I looked over and saw myself. But it wasn't me, it was a parallel universe's version of me. He had a soggy cigar clamped between his teeth and a worn leather hat low over his eyes, he sported three days of beard growth, and he was leaner and tanner than me, but otherwise he could have been my twin.

When Rex spoke, his voice was -- no surprise -- at least an octave deeper than my voice, yet my voice all the same.

"No problem," Rex said.

I swallowed hard and tried to recover my composure.  I know it sounds crazy, to be talking to an apparition of yourself, but one who represents your libido, but perhaps it will make more sense if I explain that I had been an insomniac ever since Girl 1, and I knew that insomnia can cause waking illusions and mental flights of fancy.  I calmed myself down, saying that once I got some sleep, things like this would stop happening to me.  So I humored the apparation and talked to it like it was actually there.  Maybe, I thought, it wouldn't know what to say to me and it would vanish.

"You're okay that I made you consider fucking that woman?"

"I'm cool.  Don't do it again, but no worries."

Okay, I thought.  Say something to end this freaky conversation, get back to the house and go to sleep.  He'll be gone forever by first light. 

"I'll feed you something better next time," I said.

"I hope you do, or I'll pull the turtle routine again."

I smiled to myself, wondering if Rex would have done that if he were dosed up on Viagra. On a much later date, I would find out.

GIRL 3 ~ LEGGY PRIVATE EYE GIRL

GIRL 3


Leggy Private Eye Girl



She was tall, slender and blonde. The kind of girl who walks into the bar and turns every male head in the place. She was a private eye. There were signs of age in the lines around her face, but they looked extremely sexy, and I wanted her.

But the conversation was boring. I couldn't seem to steer us toward anything interesting. She wouldn't say a word about her previous relationships. It was clear to me that she didn't like me, which was fine. I paid the stupidly expensive dinner bill and walked her to her car.

She reached up, snaked her arms around me and pulled me into a deep kiss, her tongue exploring mine, her mouth open and receptive, luring me deeper insider her. I felt that kiss all the way down to my toes. My heart pounded with desire. The second I reached for her breast, she pulled away, smiled, got into her car and roared off.

I stood there in the moonlight, blinking.

I asked her out on a second date. My first second!



But the Cuban restaurant, though beautiful, made me want to fall asleep in my plate. The woman was so…damned…boring!

Afterward, we went to a bar where she had to take photographs of a set of stairs someone fell down, and I did guard duty while she clicked away, the bouncer distracted. You'd think it would be exciting to go on an actual surveillance mission with a private eye girl, but even that was boring.

By date's end I was finished with her. At her car door, she pulled me into the second blood-boiling kiss. I kissed her back, but after she drove off, I spit on the pavement. Goddamned cock tease. I thought they'd gone out of style in tenth grade. Apparently I'd been wrong.


GIRL 4 ~ FASHIONABLE DOCTOR GIRL

GIRL 4


Fashionable Doctor Girl

 


Cute and interesting, but no sense of humor at all, and she was totally turned off by me.

At the end of the evening, she concocted a story about how this was her last day in the area, and tomorrow she was moving to Washington, D.C.

Did I look like a moron?

GIRL 5 ~ FROG GIRL

GIRL 5

FROG GIRL




She found me. She winked at me, then followed up with an instant message. It was the first instant message I've ever received in my life.

She said her name was Diane. I thought it was my high school girlfriend by the same name. So I'm typing in about old times. We were chatting for twenty minutes before we realized what was going on. I'd typed in, "how's Chip?" She typed, "who?" I typed, "you know, Chip? Your husband???" She typed in, "do you know who I am?"

How embarrassing! We had to start over. She had to direct me to her personals site. I hadn't responded to her, because her photos were indistinct. There was one of her in a bathing suit, but frankly, she looked a little too tough for me. She wanted my phone number, and she insisted on calling me, and when she did, that smoker's voice came through.

For some strange reason I let her boss me into having a date with her. This was the moment a sort of clairvoyance came into me. For no apparent reason, I told her that I knew that she did orgies.

What? She asked. Orgies, I said. I know you do multiple guys. She paused, then typed, "you're crazy." And yet she kept in contact. The night before our date, I dreamt that I was at a party at her house, and she was the only woman, and that after appetizers she took on the whole room, nothing but her naked flesh and hard cocks all over the place.

She walked into the restaurant wearing a floral dress. She looked like a truck driver with an unusually wide grin. Her body was shaped strangely for a woman. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips. She reminded me of a walking frog, I thought. Frog Girl. It was her birthday. She delighted in having cake and a candle and having the entire restaurant sing to her. I glanced nervously at my watch, excused myself and went to the men's room, where I called Girl 6.

Girl 6 and I had been talking and emailing for over a week, and already I felt like I was in love with her. She'd begged me not to go out with Frog Girl, but I told her I felt like it would be rude to say no. Girl 6 came on, and I said, "you won't believe it." I told her everything. "Get out now!" she laughed. I told her I'd be a gentleman, and I returned to the table.

After dinner, she insisted I take her to her place, and she invited me in. No, I said, that wouldn't be right. She almost dislocated my shoulder pulling me in, and it seemed like half a second later she was naked on her bed, her mouth wrapped around my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, and to my surprise, he was up for it.

"What the hell is going on with you?" I asked Rex.

He shrugged. "What can I say, she knows what she's doing."

"But she's hideous!"

"So what, she's thin and athletic. You have your type, I have mine, now shut up, I have work to do."

"Asshole," I muttered.

"Asshole's next door," he said, distracted.  One of his favorite jokes, it seemed.

At some point during the workout, I had Tyrannosaurus Rex in one hole and a few of my fingers in the other, and Frog Girl moans and says, "oh God, yes! It feels like I'm getting double fucked!"

Double fucked?

Afterwards, she literally lit up a cigarette. She looked at me with a glowing expression.

"I have a confession to make," she said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You were right about the orgies. A few years ago I was an aerobics instructor at the Hedonism Resort, the place where singles go for outrageous sex? Well, my nightly entertainment was doing three guys at once, one in each hole. And never the same guy twice." She smiled, pleased with herself.

"So I was right," I said.

She pouted. "You were right. How did you know?"

That question would keep me up for a dozen nights.

"And," I pressed, "you lied to me."

She smiled. "Of course I did. How was I supposed to tell you that?" She seemed as innocent as a child. Somehow I realized I had no idea about the architecture of the female brain.

"So, after all that sex, did you get tested?"

She was serious again. "Yeah, I haven't been wild like that in ten years. I haven't been with a guy in a long time. All my tests are perfect. I'm healthy as a horse."

I nodded, stood and pulled on my pants. "I gotta go," I said.

Tears came to her eyes. "Same thing every other man has ever said to me."

It was warm outside, but I still shivered as I walked to the car.

 

EPILOGUE

I tell people the story of why I hate "eHarmony" and prefer Match dot com:  a year after this woman faded into my journal, I was still searching for The Girl, and decided to try eHarmony.  After all, what had I to lose?

After taking their thousands of tests, they matched me up with one woman -- FROG GIRL!  Oh, is that what eHarmony thinks of me?  What an insult!  Or, should I take this as an example of how lame eHarmony is at matchmaking?

Either way, it didn't much matter.  I tried every dating site there was, Yahoo Personals, Lavalife, Adult Friend Finders, even hired a three thousand dollar introduction service (which was only good for one date, with a woman who was missing teeth).  The only one that ever worked for me was Match.  And no, they're not paying me, more like suing me since the original name of this journal was "A Hundred Girls from Match."  But you get the point.



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COMMENTS:

This entry has 1 comments:
Let's hear about more women !! Am sure you must have another 5-10 from this month alone !! Who are the most recent??? Any new ones from this past week??? Would love to hear about any or all of them. PLEASE ??? MORE MORE MORE !!!
Comment from njartwork57

GIRL 6 ~ ALAYNA

GIRL 6

ALAYNA



Her name was Alayna. She winked at me on the famous internet dating site on April 8, the day before my birthday. Her pictures showed a gorgeous, slender woman who seemed very sexual, a live wire. Right, I thought, those were taken twenty years ago.

Our emails got intimate and hot almost immediately. But when I called her, I thought her voice sounded somehow older than her claimed age of 44, which meant those beautiful athletic photos of here were dusty. She was probably older than me, I thought, beginning to lose interest. I was on the cell phone while driving my truck through Virginia Beach traffic, since I was there to see the kids over my birthday. "So, how recent are your pictures?" I asked. She replied in her Chicago accent -- odd that she claimed she was from Los Angeles, California. "About two months, I suppose." I had to swerve suddenly, because I had somehow gone into a romantic, erotic fantasy, my mind racing to see how I could get this woman on a date.

I was too new to adult dating, and I made a cardinal mistake. We both poured our loneliness and sexual desires into our emails and phone calls as we waited to get together, and we overheated. We only had two possible futures: A disaster in which one or both of us didn't like the other, or a deep love affair. I arranged our first date at a Central Park hotel suite, not because I wanted to impress her, but because she was staying at her ex’s apartment, where he stayed during the week in the city. On weekends, he would camp out at the marital residence and visit the children while she hung in Manhattan.

I was nervous before she showed up. I had done everything in my power to look good for the woman – working out like a prize fighter for weeks, and shoring up my insecurities with a new prescription for Viagra. I tossed down a shot of bourbon as I waited for her, and made sure the wine I’d brought was ready to open. I paced the room as the hour approached. The door was slightly ajar. When I heard a double knock my stomach flipped, and I heard her voice for the first time in real life, not through a cell phone connection, and unlike the scratchiness of her phone voice, in person she sounded musical.

She wore a black pantsuit that revealed her tanned, toned stomach. Her hair blew in the breeze of her passage. She walked right up to me and kissed me. I didn't know whether to kiss her back or push her far away enough that I could just drink in her looks.



I poured her a glass of wine but we barely drank it. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. On impulse I opened her belt, unzipped her tight pants and pulled them off. She laughed and chided me for not taking her top off first, then pulled it off herself and revealed the most perfect boobs I had seen since submarine school, over twenty years ago.

I lay her body on the bed, put one knee by her inner thigh, and touched her gently with my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, who was so hard he was practically a periscope. I moved him toward the hot, wet opening of her gorgeous shaved pussy. I felt her moan, and slowly, sensuously, I plunged deeply into her and felt her body clench around me.

I cradled her head in my hands, her blonde hair falling on the bed like a halo, and I kissed her, her mouth responding softly and wetly to mine. I fucked her slowly, then fast and deep, then slowly again, until she threw me to my back and got on top. She grabbed my raging hard cock and put it in herself, her eyes shut, an intense expression of ecstasy on her face, and she rocked back and forth until she came. She collapsed, but just for a moment, looked at me with mischief in her eye, and stared rocking again, and as she began building toward a second orgasm, her cell phone rang with a Sponge Bob Squarepants tune.



I sat half up as she extended her palm to me, then put a finger to her lips to shush me as she answered the call. I wasn’t sure which was more astonishing – that she answered her phone during sex, or that her ringtone was a kids’ cartoon character’s theme music.

"Yes, Dylan," she said, as if she were a lieutenant answering the call of an admiral. She ran one hand through her tousled but still gorgeous blonde hair. "Okay. Right. Got it. Bye."

Who was that? I asked. "My ex," she said. "To hell with him. Keep fucking me."

She touched my face and kissed me and made me forget.

As our passion rose, I did something that surprised me. Perhaps it was because she seemed extraordinarily responsive to me. She gave me every signal that she thought that anything I wanted from her, anything at all, she would be thrilled to give me. I swept my mind through my past, and though I knew women who had done that before, I had never liked the ones who did. Not like her. Not like Alayna.

She waited with her cheek on the sheet, her knees drawn up to her breasts, her long fingers lightly stroking her own buttocks. I licked my index finger, slowly circled the asterisk of her anus, then slowly plunged it into her ass. Part of me waited for her to protest, but she tilted her ass up even higher. I put one hand on my cock, one on her ass, spread her ass cheeks, put the head of my cock on her puckered anus, and listened. She made a happy sound, a sort "ummmmmmm" and smiled. She'd just invited me to take her anally.

I pushed my cock slowly, carefully into her, but I could have just rammed her. She opened up for me completely, and I started fucking her ass, and within two minutes she came in the hardest, most frantic orgasm I had ever witnessed in my life. When I pulled out, I cleaned off my cock and asked her to put her head in my lap.

At that point I couldn't seem to cum inside her. I didn't want to make the encounter uncomfortable for her, so I lay on my back and touched myself. I could see the back of her head and I felt her hot breath on my cock, and then her tongue, and just a bare sensation of her lips, and then I exploded all over her face. She licked me slowly, and lapped up every drop of me, and when she was done, she did something no one had ever done. She kissed me. I could taste myself in her mouth, and it was so erotic it got me going again. I flipped her onto her back and sucked her pussy until she came, and then I did something I'd never done before -- I gave it to her with my mouth a second time. That, I thought, is what you do when you love a woman.

I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke, it was dark. She lay asleep, breathing softly beside me. For almost half an hour I sat up and just watched her sleep.

* * *

Three years later I rang the doorbell of the massive house she’d won from her husband in the divorce. She came to the door and kissed me on the cheek and invited me in. The ice cold beer landed in front of me at the bar of her kitchen. I smiled at her and we laughed about old times, old hurts, old pleasures.



It’s a strange feeling to see an ex-girlfriend again, especially if she is one of the ones who mattered in your life. She looked good and she was happy, and perhaps most importantly, I could tell that my affair with her hadn’t led to any permanent damage, and while I thought that my heart would never heal from having lost her, in point of fact, I was far better after having moved on from her than I was when I was with her.

She told me about how she still grieved the man whom she’d loved after me. I tried to give her some advice, but the lovelorn never really listen, just as I hadn’t listened to those who tried to help me forget Alayna.

The course of our affair and its destructive ending – destructive to both of us – isn’t important to anyone but me, and it has few lessons, except this one:

No matter how much a love affair hurts you, even if its ending makes you put a loaded gun in your mouth, three years later you’re right as rain. You’re different. Scarred, still aching even, but over it. The human animal is designed to fall deeply in love, but it is also designed to recover from being in love.

Does that somehow cheapen it? That a man can write love poetry and nearly drink himself to death over a lost love and then three years later it is as if she never even kissed him?

Or is it a survival mechanism for the human race, without which we’d all slit our wrists the instant someone we love rejects us?

All I know is, I survived Alayna. Am I the better for having loved her? At least she proved that after my divorce, I could love a woman and be loved by one again, and that I could experience the highest highs and the lowest lows of romance.

I survived Alayna. I’m over Alayna.

 



But in my bedroom, there is an oil painting I commissioned of her. In the painting, she stands naked, her fabulous breasts exposed, her arms bound by the silk ribbons of her ties to her world, unable or unwilling to come into mine. Her face is serene, and her eyes stare into mine.

The funny thing about that painting? I never look at it. I try to avoid looking at it. Other women have tried to make me take it down. But I won’t. That painting is a monument not to my past or to my pain, but to being over both.

A toast, bartender. To survival. To moving on.

And maybe one last one. To the immortal Alayna.

GIRL 7 ~ DEEP THROAT GIRL

GIRL 7

DEEP THROAT GIRL



I was in full rebound from Girl 6. I missed Alayna. I cried every night for Alayna. I was dating just to force myself to move ahead. I told myself that on July 25, Alayna’s birthday, my grief would be over. I’d spend all day grieving, and then I would be healed.

I was lying to myself.

This was worse than starting over after Girl Zero. The ending of a love affair with a woman who had truly loved me and lusted for me hurt much more than the end of the marriage.

The next date, with Girl 7, was with an ultra-local. Alayna had lived a hundred miles away. This girl would be close enough to run to her house.

She insisted that I pick her up at her house. When I asked why, she hinted that she was great at oral sex and that perhaps we should just skip dinner.

No one could be better in bed than Alayna, I thought.

“No,” I said. “I’ll just meet you at the restaurant.”

She was worse than I imagined. All night she kept telling me how great she was at cocksucking, and all night I smiled pathetically and nodded. When they cleared away our plates and I paid, I walked her to her car, wondering how to get out of the good-night kiss. Her eyes drilled into mine.

It was a no win situation, and I was weak with grief. I kissed her with a limp mouth as she rammed her tongue down my throat. I pulled away from her, and saw her look of expectation,as if she thought she’d converted someone.

She seemed amazed that her campaign had failed.

“Good-night,” I said faintly. I turned and walked slowly, head down, to my truck.

GIRL 8 ~ PACKAGING GIRL

GIRL 8

PACKAGING GIRL




Had I met Packaging Girl any other time, I would have liked her, perhaps even taken her to date three and had sex with her.

But in my crisis over Girl 6, my dearest beloved Alayna, all I could do was listen to her stories and compare how her face didn’t look like Alayna’s.

GIRL 9 ~ LIBRARIAN GIRL

GIRL 9

LIBRARIAN GIRL



Always before I had been the hunter. Now women were contacting me. Other than Alayna, no one worth looking at had initiated contact. But in my lowered-libido post-Alayna state, searching for sluts didn't seem to work. The girls I would date, I thought, should find me.

That philosophy seemed fair enough. The first one to contact me, I decided to go out with. Her name was Cindy, the first of what would seem like a hundred Cindys. Her job was a senior buyer and procurement manager for a chemical company. Her picture showed the most chaste, calm, short haired, upstanding, mousy, glasses-clad woman I could imagine. The kind you would expect to find in the library of 1950s Main Street America. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, I thought, and her conceiving her two children probably was the only sex she'd had in her life. And, as a result, I thought, she probably fucked like an animal.

I met her at a place in Cranbury. It was a bar done in oak that was much too well lit, which didn't help with Miss Librarian.



At first I was certain I was wrong. She was exactly like her picture. She dressed in black pants and a white sweater (in July). Her shoes were flats. Despite the frumpy outfit, there was nothing wrong with her body, but the short hair and wire-framed glasses just broadcast that she wasn't sexual. I decided to talk to her openly and honestly to see if I were right or wrong. She was interested in my exploits, but didn't want to reveal any of her own.

I walked her to her car. On impulse, I put my arm around her and kissed her. Her mouth opened wide and her tongue caressed mine invitingly. What the hell, I thought. I kept kissing her, held her tighter, and deliberately ran my hand up the back of her sweater and touched her soft, smooth skin, then pushed my hand through the waistband of her pants and under her thong. As I cradled her buttock in my hand, she pressed herself closer to me, her desire becoming more apparent.

I pulled back from the kiss and saw myself reflected in her glasses. It was no good. In my mind, I was still kissing Alayna.

"Good night," I said, trying to smile, but failing.

She stared after me, astonished, as I walked to my truck, got in, and roared off.

REMEMBER TO PRESS "VIEW ARCHIVES" TO SEE THE NEXT TEN ENCOUNTERS!

GIRL 10 ~ DELAWARE NURSE GIRL

GIRL 10

DELAWARE NURSE GIRL

 

She winked at me with a generic, un-self-revealing profile. She lived in the town where my construction project was being built. She said she was a nurse looking for a meaningful relationship. I asked her for a picture. She sent one of her from a distance, the old indistinct picture trick. But her body was toned, her hair blonde, straight and long, and I wasn’t seeing anyone. What the hell.

I met her, and she was really sexy. Very cool though, as if this were no big deal to her. I bought her dinner. She looked up from her fish and confessed she likes to fuck on the first date.

Naked in my hotel room, she was absolutely gorgeous. She lay on the bed, and after a half hour of foreplay, she looks at me.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t know, I said. My penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered.

She stood and hurried into her clothes. “So am I.” She slammed the door after her.

“What the hell was that about?” I shouted at Rex.

He shrugged. “I wasn’t in the mood.”

“Since when are you NOT in the mood?”

“I miss Mommy,” he said.

“What?”

“Alayna. Girl 6. She took care of me in every way. Mommy.” He said it as if it were obvious.

“Oh, God.” I didn’t know what to say. “You really call her that?”

He ignored the comment. “You have to get her back. I need her,” he said.

“Stop whining. I’ll find someone new.”

“No, I want Alayna.”

“Dammit, I tried to get her back! She told me to fuck off! What the hell am I supposed to do, turn into some kind of idiot stalker?”

“You should leave the romance to me,” Rex said. “Women all love me. They all hate you.”

“Up yours. This woman didn’t like you at all.”

“If she’d met me, let’s just say she wouldn’t have slammed the door. That door slam was for you, not me.”

“So you say, hotshot. Next time I get a girl naked, I expect you to show up for work.”

“Then let me vote on the girl,” Rex said. “No more goddamned ‘pot luck’ dates.”

Irolled my eyes. Would this girlfriend search ever bear fruit?

GIRL 11 ~ BIKER GIRL

GIRL 11

BIKER GIRL


I liked her on the phone, despite her not having a photo to show me, because she talked about her motorcycles and dildos and vibrators and handcuffs.

But in person, she was much too big for me, and her face just didn’t fit what I was looking for, not even in a one night stand.

We talked over dinner. I actually broke into tears over missing Girl 6, my beloved Alayna.

In the car, on the way home, my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, chimed in. “See? You miss her too.”

“Shut up,” I said, wiping my eyes.

GIRL 12 ~ TALL GIRL

GIRL 12

TALL GIRL

I hadn't had much in the way of conversation with her, neither email nor phone, and after some of the last dating disasters I thought I might be making a mistake. It was time to start screening them, I thought. "Pot luck dating" was not working out. But then, who was I kidding? I was still in full rebound from Alayna, Girl 6, but I was convinced that if I kept telling myself I was over her, I would be. I know I'm harsh on women for their numerous instances of self-deception, but perhaps I would be able to brainwash myself. If I kept my happy thoughts, I figured, I might yet fly.

The date was at my favorite place in the world, the Princeton Triumph Brewing Company, more commonly known as "the brewpub," on Nassau Street opposite the famous campus of the college of Albert Einstein and Brooke Shields. It had soaring ceilings, walls of brick and glass, a transparent wall where the brewing vats and piping could be seen, with a mahogany bar on the middle deck, a more cozy one on the lower level, and above, a large balcony overlooking the brewing machinery and the lower bar. Tucked under the balcony were copper-clad tables in walled-in booths with hanging chandeliers.

When Tall Girl walked down the steps to the lower bar, I smiled. She was a stunning blonde, fully an inch over six feet. She'd been delighted that I'd asked her to wear her highest heels. A six foot woman rarely breaks out any shoe other than flats, and tall girls love sexy shoes as much as any woman. She smiled as she came up to me, happy, I suppose, that my advertised six foot one inch frame was actually that tall. I put my arm around her and kissed her cheek. She smelled good and I liked her skin. I smiled to myself, because she was girlfriend material. Oh, Magoo, you've done it again, I thought.



Two minutes later, we each had a tall pint of beer brewed on the premises at one of the enclosed booths. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the booth that made the conversation go the way it did. Perhaps it was the same clairvoyance I'd used with Girl 5, Frog Girl. All I know is that five minutes into our date, I narrowed my eyes, looked at her and said the words:

"There'ss something wrong about you and your father."

I don't know why I said it. I try to go back into my mind at that moment to see what I saw then. I remember seeing a darkness shrouded around her, and it was a shadow, and the shadow belonged to her father. I assumed that the darkness meant her father were dying or perhaps already dead. And perhaps he had been sick but had so recently died that even Tall Girl didn't know it. But what doesn't make sense is how I said the words. I didn't say, "there's something wrong with your father." I said, "there's something wrong about you and your father." I included Tall Girl herself in the statement.

"What did you say?" she asked, her normally fair complexion seeming to drain of what color it had.

I swallowed, wondering myself what the hell was going on. I shut my eyes for a half-second and tried to listen to myself, and I opened my mouth. I was going to say exactly what was inside me.

"There's something wrong about you and your father."

The exact same phrase. What the hell was going on?

Tall Girl burst into tears. In helplessness I watched her makeup melt and run down her face. In between sobs, she got out the story:

"My father started raping me when I was twelve. He kept raping me until I was sixteen. I graduated early from high school, and the next day I left forever and joined the Coast Guard. I was expected to go to an Ivy League school, my grades were that good. I left that opportunity behind."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. It was all I could think of.

She stopped and stared at me. "My mother doesn't know. My sister doesn't know. My ex-husband of eighteen years doesn't know. How the hell do you know?"

Good question, I thought.

For the answer, I needed only to go back in time one month, to the chapel of the hospital where my son lay unconscious in surgery.

Or perhaps I should start the story earlier, back when Ronald Reagan was finishing the legendary presidency that won the Cold War. When my firstborn son Matthew was born in 1989, the headline was Ronald Reagan, "Uncle Ron" as we called him in the military, saying, "WE CHANGED THE WORLD." He'd given a good-bye speech fromthe oval office the night before. Fast forward to when he was 15. A fast-growing tumor had appeared in his left arm, half the size of a baseball, and it grew that big in four days. The oncologists, though calm, were telling us that this was extremely severe. They used the term, "life threatening." On the day that Matt was in surgery, Reagan's coffin was being marched down the streets of D.C.

It was the "bookend" aspect of this illness that had me worried. When Matt was born, Reagan filled the headlines and his obstetrics doctor was named Dr. Kelly. When Matt had cancer surgery, Reagan again filled the news, and his oncological surgeon was Dr. Kelly. Bookends, I thought. So he began, so he ends.

This boy was more to me than my firstborn child. I credit him with teaching me how to love. I see him as the one God himself sent as a personal message telling me how much I myself was loved. And now, here he was with what looked like life threatening cancer.

So I did the only thing that made any sense. I camped out in the chapel and threatened God. In the book where you can write your prayers, in my hand is the following:

"God, it's me, your old friend, Michael. My son, and yours too, Matthew, lies unconscious in surgery right now, having a tumor removed. I am here to tell you, my supreme being friend, don't you fucking dare take him away. You need blood, you goddamn well take mine, you understand? If it's any other way, you and I part company. Forever. Do you read me? I fucking mean it. You need blood? YOU FUCKING TAKE MINE!!!! Thank you. Michael."

The hoofs clomped on the pavement and Ronald Reagan's remains moved slowly through the capitol, the scene on every television set in the hospital. The seconds of the clock ticked. Tears continued to wet my face, though I wiped them off. I went outside to make a cell phone call to Alayna, Girl 6, my post-divorce first love and girlfriend, and right beside me was a mother delivering the news that their child's tumor was malignant, and the mom dissolved into tears.

I looked at the sky. Ron, I said, you were there with us in the beginning. Intercede for us now.

As I got ready to make the call, the phone rang. It was my ex. Matt was coming out of surgery. They were waiting for me.

When the surgeon came into the family briefing room, he was soaked in sweat, his face long and lined by worry and fatigue, and there seemed like there was nohope in his face.

"We removed the tumor," he said wearily. "The pathologists were in the OR. They did the frozen section. The tumor is benign."

The weight of the world fell off my shoulders. Thank God.

"What was it, Dr. Kelly?" I asked.

He shook his head. "We don't know. Your son made medical history today. We'll be studying this for a long time."

When he left I thought I caught sight of the supreme being leaning against the wall, stirring a cup of coffee with his usual overdose of cream and sugar. He looked at me, as if to say, I own you now. Your blood is mine. A deal's a deal.

So my blood was no longer my own. I didn't expect to wake up the next day. My life for Matt's. He would live. I would die. It was a great bargain, I thought, and I'd gladly sign up for it again. We'd have one last night to celebrate, after which I would die in my sleep.

The next morning, I saw bright light, and assumed I was rising out of my earthly state, but it was the light from the curtained window of the Marriott Hotel. Frantically, I called Matt's mom, my ex-wife. "Is Matt okay?" He's fine, she laughed. I can see him outside playing basketball with his friends.

So what the hell am I doing alive, I wondered. And then it came to me. God didn't want to take my life -- as in killing me -- he wanted to "take my life" and do things with it. The stories in literature are filled with what happens when men sell their souls to the devil. I wondered to myself, what happens when you sell it to the other guy?

My thoughts returned to all the reading I'd done on the nature of evil and demonic possession and satanic possession. Even in cases where Satan, Lucifer himself, possesses a person, the individual's personality persists and is not destroyed, but is just somehow pushed aside while the evil one takes over the person's body and brain. And since the soul is not destroyed or crushed or killed, exorcism is possible, through the appeal to the free will of the soul of the possessed.

And if that were true of evil, would it not be true for the holy forces? Would it be possible for God to occupy a person, take over their words and actions, if only for a few seconds, and say the things that needed to be said? Was it possible that now that the supreme being owned my blood, that I was as possessed as the girl in "The Exorcist"? Except with the holy one rather than the evil one?

"There's something wrong about you and your father."

That hadn't been me speaking, I thought. It had been my lips and my breath, but it was the words of the supreme being. But what was his motivation? Did something need to be said to Tall Girl to break her free from where she was stuck? I'd find out soon enough.

Dinner ended in a blur. I figured that after the conversation we had, Tall Girl would get in her fancy sports car and disappear in the night, but I found her taking off her blouse on the couch at the Snake Ranch, so named for the unofficial U.S. Navy term for bachelor pad -- presumably because of lonely "snakes" slithering inside boxer shorts. I kissed her and cupped her breasts. She pulled my clothes off, her movements sensuous yet predatory. Her cool fingers curled around the flesh of my penis, and she looked up at me.

"Nothing's happening," she said.

I nodded. "I know," I replied. After some of the disasters of the early dates, I'd confessed to my doctor that there were times in "tactical situations" where my cock had stage fright and needed help. I told myself, the Viagra is for first dates only. And I'd taken my dose. My cock should have been ten feet tall. Or at least its lust-induced seven inches. Instead, it was doing its turtle imitation, wearing a turtleneck sweater, refusing to come out and play. I didn't blame him, either. Had I known I would hear what I'd heard, I would have saved the dose.

After a few minutes Tall Girl would leave the Snake Ranch, peacefully if not blissfully. We became friends, frequently chatting by instant message and on the cell when we were commuting. It was then that the supreme being's purpose became more clear.

Tall Girl was a nymphomaniac and a slut. My kind of girl. But she'd been unable to fall in love with anyone. Her ex-husband had been a placeholder, there to keep a real relationship away. Eventually Tall Girl's spirit burst forth, longing for something more. Every night of the week, Tall Girl fucked a different fuck-buddy. Her date with me was much less about love and romance than about getting a new fuck friend for her calendar and firing one that wasn't as enthusiastic as he should have been.

When she came to me for advice, at her darkest hour, it was a teachable moment. Again I opened my mouth, and again someone else's words came out. Get rid of the fuckbuddies, the voice said. Concentrate on the two high-potential guys. And tell them never to say they love you.

As a result of the child abuse, whenever a man would tell Tall Girl he loved her, she would run to the bathroom, puke out the contents of her stomach, and return to dump the boy. When your father rapes you at midnight and tells you he loves you at noon, you associate certain unpleasantness with the words, "I love you." So I told her to confide in her two candidates what happened with the abuse, and to ask them never to tell her they loved her, but instead to just show it if they felt it.

Four months later Tall Girl was in an exclusive, fully functional, happy relationship with Engineer Wonder Boy. I saw her one more time at the Brew Pub while I waited for another date and she was entertaining the girls of her office. Her face was flushed with healthy color, she'd lost five pounds, and she looked marvelous. She kissed my cheek. "Thank you for all you did," she whispered.

Don't thank me. Thank the supreme being.

Shortly after Tall Girl's life became normalized, she disappeared, her friendship with me having done its duty.

And so began the long year of belonging to the supreme being, and crashing into each female life and saying the things that perhaps she could only hear from the man she was fucking. Sometimes the supreme being's voice would actually come out while I was in the act of fucking someone. It made me wonder about the women who so enjoyed having sex with me. Was it really me who was making love to them? Or God himself? In some of the happily exhausted faces I would see over the next year, I saw women who had never been fucked like that, and I confess there were some I could barely remember fucking. The supreme being, I thought, was having a lot of fun possessing me.

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

Comments:


Written by Corvette Girl
Honey,
Do you have any idea just how great a writer you are? That was an amazing postng. I think I felt every single emotion in it. It was so gripping and compelling. I went from suspense to shock, to anger to tears, back to suspense and then tears of joy when you found out Matt was okay. I was drawn the entire time into a deep trance over which I had no control, right up until I got to the ending. I do believe though, that those of us who have had near death experiences, have seen and felt the pull of the long dark tunneland the bright light at it's end, have a very special relationship with God. We were given a second chance for a reason.
Comment from Corvette Girl-




In response to the comment that my kind of girl is a nymphomaniac and a slut, let me comment that my type of girl has a boiling, lustful sexuality, reserved just for her guy. Interestingly, there's not one word in the English language that describes that. Sexually free? Uninhibited? Heterosexual? I settled on nymphomaniac and slut, but they have the connotation of promiscuity. Take a slut and make her faithful, and that is the beginning of a description of my girl.
Comment from tigersharktorp -




Hi Michael,
I find this story interesting but a little lengthy, sorry. LOL. Hey, you asked me and I hope you would want me to be honest? I did love the story of your son. I found that to be very moving. . You also say "your kind of girl" would be like girl #12. I'm no way like a nymphomaniac or a slut....sorry LOL. I guess this means the wedding is off! LOL.





Hi, Michael.
Some story!
I remember you telling me about the girl when i first met you. Yeah i thought it was a little creepy back then, but since getting to know you ( as much as anyone can really know you, BookBoy), i've come to the conclusion that nothing about you suprises me or creeps me out...even the fact that you're a fucking conservative. Just tell me you're not a "neo-con".
I was amazed about the story of Matt having that tumor. I've had that showdown with God myself, over my mom. But since he ignored me and took her anyway, i guess i escaped the holy possession thing. But i was through with him. Recently, we've gone back on speaking terms... curteous, not friendly. Sort of like my relationship with my spousal unit.
I know you'll have a field day with that one! ;-)
Hey, they're both nice guys. I just don't really have much use for them these days.
I am at once curious and terrified to know what you've written about MassageGirl.
Take care, Sexy

Comment from ganja819




Well I for one, think it is a very amazing story but if I may, I wonder why you keep a journal of the girls you have met and I believe you still grieve for girl 6 and that noone you meet will be able to live upto her standards in your eyes.


Comment from ldy916


GIRL 13 ~ ACQUISITION GIRL

GIRL 13

ACQUISITION GIRL



She was older than me, but one of the most beautiful women I’d seen on the famous internet dating site, with an elegance, an understated aspect about her. She had an exotic Italian name from an obscure northern province. As an executive in a parntership that executed corporate acquisitions, she had a ten foot tall career. It took two weeks to get on her schedule, but finally I was about to see her. I hoped she’d look as good as her picture.

She invited me to a lovely restaurant in downtown Philadelphia. I was really impressed with her looks. She was far beyond gorgeous. Who could imagine that at 46, a woman five years older than me could still make my stomach jump into my throat? And as to personality, there was real duality there. While she seemed demure and almost puritanical, she talked to me about her romantic background and the group sex she had participated in, but when the bill came, she snatched it from my hand and slapped two hundred dollar bills into it. I objected, but she acted like a mom telling her twelve year old to save his money.

I walked her to her shiny Mercedes, kissed her cheek and wished her well.



I’m not sure whether I was out of earshot when my frequently traitorous and ever-independent penis, Tyrannosaurs Rex, shouted his good-bye to her: “Fucking Cunt!”

“Jesus, she’ll hear you!” I shushed him.

“Fuck her,” he said. “Or better yet, why don’t we NOT fuck her?”

“What are you so upset about,” I asked. “I’m the one she made an ass out of.”

“Hell. She sits there, sensuously eating oysters and stroking those damned fresh penis-shaped breadsticks, talking about how she’s done multiple pricks at once, the goddamned cock-teasing bitch, and I’m supposed to take it like a gentleman when she walks to her car without so much as a brush against the boy’s crotch? Not a single sign she liked me? Hell with her.”

“Hey, she might have been a jerk about the bill, but I could still get us a second date with her. She might yet take care of you.”

“I doubt it,” Rex said, but even he seemed to wonder about the possibility of playing with Acquisition Girl’s private parts.

When I got home, there was an email for me. “Michael,” she wrote, “I’m sorry, I had no chemistry for you. Good luck to you on Match.”

“Fucking cunt,” I breathed.

“I was right,” Rex said. “As usual.”

I nodded, half in awe. “I’ll listen to you more, then, my dinosaur friend.”

“If you had, I could have saved you two divorces, but no, you had to use the big head.”

“Okay, okay! Lesson learned! I’ll consult you next time.”

“Consult, hell,” Rex said. “I want to lead the Girlfriend Nomination Committee. Brain and Heart each get one vote. But I get two. And I nominate the girls. No more brain-selected attorney girls or heart-selected orphans. I’m going to bring some nymphomaniacs to the party. Then we’ll rock, dude!”

Oh, no, I thought. Rex in charge of getting us a girlfriend? What would THAT be like?

I’d soon find out.




Written by tigersharktorp . Link to this entry

This entry has 3 comments: (Add your own)
Unbelieveable. You apparently have developed a sixth sence.
A little advice from a friend:
1. If the girl is married she is not good girl friend material.
2. If the girl is separated she is not good girl friend material.
3. If the girl just got divorced she is not good girl friend material. (It takes a year
to recover and find out what you want).
4. If the girl is hosing everything with a pulse she is not good girl friend material.
5. If the girl is picking out rings or inviting you to meet the family before you've
met she is not good girl friend material.
Jeez Michael you're a very smart man.

Happy hunting,
Betty Boop
Comment from bettybettyboop1




Michael,

Okay, so what, she was hot and beautiful beyond words? She brings home the bacon, but wouldn't cook for you, as in, screwing your brains, and you know why I say that? You got a free meal and the cock-sucking, thunder-cunt probably saved you a trip to the psychiatrist, not to mention another divorce court. These power babes are bigger pricks than John Holmes and his legendary shlong. If you had fucked her, she probably would have been checkingher voice mail onher cell while you were down licking her carpet. She probably doesn't even get wet unless a guy shows up wearing Armani, smoking a real Cuban cigar and has one of those walking, talking, penis hat wearing limo drivers! Personally, I think the night turned out just right. Good for Rex!
Comment from ussdevilfish666


all I can say is Ya cant win em all.
Comment from ldy916

GIRL 14 ~ PIANO GIRL

GIRL 14

PIANO GIRL



At the time, Girl 6, Alayna, and I were still friends, though we'd long since broken up.

"Who are you dating?" she asked playfully on the phone.

"I have a date tonight with Piano Girl," I said. "Real potential there."

"What's her sign?"

I thought for a minute. I'm a scientist and engineer. Never before had I believed in astrology. But Alayna was a Leo, and oh my God, what a phenomenon in bed she had been, and all she'd read to me about Leos - Jesus, they were the sluts of the zodiac! Alayna made me believe. So when I had winked at Piano Girl, I had noticed her sign.

"Scorpio," I said.

"Oooooo," Alayna breathed, "You're in luck! Scorpio'll fuck your brains out!"

I walked into Princeton's Nassau Inn, to the lower level Yankee Doodle Taproom. It had been remodeled and the atmosphere had been ruined, going from an English gentlemen's club to a hamburger joint overnight, but the fireplace side of the bar had some residual charm.

I walked up to a woman so spectacularly beautiful that I froze in place for a half second and just stared at her. She was a short, petite little thing with gorgeous blonde hair and a pair of the most bewitching eyes I've ever seen. She wore a tight sweater top and white Capris with high heeled sandals.



"Are you Amanda?" I breathed.

Her smile made my cock quiver. "I am," she said in a slightly husky but exquisitely feminine voice. "You're Michael?"

Suddenly I was glad to be alive and glad to be me.

Her story was as alluring as her appearance. She'd been a young titan of industry and made a killing on Wall Street, then cashed out when she'd gotten an inheritance. At the age of 37, she retired and pursued her dream, to be a concert pianist. When she wasn't in a formal gown playing a concert, she played in a piano bar. It was one of the most romantic stories I could have imagined.



And there was no mistaking our mutual chemistry. She looked gorgeous, she smelled like heaven, and her kisses were the sweetest tasting things since the invention of chocolate. And furthermore, she seemed as taken with me as I was with her.

Dear God, I thought, marriage material.

At the end of our first date, I walked her toward her car, holding an umbrella over her dear head as we slowly strolled the rain-swept cobblestone streets of Princeton.

The second date was a three day marathon of sex and kissing and holding and decadent food. We'd put on workout clothes and go for a run. We talked at a cozy bar. I stroked her hair and looked deeply into her eyes.

Piano Girl was the perfect woman for me.

I still don't know why I did it. After knowing her for two weeks, I dumped her on a trumped-up charge. I broke up with her at two in the morning and told her to get her clothes and get out by 6 am. Just before she left, she looked at me with her large, blue, tear-filled eyes. That look will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I sat in my leather club chair and threw down three Johnny Walker Blacks and wondered what the hell was going on. This time I wasn't sure if it would be my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, or the supreme being who would show up in my living room. I guessed Rex would be silent. After all, Piano Girl had been the first woman he'd chosen. What a spectacular beauty he'd brought to the candlelit table. All for naught, to be dumped without cause by the big head.

As it turned out, both apparitions appeared. The supreme being plopped down in my command chair at my yacht-sized oak library table, his Timberlin boot-clad feet resting casually on the table surface. He drank Jack Daniels over exactly four ice cubes. People sometimes ask me what the supreme being looks like when he talks to me. They would never believe me when I told them the truth, because it's a reflection of his quirky sense of humor. The supreme being, creator of the universe, God Almighty, Jehovah, I-Am-That-I-Am, the Alpha and the Omega, the holy of holies, looks exactly like…me. Me, a few pounds lighter, a bit more muscled, teeth a little whiter, fingernails nicelymanicured, hair a little less grey, his complexion almost perfect except for the tough-looking scar from what could have been a knife fight. The supreme being mocked me by showing up as a Hollywood version of me, missing only the Ray·Ban sunglasses. It was always hard to look at him. It was distracting seeing such a perfect version of myself, because when I think of myself, I think in terms of all my imperfections. Like I said, my supreme being pal has an odd sense of humor.

I know what you're thinking. Either that I'm a fiction author, so all this is just more fiction, or that I'm mad as a hatter. All I can say is, the only things about this journal that are false are the colors of the girls' hair. To protect the innocent, the pictures are of women who look exactly like the actual females I dated, but if the woman was brunette, the photo will show a blonde. With some notable exceptions.

In the leather recliner by the fireplace, Rex relaxed, a tenth of the size he occupied when he was ready for combat.

"Hello, gentlemen," I said solemnly.

The supreme being put his hands behind his head and shut his eyes.

"Well?" I asked. "Aren't you two going to tell me how badly I fucked up? How I dismissed a woman who was perfect for me? How she was exactly what both I and Rex needed? Aren't you going to ask me why I let her go? And then rake me over the coals because I did it because I'm still in grief over that damned Girl 6, Alayna? And that I should get myself out of this quagmire of grief so I can fulfill my mission? Whatever the hell that mission is?"

They were both silent for a long time. The supreme being spoke first, nodding at Rex.

"Why should we?" he asked. "You've already said it better than we could."

"Are you going to tell me what my supposed mission is ahead of time?" I asked.

Again he was silent, just sitting and sipping the Tennessee sourmash whiskey, the liquor's creation that on one occasion he'd taken credit for by saying he'd inspired the distiller in the man's dreams.

"When you fulfill your purpose with a woman, you'll know it," he said.

I sighed. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for what I did to Piano Girl," I said.

"Tell her," he said.

"Maybe I'll just send her my diary entry," I said. "What do you think, Rex?"

"I think you're a flaming asshole," Rex said. "A third-string jerk like you gets a first-string penis like me. Tell me again, God," Rex said to the supreme being, "why did I get assigned to him? Wasn't I supposed to be with that pro football player, not some author geek?"

The creator of the universe shrugged. "You're of more use to me with him than the gridiron god. The women expect your stuff from the Nike ad wonder boy. But from him? That's how I'm shocking them into listening to me. You shell the beach, I raid it from the sea."

Rex thought a minute, then nodded. "I'm ready. Send me in. Just don't wait too long. I need another one."

The supreme being looked at me. "Do you think you can go on?"

I started weeping. Alayna, dear Alayna. I loved her so much, I was so lost without her. The tears ran down my face.

"No. I want to kill myself," I said. "It hurts too damned much. I just want to die. I have to do it this time."

The supreme being put down his Jack on the rocks and rose to his full six foot one inch height. He put his warm hand on my forehead and a sepia-tinted light seemed to shine into my mind. I saw things then.

My first child graduating from college.

My first daughter's wedding, her face smiling and happy, and me standing there in a resplendent tux, ruggedly soap-opera star handsome in my 50s, a beautiful loving wife by my side, her eyes shining up into mine.

My second daughter's baby, cooing in my arms.

Grandchildren running around the lodge room of the house I bought when I turned 60.

The accident on the ice when I was 75. The mangled sports car. My bleeding body. The ambulance. The coma. The family. The worried look on my wife's face. My exes whispering quietly to her. The haggard look on the face of the young doctor as my heartbeat stopped.

My first child standing at my grave, the numerals on the headstone reading 1958 - 2033.

When he took his hand away, the visions stopped as suddenly as they had started. And I had no memory of any of them, only fragments returning in my dreams.

"Now how do you feel?" he asked.

"Okay, I guess," I stammered.

"You okay to go on?"

"Sure," I replied, frowning. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The supreme being downed the rest of the Jack, then faded away before my eyes. I looked over at Rex, but he was gone too. It was just me.

I booted up my computer and began an email.

"Dear Amanda, I'm so sorry I got crazy on you, but I think it would be best if we didn't have a relationship. I don't think I'm ready. But I want you to know I think the world of you, and I wish you only the best. Be well, gorgeous. Love, Michael."

I hit the send button and then clicked into the famous internet dating site.

It was time to find a brunette.

GIRL 15 ~ PSYCHO GIRL

GIRL 15

PSYCHO GIRL



All my efforts to find a brunette proved fruitless. I'd set up a  search criteria on the famous internet dating site, which would boil down to, "send me a fucking brunette!"" None of them liked me. There were no responses at all.

And then something happened. A brunette, a gorgeous one, winked at me.

It took all of two minutes on the phone, subjected to her intensity, to realize she was a complete psycho. She'd been divorced for some 18 years, but was still madly obsessed with her husband. She lived in a house that was paid off, and didn't have to pay a cent toward a mortgage. She had a one year old SUV, fully paid for, courtesy of her ex. She was paid a six figure sum for child support every year, with never a collection issue, all thanks to the decency of her ex. But that wasn't enough for her. She was so furious at having ""lost" her divorce (she apparently defined "winning" as having his decapitated head on a stick on her front lawn) that she sued her divorce attorney for malpractice and created yet another legal juggernaut battle. It was all too familiar, as this was pretty much what my first wife did.



So on our first date, after dinner and dessert, I pulled my cock out of her rectum and came in a rush all over her grateful face, her tongue and lips slurping up the sticky goo of my climax, and when she had swallowed it all and lay satisfied, nestled in the crook of my arm, I asked her exactly what it was she had to be so bitter about.

It took three hours to drag the ten words of the fundamental information out of her: He found a younger woman, fucked her and married her.

I've never understood why the female of the species so resents that other females roam the earth.

So she got rejected by one man. Big deal! Hell, in the last year, I thought, I was into the high triple digits in the rejection arena. Deal with it! Grow up! Get a thicker fucking skin!

For every sixty seconds I spent fucking her, I spent an hour giving her psychotherapy.

But it was no good. Psycho Girl insisted that her world was completely raped by her sinister ex-husband.



The great thing about cell phones is that you can change the ring tone. I programmed her ring tone to be silent and forgot about her.

At least I tried to. A few days later, she was on my mind. I called her out of curiosity. She had signed onto Adult Friend Finder dot com and was having purely sexual relationships. She could skip all the "how is it that you're single" questions from her dates and proceed directly to the anal sex and facial cum shots she loved so much. I wished her well and hung up the phone. I remember it was about 7 in the evening, and I was in the warehouse office of the petrochemical company I was building a project for, in the coffee break room. I stared into space for a moment, trying to make sense of the world, and when I looked at my watch again it was half past 8.

I got in my truck and started the long drive home in the rain. I heard the crinkle of foil as the supreme being, once again, and as usual, without permission, took my gum, shoving three pieces into his mouth. "What?" he said. "I like Trident."

"I suppose you inspired their gum chemists in their sleep too, right? So the gum is really your creation? Like the Jack Daniels?"

He smiled. "Sometimes people come up with great things on their own," he said.

I shook my head. "What the hell was that about?"

In the rear view mirror, I could see my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, sitting in the passenger seat. He looked glum and haunted. I think Psycho Girl scared him. A sexual dinosaur, frightened by a woman. Go figure.

The supreme being shrugged. "She didn't listen."

"So all those hours I poured advice and counsel into her, that was all wasted?"

We drove for five minutes before he answered. "Sometimes it takes a while for the words to reach their target. I have something else planned for her. When she experiences it, your words will echo in her mind, and she'll move to the next level."

"My words. You mean your words."

The supreme being glanced at his Rolex. "I gotta run. Listen, next time you're surfing on Match, I wantyou to look outside your usual search criteria. Your usual blonde or brunette thing? Something different this time."

"What, you mean a redhead? Copper auburn."

His eyes drilled into me. "No. I mean non-American. Non-white."

I dropped my jaw. "Oh. Okay. I didn't realize I liked non-white non-Americans."

He smiled a devilish grin. Quite a trick for the supreme being. "Once you try black"

"You never go back," I finished for him.

"Oh, by the way?"

"Yes," I said.

"Forget we talked about this," he said.

"About what?" I said, wondering why my mind had wandered for the whole conversation.

"Nothing," he said.

"No, tell me," I insisted, but he was gone. I looked at Rex in the rear-view. "What did he say?"

"You expect me to keep up with all this metaphysical shit? Listen, I'm responsible for the sexual happiness of the female, that's all. I fuck the pussy. The mouth. The ass. I press against the girl during the first kiss. Thrills'R'Us. That's all. Everything else is your job. Which, frankly, is why this girlfriend search is going so poorly. Why, oh why, didn't the supreme being assign me to the pro football player? I could be getting some major tail right now. Instead, I end up giving the big head therapy." He sighed.

"Wait a minute, you're responsible for the sexual happiness of me," I complained.

"If it were up to me, my man, we'd be knee deep in female right now. You're the enemy of intimacy. I pull us toward the feminine soul. You drag us away."

"Really?"

"Duh," he said, his sarcasm dripping out of him.

"Oh, fuck you," I said.

"I wish I could get fucked," he said, still caustic.

And then he was gone. Twenty minutes later, I walked out of the shower, toweled off, and started up Match dot com. I put in a new search criteria. Slender. Tall. Educated. Under languages I clicked "any." Under race, I bit my lip, then selected "any."

I pressed the SEARCH button.