GIRL 30
BLACK BOUTIQUE GIRL
She winked at me. Now, the thing is, women who contact men are an
entirely different animal than females who respond to a man. The
winkers are already sold on the guy. No need to write her and tell her
what a great dude you are. The respondents reply for a thousand
reasons, only one being romantic desire. A woman who responds to a
man’s Match email may only be bored, or sarcastic, or annoyed, or even
furious. One woman was a week into an email exchange with me before she
read my slutty profile, and then she wrote back, "um, I just read your,
like, profile? And, um, like, you’re a slut? And, um, like, I can’t go
out with you? Cuz I’m, like, a really moral woman? Like, you know?"
Hey, moron, consider reading up on me before wasting my time for a
week. Okay, that’s a bad example, because the woman initially didn’t
respond at all until I wrote her a long poem (works every time). But a
girl who seeks the man out, that’s a woman who is ready for him.
Unfortunately, since men respond almost 100% to the contact of a female
(men think they can fuck anyone who contacts them, or at least have a
hell of a fighting chance…), women are arrogant about it. Because
silence is the international symbol of rejection, I never responded to
females who weren’t as hot as someone I would pick out. After all, I’m
no player. I’m not in this just to throw dick around. I wanted a
girlfriend. Or at least, that’s the lie I kept telling myself over and
over again, hoping that it would come true. But after being ripped open
by Girl 29, and still in the middle of grieving for Girl 6, I needed
more meaningless pussy, not less.
I tell myself that isn’t the reason I responded to the pictureless,
vague profile of the girl who wrote me and said I was hot. I replied
and asked which she was – a CIA agent, a buffalo, or a married woman.
She replied with a picture of herself. She was black. That was
interesting, I thought, scanning my memories for experiences with black
females. There was that black massage parlor girl in San Diego when I
was nineteen, what an experience that had been. I’d wanted a blowjob,
and oh my God did I get one, and I came so much I blew the girl's
cheeks out. I think she was spitting for a week. She’d looked at me and
asked, "when was your last woman?" and I’d smiled and said, um, there
was no last woman. It had my first experience with a woman who sucked
the cock with gusto. High school and college freshman girlfriends back
then didn’t exactly satisfy. I grinned for a week over that.
Then there was Cha Cha, the black stripper who I’d kissy-faced with in
Fort Lauderdale when my submarine had pulled into port. I was supposed
to drive the ship back to the Atlantic the next morning, and my fellow
officers had pull me out of her car, to her protests that "I just want
to take him home and love him!" The next morning, after starting the
reactor, I arrived for officers’ call and caused an uproar, because I
looked like a clown – my face from my nose to my chin was covered with
bright red lipstick from Cha Cha’s sloppy wet kisses. The enlisted
"nukes" hadn’t said a word about it, their idea of a practical joke.
When the captain arrived on the bridge to supervise me driving the
submarine to sea, he didn’t even smile as he erupted into a soprano
voiced expression of, "I just want to take him home and loooooove him!"
Other than that, my experience had been all white meat. If you ask me,
I have two "types." Okay, maybe three. Thin blondes. Thin black-haired
brunettes. Then there’s the extremely rare copper-auburn haired
females. That hair color is impossible to fake. I stopped a
twenty-something woman in Target the other day. She had copper auburn
locks and looked just like my grad school girlfriend, who had deep blue
eyes – my first experience outside of the usual brown eyed female --
and I could never look at her without getting a raging hardon. I must
have worn that girl’s pussy out. Interestingly, one woman I'd been fucking had the
Katherine Zeta Jones look, all raven-black long straight hair and eyes
so brown they were nearly black, and I’d fallen so hard for her that I
used to drink her looks in every time I saw her. She used to get furious with me about blondes. "You can walk
nonchalantly by a thousand beautiful, sexy brunettes," she’d bitterly
complain, "but one average blonde goes by and you break your NECK
staring at her! You look like the girl in the Exorcist when you spin
your headaround to see a damned blonde! Your type is blonde, just
admit it!" No way, I’d say. You’re my type, I’d insist. The one time I
told her I have two types she’d detonated. There was no room in her
belief system for a man with two types.
When you have two physical types, when one hurts you, you find a girl
from the other type. But a black chick? This could be VERY interesting.
I wrote her back and admitted that she obviously wasn’t a buffalo, so
did her mysterious profile mean she was CIA or married? She was
sheepish when she replied that she was married.
A married girl. Well, now, wasn’t that the ultimate in female players?
And how did I feel about that? The sanctity of marriage wasn’t what
bothered me – obviously it wasn’t bothering her. What got to me was the
living of a life that wasn’t honest. I allowed for the fact that I had
spent decades doing that, but I knew how it twisted the human soul. I
didn’t want that to happen to anyone else. The other thing that gets me
is when one human being takes advantage of another. This woman was
taking from her husband and giving nothing back. How would he feel if
he knew?
I asked her that. I wondered, what was her husband like? He sounded
like a nice enough guy, but had withdrawn into his own life while Black
Boutique Girl ran her dress shop. It was a chicken-egg effect. Had he
first disappeared, causing the rift, or had Black Boutique Girl’s
coldness to him caused his withdrawal? Girl 6, one of the most sexual
females I’d ever had, had shut down her husband for two years before
their separation. Imagine, I thought, sleeping next to lovely, sexy
Girl 6 for seven hundred nights without fucking her. What a waste. Is
that perhaps the worst indictment of marriage one can make? And if
marriage can do that to people, could I really blame Black Boutique
Girl for wanting cock on the side?
I spent the next week of the email exchange chewing her out. Be more
honest, I said. Be more real. I was a veritable Dr. Phuckin’ Phil. Take
charge of your life. Stop lying to yourself and your husband, and he
still is your husband and the father of your children. And a human
being. One of my rants is included on the other blog site (MEMO TO A
MARRIED FEMALE PLAYER). But her reply was always the same – yeah, yeah,
yeah, just meet me for a drink and then fuck the shit out of me.
Eventually my moral self caved in. How long can a single, available,
red-blooded male listen to a gorgeous female say the words, "please
fuck me" and stay away? About a week, as it turns out. First dry spell
that came, and they always do, I called her up. We met for that drink,
and after two hours of more ass-chewings I assumed we’d return to the
Snake Ranch for that promised no-strings-attached fuck. But she kissed
me on the cheek and walked away.
What? So, I’m not as hot as you thought? She stopped dead in her
tracks, her eyes wide. No, she said, you’re even hotter. I felt like I
had been cast in her personal chick flick when I held her shoulders and
looked into her eyes. So, why aren’t you going to fuck me? I’m afraid,
she said. Let me convince you, I said. In her car we kissed, her shirt
unbuttoned, those perfect chocolate breasts in my mouth, my hand under
her miniskirt, her thong pushed aside, two fingers three knuckles into
her melted-down vagina, my ring finger thrusting deeply in her warm,
convulsing asshole. She came twice, bit my lip, and said through
half-shut eyes, I have to go home.
I was furious. It felt like every date I’d had in high school. All
sizzle and no steak. I slammed her door and drove home, alone.
For two weeks I refused to speak to her, assuming she’d disappear. What the hell had I been thinking?
But one night she knocked on my door. What are you doing here? By this
time I was romancing – or trying to – Kickboxing Girl. I need you,
she’d said. Did something happen? I wondered if she’d been beaten or
threatened. But it was simply that she wanted me.
How do your fantasy fucks start? Female’s clothes melting off, her
fingers unclasping my belt, my pants pulled down to my ankles as she
squats, my boxers slowly pulled down, my raging hardon springing out as
if reaching out to the girl, and her moist red lips parting as she
licks the tip, shuts her eyes and then swallows the entire cock all the
way to the balls. Sometimes reality imitates fantasy. I looked down and
all I could see was the top of her head. So often, women think they’re
great at giving oral, but all their work is on the tip. Some thinkthey
take in all of two inches of the cock and can please the man. It’s been
very few women who can suck this thing properly, but then, it requires
the complete suspension of the gag reflex. Here was Black Boutique
Girl, with her perfect body, her bee-stung lips, her gorgeous nipples
tickling the skin of my thighs as she sword-swallowed all of my cock,
all of it. She pulled back slowly until he became visible again, and he
was grinning ear-to-ear. She went all the way back down on him and my
eyeballs rolled back in my head. At some point, it is all the male can
do to remain standing, so she helped me to the bedroom. I could barely
walk, where she finished what she started.
Then it was my turn. There’s no doubt, black female body chemistry is
completely different than white girls. Everything. The way her skin
smells and tastes. The taste of the nipple is different. The smell of
the vulva completely different. They say that females are all pink on
the inside. But this one was so different, so outside my experience,
and the differences excited me. It was good, it was really good. The
first three times I fucked her, I thought I’d ridden an escalator to
heaven.
But something happened. I suspect that her refusal to agree with me
about the idea of dismantling her broken marriage may have discouraged
me. Or perhaps it was that I was through playing with the player girls.
The final time I was with her, I was so awful that I wouldn’t have
blamed her for slapping my face.
Eventually we just became friends. She was sweet to me. She once said I
reminded her of James Bond and that she had been glad to have been one
of the "Bond Girls." She hadno idea how I walked on air for a week
over that compliment.
I wondered what her purpose had been in my life. I wondered what
purpose I’d had in hers. I hadn’t budged her from the opinions she’d
held on the day she winked at me. And when she was over, I went back to
the search for blondes and black-haired white women. If a ship passes
by at bare steerageway, I suppose it leaves no wake.
Or does it? Was this another one of the supreme being’s deeply planted
seeds? Were my words to Black Boutique Girl something he just wanted
her to remember much later? When he’d put something else in her life?
Had I merely laid the foundation for him while laying her?
I think about the supreme being, reclining in my desk chair sipping
Jack Daniels after Girl 14, Piano Girl, had taken me to the depths of
despair, and I remember the mysterious, mischievous smile he wore. He
was always planning something, I thought. And I’d volunteered to be his
pawn.
I wondered, did I want off the merry-go-round? No, I thought. Black
Boutique Girl was the thirtieth woman I’d dated since I started this crazy project.
Perhaps there would be a hundred before I found "TheGirl." It was the
first time I thought that this would turn into a hundred woman search.
So be it, I told the supreme being. You want me for another 70, I’m
still in.
It never occurred to me what it would mean to me if this search went
beyond a hundred. I was convinced I’d find my soul mate by the time I
reached Girl 100.
Written by tigersharktorp . Link to this entry
This entry has 4 comments: (Add your own)
To Bad-Girl. Mike told me I may have offended you with my use of the
"N" word in my previous blog. I'd like to apologize. I'm sorry, you're
right, the "N" word is despicable and should never be used. I was,
however, only restating what another man used to say to me. Those were
his words, not mine. I hope I am forgiven.
Comment from ussdevilfish666 - 11/9/05 9:36 PM
Dear Mr. Match Game,
I have been reading your journal and would like to say I believe you
are watching too much television. You speak always of the "supreme
being" in different shapes or forms appearing and talking to you. That
is not original Sir, Joan of Arcadia found him first.
A girl who will never want to be on your list.
Ms. Sensual Journey
Comment from sensuaijourney - 9/15/05 10:27 PM
No doubt about it, black women are different, and in a very wonderful
way. I come from a mid-sized rural town, filled to the brim with
steriotypical rednecks whose idea of fun is a night of playing the
board game, Risk, along with a three or four cases of cheap beer. One
of my beer guzzling friends used to say whenever he got drunk, which
was often, "you ain't a man until you fuck a nigger." Well, I thought,
that'll never happen to me because I'm just not cool enough for a black
woman, but then I met a sexy Nubian Queen who happened to love white
men. She invited me over to her house one night and we started talking
and smoking a little pot, then bam, she dove on top of me and started
tearing my clothes off! Since I was totally stoned out of my mind, my
cock just refused to go limp and I fucked her for several hours on the
floor, giving myself some really nice rug burns on my knees. This gal
thought she'd just met a white stallion, one who could power-fuck all
night, and she was thrilled. I didin't have the heart to tell her it
was the pot that made me last all night. Anyway, this gal could screw
like no other women I'd met before. Her lips were so full, she breasts
so firm, her pussy so wet, it was a dream come true for a man who
thought he'd be a virgin all his life. The next morning when I got back
home my roommate asked if I got laid and I said I didn't kiss and tell,
but then he went on about how I was a whimp and didn't fuck her, that
is until I showed him the rug burns on my knees. That shut him up and
22 years later, I still think of that night with the black goddess.
Comment from ussdevilfish666 - 9/12/05 6:02 PM
Mr. Bond...
James, darling.
You will never know how being with you changed me. in so many ways.
i'm still discovering them myself.
I'm also convinced i've come to know you better than you think.
Perhaps, someday, we"ll meet at Big Fish again, talk about it...
then of course fuck like crazy!
For old times sake.
Will always love you, Michael. In spite of you. In spite of myself.
Your Girl 30
Comment from ganja819 - 9/12/05 5:45 PM
No comments:
Post a Comment