Posts Tagged ‘sluts’

Alternatively titled: Lament à la Fraudator

Before I begin any attempt to explain what the title of this entry is referring to, in typical ambiguously tedious fashion, let’s start with a famous quote by a famous person. Today I’ve chosen the words of famous person turned Greek philosopher, Aristotle, as the eye grabbing headline to begin a sordid tale involving sexcapades, being cheated on, cheating, and all things nefarious in between the cracks. I picked Aristotle, but initially considered using Einstein’s infamous definition of “insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results”. Why? They’re both very much pertinent in my story. Hell, I could’ve just grabbed a Google image of both anyway to really underscore the meaning behind this blog with the classy highlighting flourish of a flamboyant 1980’s neon sign (a sign that’s directing you towards the adult video store lurking in the alley behind a church).
In the meantime, this quote and everything else I’m about to babble-on about, will slowly make more sense as we push through this together… or you’ll wind up completely disgusted… or both.

*editor’s note: At this point in my digression, I might as well stop being lazy and post the aforementioned Einstein meme-quote for gits and shiggles and contextual humor:

Shit, wrong quote. It’s early. I’m tired.

That one actually works, but not what I was going for. Let me try again.

Okay, this is getting frustrating. I haven’t even BEGUN the actual blog yet! Are you even reading this part?! I would’ve stopped by now. Turn back while you still can… 
This is what I get for starting the coffee off without my morning.
Let me try posting the correct image once more…

Well, you get the drift; Einstein was a narcissistic asshole who always had to 1-up Aristotle in the meme-war, but sported the most whimsical hairstyle and froofiest moustache of any genius ever.

I digress [again]…

**Disclaimer**
The information presented in this blog series is for entertainment purposes only.
It is rife with sexual content, language, innuendos, and other details not suitable for probably most everyone with a moral compass.
It’s purely for amusement. 
Read at your own risk! 
Don’t read it if you’d like to keep your opinions of me
in a safe light.
You have been warned…

My journey as a hypersexually active beta male plays out much like a Scooby Doo chase scene. The characters are perceived to be running from (or after) something, their legs and arms frantically chopping at the air, as the background of rolling hills/endless doors/repeating trees continuously loops in seamless monotony behind them. A tree, a stretch of fence, a an old house, a tree, a stretch of fence, an old house, a tree, a fence, a flicker of Tyler Durden’s penis, a tree, a stretch of fence…

Painted into the Matrix of my cartoony backdrop is a repetitive series of recurring emotional events which seems to come in waves: Lust, Attraction, Addiction, Bliss, Happiness, Doubt, Anger, Boredom, Lust, Attraction, Addiction, Betrayal, and Remorse; rinse and repeat. To top it off, these emotions are absolutely always accompanied by an amazing musical soundtrack; the era of each cycle framed in a soundscape of rock & pop hits that are guaranteed to either be celebrated or completely ruined forever. (However, The Cure’s masterpiece, “Disintegration”, could go either way for me).

Trust when I say, all kidding aside, this is a difficult thing to be open and candid about, hence my ancillary smattering of glib-tongued sarcasm. Throughout my tenure as an “adult”, the redundant pattern is prominently splayed across the full color fold-out chart in the middle of the coffee table book that is becoming my legacy. When you trace the timeline with your fingers from 7 years old to 45, there will be many zigs, zags, roadblocks, potholes, porn, women, relationships, breakups, kids, explosions, weed(s) and detritus from the fallout of each event. (Side note, if you spend an extra $20, I’ll throw in the special edition Full Color Raised Topography version, guaranteed to give your tracin’ fingers a little something extra to remember me by.)
It isn’t like I’ve intentionally designed it to flow in such a wildly irresponsible manner, replete with one bullet-pointed fuckup after another, but I haven’t done my best to prevent it either. Instead, I compartmentalize my emotions (and guilt) in order to move on to my next inevitable mistake. It’s the narcissistic asshole in me; or so I have been told.

which is why I’m an expert at so many things

Alas, I’ve never seen myself as a narcissist. Perhaps a glutinous hedonist, but certainly not intentionally a sadist. Yeah, I’m sure that’s what all narcissists say in their transcendent denials.

It wasn’t until the span of the past few years that I’ve discovered and accepted what is truly operating the carousel of cartoon backgrounds in this cheesy B-movie of life: Addictions. I have a few of those; sex being king. Even though I try stick with the general mantra of “everything in moderation; even moderation”, sometimes the definition of moderation becomes too wobbly and therefore transforms to excess right before my pervy salacious eyes. Suddenly I’m gauging how to moderate [see also: manipulate] my addictions so that I can justify having them, while simultaneously shooing away the Shoulder Angel of Foresight as he gently whispers, “Foresight! Foresight!! Foresight, you daft cunt!!!” in my ear with an olde Irish dialect for some weird reason.

The me of today spawned from a pimple-faced, penguin-footed, low esteem havin’, constantly bullied kid with daddy issues and a tendency for inventing the coolest-ever group of imaginary friends: Joanie, Johnny, and Jared. I would stand on top of the backyard clubhouse my father built, chanting/singing/screaming to made-up allies and foes below, with my team of misfitted misanthropes behind me. I was more comfortable with them than any of the real-life dimwitted asshats who would follow me home from school, calling me names, punching me, kicking me, taking my shit, and doing everything possible to make sure I’d completely hate everything about school (and life). In my backyard, with my made-up club, “The Thunderbirds” and made-up company, “Funny Farm Enterprises”, I would wack at the Japanese Beetles swarming the neighbor’s giant honeysuckle tree with an old tennis racket from the shed. If I managed to hit one, it would buzz to the ground like a World War II Hellcat losing in a dogfight. I’d collect the busted bug parts, seal them in an envelope, mail it to unsuspecting family members, and then write a song about it for posterity.
For context, here is a key ingredient of my childhood memories:

Awe, they’re so thick and adorably iridescent!

“With the power of wings, I TAKE FLIGHT!”

Painting the ultimate picture for you? Good. Let’s face it: I have a knack for shooing away both beetles and Shoulder Angels alike with my weapon of choice; a whole lot of racket.

Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, “Addiction” wasn’t a word used in our lexicon. It wasn’t even a concept I’d listen to if an older, wiser, less-pimply version of me came back in time in a DeLorean and sternly lectured me about having good morals or the perils of my future-me actions if I disregard them. Back then, like most adolescents, my self-absorbed bubble was skintight and soundproof. In the mid-eighties, we moved from San Bernardino to Victorville, California. I was 13. Prior to this, I felt oddly attracted to boys and store mannequins, dirt and spiders. My idea of a good time was recording myself inventing game shows and made-up songs, while collecting Garfield comic books and rocks. Somehow, miraculously, a 2 hour move North mutated those awkward obsessions into very much a girl-obsessed beast of a young man. One “girlfriend” promptly following another and another, trying desperately to reach even 2nd base; a hand up a shirt, perhaps?
Here’s looking at you, 220 pound Brenda in the arcade.
By the time I was 16, on my birthday, I lost my virginity to Jennifer (a girl!). She broke up with me for making a casual suggestion during our one and only act of attempted copulation, “maybe you should call your ex-boyfriend to ask him how this works?” Apparently this is not the correct term of endearment to use during attempted intercourse. I’m not sure if that’s my official virginal deflowering, due to the general discomfiture of the moment, but I’m going with it. Penis touched vagina and that’s good enough for Jesus. Heck, according to my mother, that’s how I was conceived. Immaculately!

Soon after, April, with a facial canvas zittier than a “before Proactiv” image, was my new official girlfriend. My sex drive was gearing up for warfare at that point. After a failed attempt at trying to get her to have a 3-way with me and her friend in her mom’s bed, I ratcheted things up a notch. During a Mormon Halloween party for teenagers at a friend’s house that my mom put together, April and I snuck off behind the sheets hanging up around the inside parameter of the garage. The sheets were there to keep the party people in the center of the area, not for heathens to hide behind them for sexual pleasure on the washing machine. Within minutes of our hiding, my mom pulled the sheet open. Instead of finding The Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, she discovered April, and me, with my fingers, inside April. My stringent LDS mother was slightly less than thrilled, and we conceded with blushed faces that lit up our pimples like beacons in an oven. A week later, April was at our home again and the plan was to venture next door with the family to have dinner with the neighbors. My mom and dad went ahead of us. My girlfriend and I lingered behind, but made a slight off-course turn to the backyard when no one was looking. Under that clear high desert moonlit sky in our grassless yard against the fence, she went down on me; my very first blowjob. I was so excited and bewildered this was happening, that, when it was “time” for me to finish, I looked down at her… and it shot square into my own eyeball with the trajectory you’d expect from a sperm torpedo, completely swelling it closed within a few minutes. When my mom saw me a bit later at our neighbor’s house, with my monstrously hideous puffy eyelids, the only excuse I could come up with was, “A bee flew in my eye!”
“That must have been some bee…” our neighbor remarked.
I should’ve been made aware of the power of addictions back then. Even in taking April to church to redeem our sins, I would secretly feel her breasts up under our coats while we sat in class, paying absolutely no mind as to what Jesus would or wouldn’t do.

April and I soon split up. My teenager libido came complete with the side effect of hormonal moodiness, which continues to be a bent nail in my relationship coffin to this day. Eh, teenage love anyway. It’s the end of the world when it’s gone, but we quickly align our sights to higher standards.

After April, I craved more and was willing to lower my standards… but nothing presented itself in the form of a goddess descending from the sky. A few weeks had passed and I was getting picked on again by some older dudes at a new school. Frustrating. It’s the typical cliche of being more of a lover than a fighter -I avoided confrontation at all cost, even taking different bus routes and changing classes if necessary. I kept to myself. I was not the type to approach a girl, I waited to be approached and went with whatever the moment presented. Well, at least that was the idea. In this period of time, during my freshman year, it was slim pickins. I’d pretty much given up hope until one fateful day in Computer Class I discovered that the bar of standards could be lowered to a length of a 3 foot stick of beef jerky.

Under most circumstances, I didn’t participate in fundraisers for the school. My nihilistic approach to most things “educational” and being constantly heckled by dickless morons caused me to skip many, many, many days of certain classes. The school never contacted my parents, so I was able to fly under the radar, disregarding the enormous sacrifice to my education. The one class I managed to be somewhat interested in was Computers, where they taught you how to type, use this thing called a “mouse”, and prepare for a career as a secretary or something. It was only 1988, after all, and personal computers (Apple IIe) were in their infancy.
One fateful afternoon in this class, with my 3 foot plastic cylinder filled with all the beef jerky sticks I hadn’t sold for $5 a piece (I’d only sold one… to myself… for lunch), she spoke to me. The first black chick to ever acknowledge my existence was trying to get my attention. “Sup, white boy? Sup up with yo jerky you be carryin’ around?” Rose asked with all the indifference you’d expect from two completely different racial universes colliding in the corner of crowded school room. “Why you sellin’ that shit, nerd?”
“It’s for a fundraiser thing. They’re five bucks. Want one?”
“Well, tell ya what. Yeah, I do actually. That shit looks good. But I ain’t got no money, ma nigga. How about this? How about I…” then she got super close and whispered in my ear, “suck you off for one. Is that worth five bucks?”
“Yes. Yes it is. When? How? Where?” I was shaking with anticipation.
“Hmm… meet me between classes in the gym foyer on the stairs.”
“A’ite den. Bet.”
The place she was referring to was this not-so-private spot on the stairs connecting the indoor gym and the indoor locker room. Anyone could’ve walked up on us, but hey… a deal is a deal and this was giving birth to my voyeuristic side. I met up with her at the predetermined time. Our formalities were tossed next to the pants around my ankles as she started paying her debt back to society. My nervousness was insane. It was, after all, only my 2nd blowjob ever and my first black girl experience, in a public area during school hours… all for fucking stick of dehydrated cow! My leg bounced like I was having a seizure. The boniness of my knobby white-boy knee then collided with the side of her makeup soaked cheek… hard… thus killing the mood. That’s fine. We both got what we came for. She rubbed the side of her face, shot me a dirty look, and left with her consolation prize of tubed meat without saying another word.
After she walked out of the foyer I buttoned up my 501’s, assessing both my life choices and the current situation: her thick brown foundation makeup rubbed off all over the front of my brand new denim button up shirt. The silhouette left was that of a black Mother Theresa. My shirt had the scent of tarred leather and jheri curl. I was realizing I couldn’t return to a classroom full of loudmouthed vultures in this condition. So, I turned myself into the principal’s office for being tardy to class and sat there in a metal chair with a grin on my face until the closing bell rang and then swiftly weaved my way to the bus.

I wonder what Rose would’ve done for/with this…

As the close of the 1989 drew near, as my family moved from bustling southern California to the podunkish landscape of Elko, Nevada, I decided to make a drastic change to my image with everything from clothing, to swagger, to nicknames (which I self appointed as “Casper” for no other reason than “because I’m sneaky as fuck when I want to be”). I kept the acne, to remain true to my 16-year old image. I found my identity in a new JCPenney Levi jacket with faux lamb lining and acid washed rolled-up jeans. Coming into my junior year of high school, I transformed from the class geek-piñata to a dude with as much sex appeal as you can imagine a 160lb, 6 foot, zitty, pale white boy to not have.

Within the first 2 months, I managed to secure a date with two hypersexual obsessed female classmates. We went to the movies at Elko’s only (at the time) theater. There was one movie playing at two different times: 7 and 9:30pm. The movie? Disney’s Aladdin. As we left the theater, each arm around a girl, feeling smug and overconfident, a class bully mysteriously appeared and called out my name from behind us. The line of people that had previously formed for the 9:30 movie showing, had ensembled as a crowd of looky-loos behind this douchebag and his 3 friends. Before I had a chance to bravely proclaim, “But I don’t even know who you are!” to his “I can’t stand you in class!!” comments, he punched me hard in the nose three times. I fell backwards, slammed my skull into the iron security bars on the autopart store window, and it felt like my brains were draining through my nostrils. Trying to gather my senses and focus on my surroundings, I realized that the crowd, the douches, and the two girls I had much different plans for, all left the scene. Had it not been for two high school seniors rescuing me shortly after, I probably would have bled out right then and there into the streets. Apparently my piñata years needed a solid conclusion.

Accurate recreation of a solid conclusion.

We’re far from done with this sardonic journey through the rollercoaster of my life. Stick with it kids and I’m certain, if nothing else, you’ll find that things probably aren’t as bad as you think in your own life. Whatever you do, don’t take it too seriously. I’m not!

to be continued…