A Bad Man in a Bad Place

Frank asks:

I don't wish to be obvious (or nagging) by saying something like: "it is okay for you, but not for her"; but I suffer a genuine curiosity in your take on why you reacted the way you did. You see, at some point in my last "relationship", non-monogamy was discussed, and somehow both of us felt like we might like to go outside of the "unit" but didn't want the other to do the same.
And I don't want anyone to belittle this one as having something to do with men's perception of women; my ex is a guy, I'm bisexual, so I firmly believe this "reaction" is irrelevant of gender. So what do you think?

I've grown fond of SouthernBelle. I know that when I sleep with other women, I'll come back to her, because I've grown fond of her.

And I had a moment of insecurity where I wasn't able to determine immediately if this new guy meant that she and I would end up being through.

That's all it was.

It took me 12 hours to realize that:

A) If we're through, that's ok, there's many other fish in the sea; and
B) If we're not, I was just being needy and insecure and that's retarded, considering the shit that I do, and that I know that SB likes me.

I apologized a few times (cardinal sin of the pickup artist community, but who cares what the rules are, really?) and we're on good terms again.

Doesn't help that I'm in SF.

Worst case scenario, I have to go running around picking new women up. And since I'm only 5 into the GFTOW schedule over the Liberal, that might not be the end of the world.

And if I've gotta GFTOW for SouthernBelle, I guess that'd mean I'd need to GF15OW, which is manageable.
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The other night I found out that SouthernBelle met another guy and slept with him. I said some things that I'm not pleased with having said to her about it. I called her, in what I thought was jest, a hussy.

She stayed calm for the duration of the phone call, but was apparently pissed. I called today because I didn't like what I'd said to her and she made clear in a later email that she was hurt and mad at me for that. The tone of her email suggests that we're done.

I'll find out on my return, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if I only saw SouthernBelle once or twice more.

I'd rather that not be the case, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Washington DC was amazing for my career, but I can't move there - in 48 hours I saw two pretty girls, and they were the equivalent of Booth-Babes (the women hired for trade shows to get the nerds to come visit their booths)

Now I'm in SF and my jet lag is abating but I haven't had a chance to do my thing with anyone yet. And I'm shaken up at my reaction to SouthernBelle, which is throwing me off. I won't use that as an excuse for anything, but it's nagging me at the back of my mind.
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At dinner with a friend in DC, the conversation turned to a friend of hers that she wants to set me up with.

"Is she hot?"
"I think she's good looking. She's different looking. Lots of tatoos."
"Is she tall?"
"Taller than me."
"Like, 5'7?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Ok. Have her email me. Has she seen me or is this just because she needs to get laid?"
"Why would it matter if she's seen you? Girls don't pick guys on looks. None of you look very good."
"You're a lesbian."
"Am not."
"Honey, I've never painted myself to look better. Who looks good naturally again?"
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"So what do you do for a living?"
"I own a salon."
"Wow. That's awesome. You must be rich!"
"I do well for myself."
"That's so cool. We're totally getting married. I'm going to divorce you a couple of weeks later and take half your money, this'll be awesome."
"Can't do that. My husband beat you to it."
"Oh. Damn."
"But he's dying."
"Oh. Well why don't we wait for that to happen, and you get the life insurance, and we can split that."
She smiled and agreed. I ejected shortly after, even though she was cute, because I don't do that.
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PizzaGirl gave me a fake email address.

That's hot.

Another crash and burn.

Learning curve is steep, but fun.
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[Edited to add] -
No, no, I take it back, she didn't, I just read it wrong.

Amazing, she gave me a real email address. Weird shit. Don't know why I'm suprised with my LA boys in town magic always happens, but still.
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Some of the guys wanted to know why I don't close women every chance I get, try to sleep with anything that moves. Despite my reputation I don't.

The line I've used for awhile, and it's true, is that I want to be with dozens of women thousands of times instead of thousands of women dozens of times. That's why I keep SouthernBelle and the Buffalonian. Both of them are good about my tomcatting and hitting on other people, both of them know about each other, and the sex just gets better and better the more we fuck.

More on this later, this is really on my mind after hanging out with my player friends last night. They all seem to be of the mindset of "new pussy is better than old no matter what" and "the hottest girl is what I want" two ideas that I don't necessarily share.

Don't get me wrong, I like hot girls, but I'd rather a fun girl who's not as attractive but fucks like a freight train than a 10 who isn't or doesn't. I think a lot of guys disagree with this, but then, nobody ever said that I was the same as everybody else.

I'm open to your thoughts on this, or anything else.

I'll post a report of the conversation with PizzaGirl later, and I've just followed up via email.
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So, I've had this sticking point with cold approaches (approaching women, alone, or with a group) for about... oh... say... my whole life.

People ask me how I get laid so much.

Women pick me.

However, that's not the point here.

The point is that tonight, I went way beyond anything I thought I could.

Before this past weekend, I'd never opened in my life. My friends are in from LA. They're a bunch of players, I admit, but they're still a bunch of good guys. I've never seen anything quite like the openings that they did, they taught me a ton.

Tonight, we all went to Webster Hall, because, well, that's where the women are. Not the women I'm looking to meet, necessarily, but the hair-straightened not-wearing-much too-much-lip-gloss women. Club chicks.

The short version of the story (it's 2:30 and SouthernBelle is on her way over and I'm tired) is that I talked to some of them about my little... problem, and at first, we were at Sutton Place, and I felt like I'd rather swallow my own tongue than walk up to a random group of people and talk to them.

We left there, since there was a fireman's convention, and it was, how do you say, a sausage factory? The ratio was unkind.

Outside, one of my friends said "approach those girls" and I did. And they got attitude and walked away.
And then he said "approach THOSE girls" and I did. And they got attitude, walked away, and when my other friend tried to jump in with something, they got nasty, and walked away.
And then he said "approach those girls" and I said that I couldn't do that venue.

We jumped in a cab and went down to Webster Hall where I met up with some of the other guys in our group. One guy decided to take me under his wing and see what he could do.

I told him my problem. That I can't approach. So he gave me a line to use, and I went and did. I asked girls for the time. They didn't have watches, but I talked to them, that was what mattered.

He kept pushing me out of my comfort zone. I opened groups of two to four women, each, with the exception of the Pizza girl (maybe the hottest woman in the place, who gave me her email address, although not her number). I after awhile, I opened with "I'm shy. My friend bet me five bucks if I came over to talk to you" and went from there. I met a very pretty girl that way, but she was from Ohio, and my goal wasn't to take anyone home, so c'est la vie. While I was talking to her and her two friends (she was 5'9ish, beautiful and such, her friends were way less attractive) I gave them my name. When the were walking out, they spotted me, and wished me well with my shyness by name. Not bad, apparently I'm memorable.

At one point, my friend told me he wanted to watch me do my thing, so he winged me. I've never done _THAT_ before. He started talking to them, and then I jumped in, he introduced me, and I hijacked the two girls who were sitting there, who went from bored and depressed about being there to happy and amused, after which I ejected.

As long as I went in alone, I was successful. If I went with someone else, well, I had trouble with the social dynamics of those situations.

All in all? VERY cool night. Now, SouthernBelle and bed.
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My exgirlfriend The Freshman read a Craigslist missed connection, and emailed me to ask:

HA! Is this you?

You need to quit chasing women and get your head examined. Why are you so desperate to have a girl to sleep with all the time? As soon as you get one, you're on to the next one. You wouldn't believe how many people I've met who either went out with you or know someone who did, and your reputation isn't improving. Don't you understand that women are humans with feelings? Yet you treat women like toys, objects to be played around with until something shinier comes along. And, frankly, your behavior is abusive. I'm sorry, I'm sure you're doing the best you can, but you need to get help.

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Went to Avalon this evening, the former Limelight spot. A friend told me "tonight's just for practice, see how hard you can crash and burn." I laughed.

But then I did.

I opened three different groups of women, asking them all the same question. By the end of the second question, at least one woman in each group had a big smile and was talking to me.

Between opening and closing, I only have one stumbling block, and that's the open itself. By which I mean between meeting a woman and having sex with her, my hold-up is the first thirty seconds of meeting. And then getting rid of her if things go sour.

So I opened three sets of girls, and then by the time I was ready to leave, I made eye contact with this hot black girl who, as I walked by her, started groping me. I walked right past, groped her back, and left. Maybe it's because I haven't slept all week, maybe it's because she looked too young, or maybe it's something else. No matter what, lots of very good progress tonight.
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In the shower this morning, at 9am, the Buffalonian was washing my back.

"Wow. You've got a scratch. Wait. You've got scratch marks. Those aren't mine... whose are those?"
"Could be any number of people's"
"Oh."

And then she washed my hair.
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If I'm this tired from work and SouthernBelle, why, at this hour, am I having the Buffalonian come over?

Because I promised, basically.

High quality problem, I know.
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SouthernBelle complained that I live in a pig-sty of an apartment. That I never clean it. That it's gross.

So I did what any kind, caring, overpaid lawyer would do. I hired a housekeeper.

SouthernBelle was then reintroduced to my apartment, where she proceeded to freak out.

"Oh my god, it's so clean in here. That's hot!"
"You bitched. I hired a housekeeper."
"Wow! Clean sheets!" She rolled around on them for a bit. "Nobody elses sex juice on them or anything!"
"Only the best for you, baby."

This morning, after 10 hours of on and off sex, the sheets were a little more rumpled than the night before, and a little messier.
"Now Buffalonian can get the dirty sheets for once."

There's something pretty amazing about having women who know about each other and condone your tomcatting.
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The more criteria I give women, the more they try to jump through those hoops. Someone called it hoop theory, and others call it qualifiers.

I've said that (and it's true) I like intelligent, charming, funny women 25-35, 5'8-6' tall, good looking, long brown hair, and sexy as hell. When I set those criteria, every short, young, blonde in town suddenly screamed "hey, what about me, I'm good enough!"

The Buffalonian, for example, is 5'7, 23, and blonde. She's the former hostess at one of the top clubs in New York. The more I make her jump through hoops to be with me, well... read on.

Today, we were talking about her getting her pussy waxed. I don't like fully waxed pussies, as I've said, I prefer a little hair down there.

Buff: i'm scared to wax Buff: but maybe i should just go Buff: i heard it hurts like a bastard Bad Man: try it, see how you like it. I prefer hair. Gives me a little air filter when I go down on you. Helps avoid vapor lock. Buff: i think bald reminds me of a little girl Bad Man: YEAH Bad Man: eyew. Bad Man: I like my women aged to perfection, not babies. that's why I don't fuck 18 year olds. eyew. Buff: oh, i'm too young for you, old man Buff: ....and too short Buff: but i'm funny, and good company, and down to earth, and i have a nice ass, no? Bad Man: you've got your charms. Bad Man: you are too short, but it just means you can wear sexy heels. and too young, sure, but you're sweet and funny.

The rest of the conversation was extremely graphic, about what she'd like me to do to her tomorrow night.
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For years, my best friend made fun of me. It was a good sort of fun - I always had a woman around, and they usually didn't like me very much, and in fact, rarely even wanted to spend time in public with me. But man, they always wanted to fuck.

He'd laugh when we were out and one would call and say "Look at that, you dick-whipped another one."

heh

I'm going out to San Francisco to visit some friends next week for two weeks. I've told the Buffalonian that I won't be able to see her.

Bad Man: I know honey. Once I get back from my vacation, though, I can lavish attention on you. Assuming you haven't found too many new lovers by then. Buff: i'll try to keep my pants on, but i can't promise anything. i woun't see you this week?? i need some bad man-lovin' Bad Man: you said you had plans on thursday - how late were your plans? Buff: just a little happy hour deal, you'll prob be out of work by the time i'm done socializing Bad Man: ok. Bad Man: am I going to get drunk-dialed, is that it? Buff: baby--you know i don't have to be drunk to wanna f you

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IM makes things so easy.

Anything can be sexualized and anything can be taken advantage of.

Talking about something for my career with The Buffalonian.

Bad Man: so what do you think? Buff: i like the second one better Bad Man: yeah? Buff: more professional Bad Man: with the coffee stains looks more professional? Buff: those are coffee stains?? Bad Man: that's supposed to look like coffee cup stains, yeah. Buff: oh. the first makes me think: "once upon a time...." reminds me of shakespeare, or something Bad Man: hrm Bad Man: we're changing the little graphic in the bottom corner. Buff: good idea. it's kinda girly too. Bad Man: exactly. Buff: girly-man Bad Man: yup. you gonna come lick my pussy soon? Buff: no, but you can lick mine Bad Man: that'll work.

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There's definitely something sad about the fact that the only way I learned the names of some of the cute girls I saw at the party the other night is by finding them on Friendster afterwards.

Two thoughts.

1) Must must must work on cold approaches (and not fucking up the warmed up women)
2) Does that make me a stalker?
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Not every night can be fun and games with young ladies.

Some nights, as a corporate lawyer, you get stuck working until 10:30, blowing off SouthernBelle, getting negged by the Buffalonian (reasonably, I think, since I called her at 11) and then you take the warm night air for what it is - perfect rollerblading weather.

I've got to work on my cold approaches, they're a major sticking point in my life. It's almost as if, if I could just get over _that_ hump, I'd feel way better about things. If I didn't get tongue tied in the presence of beautiful women that I'm not already sleeping with, or have slept with.

Hell, when I saw the Beauty at her bar the other night, I got tongue tied and had to look away when one of the other bartenders smacked her ass. Why I didn't offer to give it a smack myself, I still haven't figured out.

Something's not right in my brain right now. Probably partially exhaustion.

I'm meeting with one of my guru's for most of the weekend, perhaps he can put my brain right.

And the GFTOW project is stalled out at 5, which means I've got 5 more to do. Which also explains the malaise and sadness I've felt over the Liberal lately.

What a shame, the weather is gorgeous, and my mind sinks back into thinking about her. Silly.

Lots more thoughts lately, but I've got to run to work now.
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My evening was less than stellar, but everyone else had a great time, and that counts for something.

I had an amazing day, frankly. Met SouthernBelle for dinner the night before, and we did the thing we normally do, which is get together, have dinner (Miracle Grill, more Margaritas) and then come back to my place for a DVD and lots of sex. Bedtime was three, awake in the morning at nine for more of the same.

My mom called at 10:30, they were driving in from their house in the suburbs. Could they drop something off at my house in a few minutes, and use my bathroom?

"Umm, mom? I have company."
"Oh!" I could hear her palpably blush on the other end of the phone.

After SouthernBelle left, I lazed around, and it was the first nice day of the year, so I took my obligatory rollerblade. Felt good, but not as good as I hoped.

After my blade, I met my parents at a local clothing store, and walked with them to dinner at the Tasting Room down on First street.

My mom asked me "so who was this person who was there this morning? A friend? Or someone you just see for sex?"
"Umm..."
"You know, a friend, or someone you're paying?"

I was too taken aback at the question to even remember what I said. I'm pretty sure I didn't say "I'm paying for it but she gives me a deep discount because I found her G spot" but I wish I had.

After dinner, I went home to crash out. GreatDane had called, and I was going to go fly solo at his party at Sixes and Eights, a few blocks from my place. The Phoenix called me during dinner, though, and asked what I was doing, so I invited her along. Always good to have a pretty girl with you when you walk into a party. Social proof and all.

Rock Star Designer IMed me while I was lazing around.

RSD: dude
RSD: around?
Bad Man: sup?
Bad Man: yeah
RSD: gallery open
RSD: ing
RSD: Lit
RSD: down?
RSD: free cocktails....methinks
Bad Man: sure. GreatDane's birthday party is tongiht, too. thephoenix's supposed to be meeting for it. swing by the gallery then hit greatdane's.
RSD: jesus.
RSD: where's GreatDanes?
7:50 PM
Bad Man: sixes and eights chrystie and stanton
RSD: k
RSD: meet at lit or your place?
Bad Man: either way
RSD: you tell me
RSD: i'll ring your buzzer
RSD: gotta shower tho...long day of booze and rock music

After about 45 minutes, my buzzer went. RSD was at my door with one button (the bottom) buttoned on his shirt, and a black do-rag on his head. He looked like the bastard white child of a pirate and a Crip. Which was, I think, the look he was going for.

We went to Lit, had some drinks, and I forgot (as I often do when hanging out with him) that my bodyweight, at 150, isn't the same as his, at 190, and those extra 40 help him metabolize liquor. Or some goddamned thing, because I was toast when we went foraging for food.

We ended up at Chickpea on Third Ave. The Phoenix showed up while we were eating, and I sat in the window seat, gawking at the beautiful half dressed women, flaunting all their bodies for us to see, as it was finally warm out.

The Phoenix commented that I "looked like a guy who got laid an awful lot this week." I did. I was relaxed, and happy.

As we were sitting there, RSD saw a chick walk by that he wanted to talk to, so I got all ballsy and said "dude, you want me to go get her?"
"Yeah."

I chased her down the street, but flamed out at the last second, for no reason at all. Well, not flamed, more like stalled. Broke my confidence in one split second, from which my evening never recovered. Weird shit.

After I walked back, defeated, I sat down and just gaped a bit. Retreated into my head a bit. Kept up the banter, but felt like crap.

A few minutes later, a stunning black woman walked by, on her way into Continental. I turned to The Phoenix, and told her "yeah, that there? That's my type. Right there."
She laughed at me. "That's Rosario Dawson."
"Figures."

After that, we headed to Sixes and Eights. Banter was on, but I was not.

We sat at the bar, and I had more Tequila, and the more I had, the more numb I got. My tongue, at a certain point, went on vacation, my eyes went wide, and things started to be... less than perfect for me.

GreatDane showed up. He and RSD had had a fight at one point many years ago, and they never really were friends again. The fact that RSD came was very cool, therefore, on a lot of levels, because they hung out, and drank, and seemed pretty peaceful.

We got a table, and everyone moved there for more drinks, and talk. There were a bunch of GreatDane's friends there, most of whom were hot chicks. Hot chicks that I had seen around my college. Suddenly, I was back at school in my head, shy as hell, and unable to speak. The Tequila made things worse.

What's shocking was that in my mind, I was thinking "I've got two hot women that I could be fucking tonight, and instead I'm stalling out here. What would Bad Man do?"

Sitting next to Rock Star Designer didn't help. Trouble with Rock Stars is that they get all the ass they want, and plenty that they don't. I, on the other hand, still have to work for it, despite what you all may think. The other trouble was the Tequila. They say that alchohol lowers your inhibitions. It lowered my metabolism to such a point that I couldn't speak. I could, but every time I tried to open my mouth, I failed.

Which was a shame.

At one point, one of the girls introduced herself to me. I barely remembered the conversation, but it was a perfect little opener, and I stalled out. She had an uncommon name, which I'll remember, and when I got home, I noted that she's linked to RSD on Friendster. *sigh* Some days it feels like the only way I ever get to meet women is online. Not that that's the worst thing in the world, since I meet great women that way, but really, the bar/club thing is my final frontier, and I really need to conquer it.

At least one of the women there who was friends with GreatDane was so hot that I just sat and stared. Pathetic. I was 16 all over again. My brain was so cloudy that I forgot every trick in my bag, every line, even my universal opener. (The universal (and only acceptable) opener is "Hi.") I forgot how to speak. I couldn't come down. The Phoenix was having a great time gyrating on the floor with sexy girls and boys (ok, much sexier girls, but she's mostly straight) and since we're off limits to each other, it just served as yet another distraction.

Having flamed out, and turned down both the Buffalonian and SouthernBelle for the night, at 4, I decided it was time to leave. My mood wasn't bound to improve, and my flameouts weren't helping. I was approached by three girls who started talking, and somehow managed to fuck them up. Quickly.

Not my best night.

There was a brunette there, a girl who'd gone to my school after I graduated. She was stunning. I'd love to meet her again in different cirumstances. But I digress.

And here's the weirdest part - I know, for a fact, that when I get a woman home, that she will have an amazing time. I've only had two three night stands in my life, and each and every one tried to come back for more, but that failed to materialize for one reason or another. So it's not a fear of what's going to happen AFTER the first few minutes. Hell, I can't get rid of most women after I sleep with them. It's a gift.

But somehow, I just flamed out on all of my approaches and conversations. I wasn't comfortable. I need practice.

When I left, I'd just seen RSD making out with some girl, and then get up shortly thereafter to start slow dancing with The Phoenix. The night lasted well into today, as the Phoenix stayed on after I'd left, posting a comment at almost 9 this morning, and fortunately had a great time.

oh my Bad Man you better tell the truth.....the truth from my perspective....last night with the Dane was especially fun...I love being a girl...a girl that has a friend (you) to support her in all of her foibles and endeavours...
oh, Bad Man....you left too soon. and using what you taught me....the night went on and on and on.....and on and on. oh happy day!

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Watching the movie Roger Dodger - that's not me. Neither of them. But man do I wish I had been the kid when I was 16.

Updates on an evening with SouthernBelle, my mother asking me about whether or not I'm seeing a prostitute, and myriad other fun stuff soon.

My buddy GreatDane invited me to a party tonight, so The Phoenix, Rock Star Designer and I are going to his birthday party. We'll see what happens this evening. Updates soon.
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My taxes are done, work is light, girls are plentiful and spring is coming. Life is good.

Last night involved a slightly drunken 23 year old, who woke up at 4:30 this morning and wanted to fuck until 6. And as to those of you who wonder if rough blowjobs are ok with some people?

In Instant Message this morning, she said "i just don't want you to think i can't handle it. i can. and i like it."
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My taxes are done, work is light, girls are plentiful and spring is coming. Life is good.

Last night involved a slightly drunken 23 year old, who woke up at 4:30 this morning and wanted to fuck until 6. And as to those of you who wonder if rough blowjobs are enjoyed by some women?

Ive been yanked around during a blowjob.. the motherfucker put me in a neckbrace and I couldn't move my head for the next few weeks . He no longer got head from me..do what your partner is comfortable with.--Betty

I'd like to think that I am doing a good job on my own, however if the man feels like he needs to give me what my girls and I dub "the claw" it's fine as long as there isn't any choking involved. Of course this also depends on the size of the dick...Lili

Women who like to be dominated would like men to be more rough. I, for one, think it's extremely sexy for the man to take control, but I can understand the other girls' concerns about choking, "too rough", and neck problems... --Andrea

ooooh, mouth fuck. --Ju

In Instant Message this morning, she said "i just don't want you to think i can't handle it. i can. and i like it."
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Saw SouthernBelle last night again. Yes. Again. Quite a player, I am, seeing the same girl four nights out of five.

Well, tonight is the Buffalonian, and while with her I'm going to visit the Beauty. The Buffalonian said today that meeting girls I used to hook up with or date or fuck would give her insight into me and possibly bring us closer together. I bit my tongue instead of saying that it'd bring us closer together if she'd just agree to sleep with me and SouthernBelle and we could be a happy triangulated family. Bit my tongue because I've broached that subject before, (although not at adroitly as Sir Italian, obviously) and both of them said no. SouthernBelle makes out with girls but that's it, and the Buffalonian is waiting to find a guy she loves (or so she says) before she wants to bring a stranger into the bed.

There's wiggle room there.

As to the clothing advice - I'm all over the map. But I'm all about being anti-ironic-t's. I just think they're stupid and offensive on men. On women, any slogan on your Tee is a good excuse for me to eyeball your boobs, so, you know, that's all good.

While SouthernBelle was over last night, I got instant messaged by The Liberal out of the blue. SB and I were on my bed, and relaxing, and I was booking tickets for a flight, and suddenly there she was. Not dead. Still on her island.

"Honey, breathe." I took a breath. "I know it's the Liberal darlin', but breathe. You don't do either of us any good if you're dead."

And that's why I like SouthernBelle. Because when I had a freakout because my one-itis fantasy girl slipped back to say she was excited for me about something, SouthernBelle kept her cool and just wanted to help. Worth her weight in gold, that one. Talked me through it, and gave me kisses and rubs and relaxed me enough to deal with the situation.

I do lead a charmed life. I know.
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From the "helping you become the man you always wanted to be and be more attractive to women than you are now" files, I bring you fellow New Yorker Bazima, with advice on how you should dress. I saw Bazima do a public speaking thing once. She's hot shit. As sexy in person as she writes. Which means one thing - when she talks about what you should do, you should listen.

bazima dot com: Springtime For Shithead

It⤁s all about t-shirts and jeans, if you want to know the truth of it. No trucker hats, and certainly no mandals. Consider the flip flop for footwear or a Converse or Addidas slide. Just make sure your toes aren⤁t all mangy and the top of your feet aren⤁t covered in man hair. (See ⤦Queer Eye for the Straight Guy� on how to manscape. It⤁s probably the single most important episode.) I like a plain t-shirt myself. If you go for the ironic tee (ones that say things like ⤦#1 Grandpa� or ⤦Brierly School for Girls� make sure it⤁s the most unusual ironic tee anyone's ever seen. And the older the better. No re-makes from Urban Outfitters.

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Lately I've found that some women like it when I grab a handful of her hair and force her head down on me. I thought that was only the stuff of porn movies, since every magazine out there says that that's a big no-no, that women don't like it, but I've been with three women in the last year who, when asked about it afterwards, when we weren't in the heat of the moment, still said that they liked it. And that they liked it when I held their head between my hands and basically fucked their mouth. Some really rough play.

One of my girl-friends told me that she likes it too, so I'm starting to think that it's mostly a matter of a woman being comfortable enough with the guy she's with to assume that he's not going to actually choke her, but that it's just rough play. I don't know, maybe some of you ladies can comment more and explain this one. When I'm going down on a woman, if she pushed my head deeper so that I started choking, I'd be... well... I don't know, it hasn't happened in years.

Ladies - rough blowjobs - appealing? If so - what's the appeal? I know what the appeal is to me - it feels good, and there's a little feeling of power in there too. Thoughts?
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Self: Why do I have a headache like this?
Self: What time is it?
Self: Where are my pants?
Self: Why does my head feel like shit? Ow.

When I woke up at 8 in the evening with a hangover, I knew I was in for some shit.

The previous drinking with The Phoenix did me in.

Feeling out of sorts and not knowing what I was doing for the evening led me to laze around in my bed for awhile, moaning, and eventually, to get up and forage for food.

I had to return the DVD that SouthernBelle and I watched, so it was off to Two Boots for the return. On the way I couldn't figure out what I wanted to eat, until suddenly I realized that there was pizza there. Pizza has bread. And cheese. That'll eat the liquor still in my belly.

Right.

On my way, my coworker JuanCarlos called. He was already tanked, and he was out with his girlfriend, TheBaby.

"We're on fifth and second, where are you?"
"I'm on A and third."
"Wait - you don't live there. Where are you?"
"I'm returning a video. What's up?"
"We're waiting for a friend of TheBaby to show." TheBaby is JuanCarlos' girlfriend. She's very sweet, five years younger than he is, and she's got a baby face to boot. Cute in a Jewish way. As a Jew I rarely find myself attracted to other Jews, so there you go.
"Ok..."
"We were going to go to Tribe maybe."
"Ok, well, that's fate, because that's where I'm going. You should meet me there."
"Well, she just got a glass of Sangria."
"Finish your damn drinks and meet me there."

I showed up at Tribe early, took a seat the bar, got the usual stellar treatment that I get, and sat down and waited for them.

Eventually, they showed. I sat between JuanCarlos and TheBaby. She sat awfully close, and in my tequila state, I had a brief moment of "hmm..." But then, I don't snake my friends girls. As they say - never let a woman come between friends unless that woman is coming between friends. I left well enough alone.
JuanCarlos and I talked about work, talked shit, talked about the fact that TheBaby is going on vacation soon.

"She's going on Spring Break" he told me.
"Wait. How old are you?"
"23"
"Are you still in college? Why are you going on Spring Break?"
"It's not Spring Break."
"Ok..."
"She's going to Turks and Caicos for a week with her friends" JuanCarlos told me.
I laughed. "Really? Looking to get laid?"
"No no!" she protested. "He's totally enough for me." Somehow, she managed to say that in a moment when he wasn't talking to us.
"Uh huh. You know, I was talking to my trainer about Turks and Caicos the other day. I told him I was taking two weeks vacation, he said I should go there. He said it's a constant orgy down there."
"I'm going to the Club Med!"
"Yeah, that's where he said the orgy was. So, let me get this straight you're 23 years old and going to Turks and Caicos Club Med for a vacation?"
"Yeah."
I laughed. I actually laughed at her. "And what do you think of the whole having a boyfriend thing?"
"He's what I want."
"Uh huh. He's old."
"He's not old, he's 28."
"Yeah!" he chimed in. "I'm 28!"
"Nice."
"How old do you think he is?" JuanCarlos asked TheBaby about me.
"I don't know."
"He's six days younger than I am."
"Wow. I thought he was way younger." I'm apparently blessed with a youthful thing. I think I look around 24/25, which isn't the worst thing in the world.

I let that linger and the conversation died on the vine when her friend showed up. I didn't talk to BabyFriend at all, since I wasn't interested.

At some point, just as I managed to lose track of time, SouthernBelle called. "I'm out here on 9th and B. What're you doin, darlin?"
"I'm drinkin' with JuanCarlos."
"Oh. Do you want me to go home?"
"No, I want you to come over."
"Ok. I'll leave soon."

About ten minutes later I got another call.
"Hey baby, I'm on seventh and A."
"Ok, I'm inside Tribe. Come meet me."
"You want me to come inside? When I go in there, bad things happen."
"It's all good."

She showed up a few minutes later, looking a little bit drunk and a little bit cold. "I broke my heel!" She pointed to her boot, the heel of which was covered in Duct Tape.
"Good lord. Do you want me to carry you home?"
"No no! I can walk on this."
"Sure you can, darlin'." She'd got me talking Southern in the last 48 hours. I knew that I was toast.

She insisted that I not carry her, despite my repeated pleas that I could lift her without a problem. Women.

When I got her home, we were both drunk, tired, and frisky. One thing inevitably led to another, and because we were both drunk and it was 1:30, I took the lead. Also because I always take the lead, but I digress.

The rest of the night is a blur of fucking, licking, and sucking.

We had a wonderful play, hours of languourousness, roughness, kissing, rolling, stroking, slapping, and all the things that don't translate well to paper.

This morning, we woke up, well rested, at 11. She had to leave at noon for her job, so I offered to run her a shower and send her on her way. Somehow, and I'm not quite sure exactly how, I never made it to the shower. I think she "slipped and fell on my cock" as they say. We didn't have much time for it, so it was rough and raw and quick and an utterly great way to start the day.

Noon rolled around.

As she dressed to leave, I played music in the background.

"What do you think of this?" I played her a Mr. Scruff track.
"Yuck. If it ain't country or bluegrass, it's lousy."
"What about this?" I played her some LTJ Bukem.
"Same. I don't like electronic music."
"Ah."
"I do like Prince though. You know what? You remind me of his song Little Red Corvette. Do you have that?"
"I don't."
"I'll put it on a CD for you. It's totally you."
"Ok, darlin."

With that, she gave me a kiss, walked herself to the door, and let herself out.
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I spent much of the weekend with SouthernBelle. A surprising amount. Of which she said "well of course you are, silly, the Buffalonian is out of town." Charmed life I lead.

Friday night after work I met her at the Macy's flower show. The flowers were pretty, but the setting for them was a little odd - department store and all. The weather was finally beginning to break, for the first time since October, so we walked from Herald Square to my apartment in the East Village. When we got here, we were a little tired, and although I offered to take us out to dinner, we opted instead to order in from Il Bagatto. Dinner arrived around 11, and we ate, and watched a rented DVD (Radio) which had way less football and way more social commentary than I'd expected. We cuddled up in bed, my laptop in my lap and her head on my chest. It was a comfortable way to watch the movie. She fell asleep halfway through, but I managed to wake her up for a late night romp around 2:30.

The next morning at 7, my next door neighbor's alarm went off, and she wasn't home. Which meant that we were treated to several hours of radio that we didn't want to hear, while we were exhausted and ready for sleep. Instead, we managed to romp around some more, and I discovered some very interesting spots on her body. The sort that you touch and she goes "wwooooooaaaheeeeeeeeee." I admit, that was fun despite the radio. Heh. I also remembered just how much I love to eat pussy, and to feel it on my fingertips, and to take my whole tongue like a big flat thing and rub it against a clitoris until I get a writhing screaming response. Mmmm.

Because SouthernBelle is an actress, she had to work on Saturday (you thought I'd hook up with an out of work actress? Have a little more faith in me than that) and as she was dressing to leave, I stay lounging in my bed, naked.

I made a quick call to The Phoenix.
"Baby! How you doin?"
"I'm just lyin' on my couch. How you doin?"
"Doin good. Come get brunch with me."
"I just ate an hour ago. But I'll come anyway."

We made plans to meet at Washington Square Park, and then find a brunch place. We ended up at Nellie's (mmm... steak and eggs) where we wound up talking about sex. I told her that I'm in heat. She laughed at me. "You're always in heat, Bad Man." I tried to explain that it's different right now, that I'm really looking to get into everyone's pants these days, but she wasn't hearing any of it.

"I lead a charmed life" I admitted.
"Good that you admit that. I don't ever want to hear you whining about shit again."
"Tough. When things go bad, you'll hear me whine. Other than that, it's cool."
She laughed at me.

We spent the day together - shoe shopping for me. I need sneakers. I have one pair of shoes that are good enough to be seen in public with at this point, and I need something casual. After all, I've been told for years that the things that women look at first are shoes, nails, and hair if you've got it. I'm falling down in the shoe department, and The Phoenix has awesome fashion sense. It's win-win. Except that we went to the stores on Broadway, and by the third one, Transit, we were ready to kill anyone who got in our way.

To decompress, we separated, only to reconvene at 4:30 for margaritas at Miracle Grill. Best margarita's I've had in a long time. Possibly ever.

Talk turned to this site, and sex. The Phoenix suffers from too-hot-girl syndrome, where the guys she wants are too intimidated to hit on her, and the guys that do hit on her are jackasses. The Liberal's friend SweatShopOwner had that problem with a wannabe-firefighter. SweatShopOwner had such a good smile that I would lose interest in the Liberal when she was around. But the guy she wanted was either wilfully ignorant or just too dumb to notice, or, like most guys, unable to believe that this absolutely gorgeous woman was interested in him.

Eventually, SweatShopGirl did what most of the hot girls I know are stuck doing, she attacked him. That led to good things for both of them , but it took her being forward to really get there.

So that's The Phoenix's problem too. I offered to help.
"Sweetie - did you know I was talking to the Buffalonian about your little problem the other day? She asked why I don't just sleep with you myself. I told her I don't do that with you. But man. Such a charmed life that she even asked."
The Phoenix laughed.
"Yeah. I'm working here. I'm trying to find guys for you."

We went through my entire phone's addressbook. "Sleeping with her, he's married, has a girlfriend, Sleeping with her, you're not sleeping with my dad, RugbyGuy might work..." and so on.

"You know what, honey? I'm going to find someone to get you laid."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, but it's not gonna be me. And if I do, you've gotta help me have threesomes. That was my New Year's resolution."
"Umm.... threesomes would indicate that I..." I cut her off.
"Not with you, darlin' - you just have to help me find girls."
"Ok." She came around the table to give me a big hug for trying to help her find guys. In the process, she spilled my margarita on my lap. I laughed. She started apologizing. We were obviously more drunk than we'd planned to be. She stuck her head down into my crotch and started blowing to try to dry it off. "Sweetie - stop - you don't blow me." The guy at the next table's eyes got kinda big and I looked him square in the eye and said "can you believe it? She spilled my drink on me, and now it looks like I peed myself."
"She meant well" he replied.
"I know. But now I look like I peed myself."

As the Phoenix walked me home, I kept repeating that over and over. "I peed myself. I peed myself."

Repeating over and over and pointing to my crotch with every new person I saw. "I peed myself."

I got home, looked at the clock, saw that it was 6 o'clock, and promptly crashed out.

SouthernBelle came over again last night, but I've got to run. I'll give you that story sometime later.

Currently listening to: Eple from the album Melody A.M. by Royksopp
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A nice date with SouthernBelle. Dinner (Sushi, Jeollado) a walk in the brisk night air (from Jeallado to Union Square) and a movie (Hellboy, Boring).

Back to my house by 1am, for good sex. Her skin feels good. You know how sometimes people are at the right temperature, and others aren't? When I touched BodyOdorGirl the other night, she was too warm, her skin didn't feel good under my fingers. SouthernBelle just feels right. Not as right as The Liberal did, but really comfortable. In the movie, she curled up onto me and put her head on my chest. What a nice feeling.

When I mentioned my date with BodyOdorGirl to SouthernBelle, she laughed at me.
"You know your style, darlin'. Don't date hippies."
"But I like activisit chicks. The Liberal was an activist chick."
"Yeah, but she wasn't a smelly hippy."
"Point."

Later in the conversation, I mentioned to her that I'd told BodyOdor that she could be my massage girl, since I'd already gotten a sex kitten and a friend I slept with. SouthernBelle laughed at that.
"Sometimes you gross me out. It's amazing the shit you get away with."
"I know. It's ok, though, cuz I'm cute."
"Jerk. But yeah, I've got my gay friend, my straight guy friend I just am friends with, my straight guy friend I sleep with (that's you), and a few girlfriends." Nice that we can all pigeonhole our lives so well.

I mentioned to her that I've got this site, and that there are some readers and such, and she was amused. I haven't shown it to her, and don't think I will, but I was pleased to know she wasn't totally offended at the idea, and both supported it, and her being a character on it.

Later, we were talking about my pussification idea (which, incidentally, you lot have helped me quite a bit with your insights about) and she laughed.
"There should only be one pussy in a relationship, and it should be attached to someone" I said.
"What about gay men? Or lesbians? Your theory doesn't hold up. What about when you have threesomes?"
"Oh man. Umm... there should only be one pussy in a relationship except for very large values of one? Like, when you add one and one and get three cuz of decimals or something?"
"Dork."

I like SouthernBelle, possibly more than I should. I hate to keep bringing Eden up, but it seems like SouthernBelle is maybe my Dante? She's got a life of her own, but we really enjoy playing with one another, and we're friends, and becoming better friends the more we're together. She gives me ample space, and I give her the same, but we're both around for each other. It's good.

I actually thought about Eden while I was out with SouthernBelle, and about sexbloggers generally. I thought it would be interesting to sleep with Eden and then read her True Story about it. Or a different sexblogger. And to write my own version, and see how they compared. You know, for science or something.
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I was going to write a long post on what I call the "pussification" of men. The fact that my best friend for 10 years stopped talking to me one day because his girlfriend was threatened by me. Mind you - she should have been afraid of me, I was dinning in his ear that she was a psycho, as she kept threatening suicide any time they had a fight. When you turn 20ish, that trick really needs to drop out of your playbook. When you turn 30, it's just pathetic. In order to stay with the pussy, though, he stopped talking to me, and I haven't heard from him in just about forever. Because he became a pussy. Nothing wrong with pussy, I love pussy. But a man isn't supposed to have a pussy, that's what girls have. It's the shit you learn in fifth grade that really sticks with you. "Boys have a penis and girls have a pussy." Men should be cocks. It's just genetics.

Mind you, I suffer from this too, albeit rarely.

I've had trouble maintaining the relationships that I developed with the women that I've loved. There. I said it.

In our self-help culture, saying it is as good as doing anything about it, so I should basically be ok now. But I'm not.

What's been on my mind lately, so much so that I didn't even have sex with Blowjob Girl (now known as BodyOdor girl) is that I have this dichotomy in my head.

DirtyTalkinGirl said it best.

I know you don't do sweet much, but this has a kind of sweet tug.

Inevitably, they're turned off by it.

Why?

I think that it's because they're afraid of the pussification of their man. My version of "sweet" is "what do you want to do tonight" rather than "wow you look hot in that" even when she's feeling bloated and nasty, or "wow, that's the smartest thing I've heard anyone say this week" when she makes a good point. Not taking charge. It's not a matter of not listening to what a woman wants (that's a good thing to do - listen) it's a matter of leaving the leading to her all the time. What woman wants to lead her man all the time? What kind of man wants a woman to lead all the time. If men wanted to be led all the time, Matisse would have a kennel full of men just waiting for her to tell her to do something, instead of being a fantasy that men purchase when they want to let go of their daily lives.

The piece I was going to write is how I learned to be a wussbag, and then battled back. And why. And how it made me more attractive to the women I wanted to date.

Ann Harker (quoted at Instapundit) said:

Believe me, it's not just the guys who are turned off! Women are looking for partners in life, not another baby to care for, but that is how so many men on TV are portrayed: as bumbling fools who have to have their wise and long-suffering wives clean up after their messes.

With the women that I actually care for, I find myself having weird impulses. I want them to be happy, and I want to do it in such a way that they won't leave me. Of course, when the focus of a relationship turns from me and my needs, which I can attend to because I know what's in my head to her and her needs (be she Liberal, Cuban, Freshman, or EvilOne) then we get into some serious trouble. Because, and hold onto your hats with this one - I don't know what's in her head.

Rather than doing those things that work (as Rob would say... being "a good looking rich lawyer who just happens to be an asshole") and worked to attract her in the first place, I instead start doing things like buying her gifts, and being needy. "You can't see me tonight because your grandmother is dying? Can you see me after?"

There's a reason for this, of course. I'm an idiot.

It may, however, be a learned behavior.

Apparently, I'm not the first to see this and think that there's a backlash coming, or underway. (C.F. this now defunct blog at Backlash.com) [Ed. That site is a little out there and over the top, but you get the idea]

The rise of whimpsters and "metrosexuals" and their ilk is a direct response to this.

He is a man who has perfected his male insecurity as a way of manipulating the very expectations women have come to have. He is a man who uses self-deprecation and vulnerability to prey upon a woman's need to nurture to sate his own massive ego. While he seems to reject a terrible macho-ness, he's constructing a careful persona designed to reel in unsuspecting targets.

You see - I'm a recovering metro/whimpster myself. I'd forgotten that.

I've been cleaning out my apartment recently, and I found some amusing things. I found some letters that I never sent to my first kiss.

What's interesting about this is that my first kiss now lives a two blocks away from me. She lived 30 minutes from me back then. The attraction, on my part, is long gone. But reading those letters is painful. "I wish you understood how great you are. I can see it, why can't you?" Silly high school drivel. I would get less drivelly as I got older.

I think some backstory might be in order. How I got where I am from where I was. Might help some people out. How I was taught to fuck in an 8 month marathon with a girl with a damn high libido, who is now engaged to be married to my next door neighbor from that year.

Backstory will be filled in as I go. You can, of course, read the archives for the last two years which may help.
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As you can likely see over in the sidebar over there, I've added a few things.

1) Blogarama
2) (Which I still haven't fully figured out what to do with)
3)

I think you can rate/review this blog over there, etc. It's all meta-bloggy goodness for today.

And yes, I'm writing this because I had to turn the Buffalonian away from a planned visit this evening due to Work and Taxes, which is like Death and Taxes, only slightly less with the death.

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So, last night I was expecting this girl to come over, having called her around 7, expecting drinks and a date.

Instead, she came right over.

I was stressed from work. So she gave me a full body massage. Two problems.

1) I realized that sober I wasn't attracted to her.
2) Body odor.

Now, usually, when there's body odor, I'll suggest a shower for the two of us and then get frisky. But I didn't First time I've been with a woman in a long time where, when I looked at her I just didn't feel any attraction to her at all. The kissing didn't taste right, her body didn't feel right, and I was generally not down for it.

I told her that I was seeing a bunch of other people before, but this time I laid it out. "SouthernBelle is my lover and my friend. We talk, we hand out, she's perfect to bring to parties. The Buffalonian is my little 23 year old sex kitten, who always wants more more more. You? You can be my massage girl. Now I just need a sugar momma."

I'd been kidding. Incredibly, she agreed.
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Diablo, over at Pussy ranch, wonders:

This all leads me to wonder if pubic hair is going to make a comeback. I probably won't be participating in the revolution, since I like being rayon-smooth between my legs, but I don't see why pubes can't be eroticized again. Remember all those "beaver" scenes in early-80s movies? Pubes used to be the shit. If Izod shirts can make a comeback, so can big muffs.

I like some bush. Otherwise, when I go down on a woman, I try to breath through my nose and get vaporlock and start to asphyxiate. A nice small amount of hair acts like a little air filter for me.

Please note that while Bush is the new Shaved, Straight is the new Gay, and Pilates is the new Black.
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DirtyTalkinGirl asks:

I know you don't do sweet much, but this has a kind of sweet tug.

Think the universe is sending you messages perhaps....? just kidding!

As to whether the universe is sending me a message? I think it is, actually.

The message? Don't introduce the women I like to my mother until we're ready to get engaged, she wants grandkids too badly.

And now I do what I always do when my heartstrings are tugged by the Liberal, or the Cuban, or even, back in the day, the EvilOne.

I go out with another girl.

I called this one to see if she wanted a drink. Went out with with her last three weeks ago. She's going to need a better nickname than blowjob girl. If things go well tonight, I'll figure one out.

She does.

When I proposed that we meet at 9:30, she replied "why don't I just meet you at your place."

That'll work.
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I'm home, at my parents house, for a day. I had some business to attend to near them, so I took the day off, and went to visit them.

While at my mother's office, I saw a sherrif that has followed my progress from boy to man. He's got to be around 85 now.

First question out of his mouth is, as long as my mother's not around, "Gettin' any?"

Today, she was around. Instead, he asked the fateful question:
"How's that Polish girl you were seeing?" Meaning the Liberal.
"Which one?" I asked, not realizing that he meant the Liberal.
"The Liberal" my mother interjected. "The one I really liked."
"Ah. She's in another country for a year. We broke up."
The sherriff looked sagely at me. Then my mother. Then me. "Of course you did" he said. "Can't expect him to stay at home by himself while his girl's away." He then made masturbation gestures with his hand. He had a point.
"I'm keeping plenty busy. I've been with some women, but not enough, lately."
He smiled a sage smile and chuckled. "Good."

A few hours later, my mother and I were at home, and I was cooking dinner for the family, because cooking is fun, and I rarely have enough time to do it.

My mother pulled photos out of a drawer from the last few years, and showed me various pictures. Culminating in a picture of me, smiling at the camera, with the Liberal kissing my cheek. It looked sweet, and tender, and loving, and I thought "twice in one day?" And I began to miss the Liberal a little bit more than I did when I woke up this morning.
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Mistress Matisse posits the following in the comments, with regard to what I wrote to Rob:

... I know that I, personally, am generally rather suspicious of an extra-handsome guy's motives. And since I like being "the pretty one" in a couple, I would never choose a drop-dead gorgeous guy as a mate. My own adored partner is good-looking in a quiet way, dresses nicely but not super-fashionably, physically fit but not a muscle-god, etc. I'm drawn to the slightly geeky types. Little imperfections charm me.

Now, my game is tight for two reasons, one of which you can replicate, one you can't.

The replicable one is that I'm confident as hell. Saturday night saw me in the ladies room at this girl's office, lifting her up bodily and putting her on the sink and making out with her there. Because I knew she wanted it, and I was willing to risk getting smacked. After she started grinding with me and demanded we go back to my place, it became obvious it was the right choice.

The other half is my looks.

Note the second half of what she said - I've heard this a lot too - that very good looks are a liability. Brad Pitt is assumed to sleep with every woman he ever meets. And note, incidentally, that that cuts both ways. I always assume that the real beauties, the women who look as good as men always dream of when they read magazines, well, that they've got tons of action and men galore. What's interesting is that the beautiful women I know (e.g. The Phoenix) are the ones I know who have the hardest time finding good guys. They have no problem finding guys, but good ones, the non-abusive, good looking, well hung, interesting types.

Beauty, in some cases, can be a curse.

Mistress Matisse (if you're not my mistress, can I just call you MM? Matisse? It would be a little weird otherwise, I think...) well... Matisse(?)... also mentioned:

BTW - I was married to a lawyer once, and now I have two words about dating them: Never. Again.

I stand by my original observation - work with what you've got.
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