Decent into the Bull Pen

Marcy age 33 Divorced, no children, 5′ 5″ petite sexy body, she leans back in her chair, back away from the table and the conversation. She looks around the crowded bar shaking her long brown hair back away from her face. It had been a long time since she has been in a place like this. A meat market. That’s what she and her friends from college would have called it. Was that term still in vogue? She smiles to herself. That shows how out of things I’ve gotten, she thought. You’ve just got to get out more. Damn it, now that the divorce has been final for a year, she is determined she would. A bubbling giggle drew her attention back to the group around the table. For a moment, her eyes rested affectionately on her friend, her best friend in the office.

Marcy knew herself well. To be like her friend, you had to be assertive, you had to go after what you wanted. That isn’t Marcy. She freely admits to herself that she prefers to be led, even pushed. Marcy is one of those rare people who knew and liked themselves. She knew she had faults, but she knew she also has strengths. And, if her life seems dull sometimes, she has a very active imagination. She grins to herself. Even her friend would probably be very shocked if she knew some of her fantasies; she needed someone to bring her out. Someone far removed from her ex-husband. Marcy isn’t shy, or quiet in the way the word is usually used. This afternoon, she has been doing her share of giggling, flirting, and having fun. She didn’t feel any regrets about the divorce. She has grown tired of being cooped up, and alone, when her ex-husband went off on his business trips. She thought ruefully, it wasn’t different when he was home. They never went anyplace. Her ex-husband was more interested in making the firm he had inherited from his father bigger than it was.

It certainly wasn’t because they needed the money. Marcy herself, upon her thirthy three years ago, had come into a trust fund that is inexhaustible. She has no sense of, or interest in, financial matters, but her father’s attorney had told her that it would be impossible to spend the income from the fund as fast as it came in. Making a dent in the principal would be well beyond any but the most determined spendthrift. Her ex-husband was just as well off. Money was something that neither of them had ever had to worry about, or even think about. Yet it seemed to be all that her ex- husband did worry about. He didn’t exactly worry about it, but he didn’t enjoy it either. He was always worried about ” what would it look like?” Marcy shook her head. She had once loved the man, but there had always been just something missing. Something missing in their marriage, something missing in bed…something missing in life.

She is glad her friend had called her this morning. Glad that she had let her friend talk her into coming out with her after work. She is kind of feeling like it is time to lose her hesitancy. At that moment her eyes, once more roaming idly around the crowded room, lit upon me standing at the bar. I’m staring at her and our eyes met. Something stirs in her loins and she flushes, looking away quickly. She tries not to, but in a few seconds she glances back at me. I’m still staring at her and as our eyes met for a second time I smile, faintly. Again something flutters in her lower belly and again she forces herself to look away. When she looks back, I had turned to face the bar. She feels disappointment. The man, if she had been able to see my face, was still smiling, more broadly now. I’m feeling a sensation in my loins. I knew I had found one. I often came to this bar, or others like it. Looking for women, for a pick-up. Most nights, I left alone, never having spoken to a woman. But the nights when I didn’t leave alone made it worth while. I’m very choosy in the women I approach. I studied them carefully. When I did pick one I’m seldom rebuffed. I cannot describe exactly what I look for in a woman, what signs told me this one is open to me while that one isn’t, but I’m almost never wrong.


The few times when I had approached a woman and been rebuffed, it had been a gentle rebuff, and given only after that momentary pause that told me the rebuff is with regret. And none of the women, not one, has ever been angry. Most women would be furious. I did not have what ever can be described as a smooth line. My approach is direct, insultingly direct, obscenely direct. A mistake in my choice would most probably result, at the least, in a humiliating denouncement, and at worst in a beating or even arrest. I have no desire to experience either outcome. But my targets never complained. I made them from the very beginning feel cheap and dirty; let them know that I looked upon them with nothing but contempt. A mental rapist, I sometimes thought of myself. But not a physical rapist. I try not to force a woman, but I have on occasion. I prefer a woman cooperate, to embrace her own degradation, to freely and willingly submit to everything I inflicted upon them. So I’m very careful, and very patient. Tonight, my patience is thin.

It has been a month since I’d found a target, and the next one I found is going to have to pay for my deprivation. I’m really going to drag this one through the gutter. When Marcy next glances toward the bar, I’m gone. She mentally laughs at herself. What did she expect? Why had I attracted her so? Since she and her friend had come in, her eyes had met several other men’s. She is an attractive petite woman and men look at her. But none had caused that stirring in her loins.