Rachel had a boyfriend back in her native land who’d call her everyday, but since women in foreign lands get lonelier or feel free to do as they really wished all along without prying eyes, she started seeing me. She’d feel guilty over it, but I’d reassure her that there were all types of love, hers for him was rather the platonic kind, as the one she had for me was carnal. “At one point, you may have been passionately involved with that cock-sucker, but you’re no longer his, you’re mine now” he told her.

She liked hearing him speak that way to her, made a face like she wasn’t pleased hearing it and getting smacked on the spot only to turn the other cheek, lay down on the floor and spread herself open. They had met under strange circumstances. He had placed an add on an adult website, she had answered him and almost instantly decided to run to his encounter. He did not disappoint. As soon as the door to Rachel’s apartment was open, he stormed in and made it his place. She did the dishes, the cleaning, the bed, all the while he’d watch from a distance, approach her at times and just ravish her. Or let her be. Now she worried about the man she had left behind, a good man, who had given her everything, not a good-for-nothing man who took from her as much as he could and gave little back, if anything. Except she only succeeded in making herself miserable, because she continued to be by my side; she could have it my way or go and be this other man.
She chose to be a little sweet pussy girl who’d listen to my every command and orders her around in front of people. She’d make me enough money online, no need to physically prostitute her, just enjoy her company and mount a show for our subscribers throughout the day. They’d pay all-access subscriptions upwards of $90 a month and we had been certified Platinum (more than a thousand subscribers). Life was good.

Almost as much as I’m into women, I’m into fitness. The way I see it, these hobbies of mine complement each other finely. Yeah, I run, hit the gym, do one thing or the other everyday except Sundays. I wonder if there’s something that we want more than women in our lives that we get to know so little of, if we love sports, we pick teams, alliances and rivalries, poke fun, it’s all part of the same ritual, the pecking order. Women find our obsession over sports and politics almost as confusing as we find them, except we never give things a second look and a woman looking at a thing always sees it for the first time ever. Whatever you’ve done so far for her doesn’t amount to much if you drop the ball today. You shouldn’t go about pleasing her in every way, but don’t neglect her either.
I was right to think that one fundamental pillar to success with women and life, in general, is how fit you’re. It’s imperative that you work out, otherwise you’re always going to be only half full. How great it feels to exercise, hit the showers and then go out for a walk. You feel crystal; whoever has exercised, knows this feeling. You never have a good workout and feel lousy afterwards. You may overeat, feel great about in the moment and then regret it ever happened; you may go home with a complete stranger, and beat yourself up for it in the morning, girls more often than guys. We relate sex to pleasure and self-esteem, it validates our proud manly vision; in a single ejaculatory load, there are enough sperms to fertilize half a continent. You were once a great swimmer and had less than one in one hundred million to make it to the end line first; you did, if you happen to be reading this line, and you aren’t a smart android, you’ve done it. You achieved greatness by getting to the egg first. It’s an unbelievable feat. Whatever you may do in life, you can never top that. Every action, every moment, will be written by actions, words too have healing power, leave a small footprint.
Working out was simple, compared to women. It clicked and ever since I started, I never left it for long. Now, I’m not the fittest man you’ll ever meet, but I’m very strong and proudly so, exercising has changed my physical and mental life. I used to suffer from depression; had all these psychotic episodes, nothing too alarming, reminiscent of bipolar, who knows? What I do know is once I started to exercise all of these ailments vanished or were diminished to a point that no longer could considered chronic. Life in general became more manageable, I handled stress more efficiently, my appetite is in check, I sleep better, am far more virile, a better man. The fact that you can lift your woman up as if she were a feather conveys more masculine core than anything except, perhaps, attitude. I’ve seen far less built types, and they manage to get their hands on sweet honey pots, plant their seed, though overweight, gluttonous types, an unparalleled ambition to make good in life so that not a drop of sweat is sacrificed. They catch big ass trophy wives, since they have the financial resources, and women still subconsciously rank safety as their top priority. Women are addictive to the chemistry of drama whether they admit to it or not. They project and live their repressed versions of themselves, feel the need to latch unto someone stronger, being it man or woman, and surrender to someone else’s sickly twisted imposing role, behave, breath slowly or you’ll faint, you’re about to get roughened-up and fucked till you become cooperative and docile, an obedient pet. You’ll sit where I say you should sit and if I sense the slightest protest, I will smack the last trace of ego out of you. You know I am stronger than you, more powerful, awe-striking. I can lift you with one arm, you shake whenever I come close to you. You breath heavier, your pupils dilate, your watering mouth half open, your hair all wild, sweaty curls golden brown like swaths of dried hay. You can’t be distracted by her imposing figure, her beauty is her most lethal weapon in her artillery, followed closely by her put-downs; the more beautiful a woman, the more aplomb and tact. You keep your eyes on hers, your demeanor says how you feel inside, the mood with which you infect life has a way of spreading. She’s not my slave; she’s an indentured servant.


It’s why they sometimes rather stay with bullies and womanizers, heinous men prototypes. Like all polarities, her goodness craves some bad. Above all, she wants to nurture and have a maternal instinct to preserve, to be the healing entity and let the mantle of her light whisk the roughed thick layers of skin under which we buried our hearts away. She sees herself as his savior, but also she wants to play the submissive role and usually dominant men deal with them rather indifferently, coldly… of course not to the point of neglect, just not taking them too seriously, like an overgrown child. They get confused when you pay them too much attention; use humor to diffuse tense situations and sometimes indifference, if necessary. Have tenderness thrown into the mix as well. She’ll get the message; you’ll come across as the center, the one in control, and you won’t have any self-doubt. If you try and control her, you’ll lose your edge. She knows how to tiptoe around you, she senses your sense of direction, your purpose, your drive, and she’s just beyond herself that she gets to spend some quality time with her man.


The fact is, no man in his right mind will choose the platonic love-affair over the flesh-and-blood love; or the spiritual over the physical. Perhaps you have esoteric leanings, heard all about Buddhist monks who are happy just meditating in monasteries, You don’t want to be her friend, so talking too much is probably unwise, girls got tons of guys around to fulfill their needs to bond and connect, usually those stuck in the Friend Zone, a place no real man wants to find himself in. And you may start as a friend, but you need to follow some ground rules in order to move on from that stage. At a place of work, best to leave it alone; of course, often you run into women who’d want something more than being an acquaintance. I remember this specific type, begging eyes, flashing smiles, open reception upon seeing you; I never took bait, no matter how much I wanted it.
In a workplace environment, it doesn’t work; relationships sooner or later will turn sour and then you find yourself in a sobering, crude reality. You need to know that there are plenty of women out there to be messing around with the place where you earn your bread. Of course, there were exceptions but oh very few, and these never acquired the relationship status.
In some occasions, I’d simply use the routine of “One of us will have to get fired in order for this to work.” In one occasion, this girl did just that. She was on the way out anyway, but made it seem like it had been done to have something to do with me. It worked like magic, egos need little convincing. I fucked her senselessly for seven weeks. It was a fuck-fest marathon. She’d come over on Friday, and we’d stay till Sunday, wearing each other out, leg-up and face against the wall, turn her on all fours, bang her into oblivion, fall asleep for an hour, wake up with a stoned-wall erection and go at it. Seven weeks, no more, no less. It was a glorious experience.
She made me wear my uniform, as she pulled my pants off and went down on me. I’d discipline every chance I got. I’d see her drenched in sweat, fire in her iceberg eyes, she’d fight dirty; girls have been endowed with a razor-tongue, quit incisive and on point remarks, their intuition is sharp as a hawk’s vision, nature’s way of compensating to women for having made them weaker, more emotional, less logical.

And so I wouldn’t question her resolve, how she’d lovingly seize the moment and attack me out of nowhere, a sucker’s punch, arm herself with a kitchen’s knife, wake up with a broken nose. She’d bleed until the stain dried down her nostrils, her lips swollen, that night when you succumb to alcoholic bliss she’d slip out the door and venture into the night for two hours or so. Emilia would pick up a complete stranger and let him have his way with her, then rush home and sleep next to her unsuspecting husband until the moment he’d get up, sobered up and hard, mounting her hard, with or without her consent. Emilia had learnt to keep quiet, to breath and just take him; some nights, she’d have plenty of wine and purge herself for being a sleazy girl until her husband woke up to ravish her, make her his toy, fuck her good, and she’d enjoy it. But most nights she was just bored with the same routine; it had been fun initially, when they began dating, Emilia loved his roughness and the sudden sexual attacks, predatory sometimes. She’ll never hold back, her heart pounding behind the door she tries desperately to close in a frenzy behind her. It was pure adrenaline, younger perhaps and a brutal sexual chemistry that bounded them together. You can always solve in bed; not solve in essence, just come to an understanding. It’s part of building tension, a way to keep their interest piqued.

One rule is, you do not let them get too comfortable around you; you don’t play too nice a guy, in other words.

That other man in her life didn’t have access to her, separated as they were by an ocean, half a continent away, he was now at the mercy of a phone call she may never return. She may not pick up, maybe she’s busy or she’s playing games, whatever the case may be, it’s not a good prospect. It’s never recommended to initiate a call when you’re in this type of relationship because if your significant other decides not to answer, suspicions start to arise. She may be just genuinely busy, or she may want to increase the tension, make him test his resolve, push his buttons. The thing, that girl did not play games; she had said that if I made any noises during the conversation over the phone, she’d bite my dick off. She just wants to go down on me as she talks to her boyfriend, and that’s all I want too, for now. Later on, I’ll extort her with video clips made of our encounters without her consent; she’ll be pushed around, slapped senselessly, ridiculed in front of her boyfriend. Why? Because she has to learn not to play with men. First, let’s enjoy her gifts; when we had her more than a few times, but never too many, we get rid of her and make sure she doesn’t forget who she fucked with. It’d keep her real, show to her man that she now has a different life, who knows? Maybe he proposes and she flies back to him the next morning. Nothing like being cheated to feel like you could do all the things you said you’d do but never got around to. Suddenly, you doubt yourself, pain makes you focus. Your tunnel vision takes you where the action unfolds: you can get there, you’re on your way, pace yourself, don’t rush, don’t pause.


Long term relationships aren’t my thing, though they happen from time to time, taking a few weeks, a few months, if at all. In reality, if I stumble upon something comfortable and have space and time to leisure, I enjoy time by myself. Time with friends… what friends? I got people who surely qualify for that status. But I rarely see people I know, or have any friends whom I frequent. I’m sort of a loner in the highest social hierarchy of the word; in essence, if you were to engage me somehow, you’ll see I have not a shy bone in my body, am very social and seemingly outgoing. I do go out from time to time, always a new place and often seldom, but friends are not something I’m very good at. I did have them in the past, not many but yeah, one or two. I’m a loner, yes. But only because I think if someone else is worth my time, I still am by myself most of the time. Nowadays, we’re immersed in social media; my phone doesn’t have Internet, just unlimited talk & text for a fraction of a smartphone.
I like things simple. Only one person at a time. I am not running around, looking for someone to fuck the minute someone else walks out the door.