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True love is just one more thing to consider
by anna at 07:19 PM on April 04, 2006
When I met my wife I knew instantly she was the one for me. Problem was, she didn't seem too interested in me. At the time she was raising two young daughters in a tiny house. She'd taken a roommate to share expenses.
I figured the best thing would be to try and impress her with my wealth, or at least the wealth of my family and friends. Unless you're trying to hook up with a golddigger like Anna Nicole Smith this isn't such a great idea.
I made a point of bringing her to my parents' country home, with its acres of immaculate lawns, 26 rooms and Olympic-sized swimming pool. She didn't seem so terribly impressed.
Along about that time my boyhood pal Whore Hey was to marry Cum Meal, from the New York Meals. Both of them came from families with money and he had earned quite a bit for himself through the import/export business he had going with some Columbian friends of his. I had a decent job and rented rooms in another of my parents' houses so I had very little in the way of expenses. I also did some odd jobs for Whore Hey, which paid very well. For a 20-something slacker I was doing alright, thank you very much.
I invited her to the wedding, which was lavish to say the least. Dom Perignon was served at every table. Mimes pranced about. A string quartet played. Waiters sashayed by with trays of such Greek treats as stuffed olives and some kind of sausage thing wrapped in grape leaves. A full multi-course dinner was served with aplomb, culminating in surf n turf with filet mignon and lobster or shrimp. Dessert was a delectable cheesecake.
Not that anyone else ate any of it. For most of the guests and Whore Hey and Cum Meal were openly using copious quantities of pure cocaine, carelessly snorting it off their fists and spilling half of it. His parents were, shall we say, less than amused. I showed her his money-counting contraption. Again, less than impressed.
She'd come from what I'll call quiet money. Her parents were pretty well-off, but never deigned to talk about it. In fact, it's kind of considered gauche among her family to even discuss funds or possessions let alone flaunt them. So nouveau riche, don't you know.
What, you thought this was leading somewhere?
Years later, when Whore Hey got sent to prison, she said she knew it was just a matter of time. He was too obvious. He talked too much. And damned if she wasn't right. Turns out that her original boyfriend in New York came from a family that---wink, wink--- ran a drycleaning empire. Mobbed up to the max. Omerta.
And that's what's wrong with today's mobsters. They don't understand the Sicilian code of silence.
But I'd be more interested in hearing from our female readers, assuming we have any left. What ridiculous ploys have guys tried to get in your pants?
comments (20)
I don't have any ploys for you. Here where I am many guys flirt but it seems like most of them don't have many social skills so I leave them alone. There have been a few that would have been worth it if conversation weren't an issue. I have actually slept with a graduate student before, come to think of it. And he talked a LOT. About Bush, about Hillary Clinton, about if a climber thought he made it to the top of Mt. Everest but there was a blizzard and he was in the wrong place, does it make a difference? Oy.
by jean at April 4, 2006 9:46 PM
Well, I had two guys try to talk me into a threesome, and one of them was saying he wouldn't even come out to the other guy's house unless he was guaranteed something would happen. It really wasn't a very effective ploy.
by Jen at April 5, 2006 7:33 AM
Jean, I hope that claptrap wasn't the pillow talk. My god, what a bore.
Jen, that is the WRONG kind of threesome.
If two guys share the same orifice, then it is gay. That is a given.
by annna at April 5, 2006 8:02 AM
Two guy can share an office and not be gay. What?
Oh orifice. That's totally gay.
And I still respect you anna.
What we did in the tent ain't nobody's business but ours.
by Long Time Lurker at April 5, 2006 10:01 AM
Do homosexuals fast for days before sex, so they don't get shit covered dick?
by LOCKHEED at April 5, 2006 2:08 PM
24 hours licenses here now means drinking until you keel over and spew forth a gallon of alcohol. There's a place called The Music Room, used to be named Hog's Head... the names are irrelevent anyway. Point is, this place has a 24 hour license, but is closing down soon. Two of my mates have just started lives as promoters for a dying club that's turning itself around. They're booking all of the local bands and securing the cash of the many many groupies that follow the bands around. The owner of The Music Room hands us the keys to The Music Room when he closes up eleven, he trusts my nerdy promoter mates to look after things, and to make extra cash in the hours he'd rather not work.
The way it's working out... no bouncers, no bar staff, no working toilets... well, there are a couple that work in the ladies, but since blokes also need to eject the shite we call beer too, the toilets are shared. The bar staff thing, is really just somebody lingering beside a fridge full of Stella Artois, somebody wants one, they leave two quid and grab one, and head back into the crowd. Self-serving no hassle easy going bar. The bands finish up at the club at about two in the morning, and come here, set up, and play. Their groupies in tow spend their money and drink the piss. Great place to have a drink, and the responsibility for glass collecting and cleaning up, falls to the piss heads, we the punters.
All of that is irrelevent too, I just love this place so much I like to talk about it. There's no decent seating here, the tables and chairs seem to be relics from the Elizabethan era, rock hard, and after an hour so, you have numb arse cheeks. They do have rock hard wooden booth-type seating too. It's dark, shady, and full of teen to twenty-something, my people, my generation. It's on one of the booth benches that I found myself with an aching, numb arse between a good looking severely fuckable twenty-nine year old named Jo, and queer guy whose name I didn't catch, though he'd tried to tell me on several occasions. Jo... spritely, blonde cropped shoulder length hair, fit, pearly white smile and smooth skinned, and eyes so green and sporting pupils so dilated she very nearly gave me an instant hardon - recognised my face. She knows one of my brothers. This girl after, shit, not even ten minutes... was describing a spitroast for me and this queer who didn't seem particularly interested, but whom she apparently knew pretty well. After a can of Stella, and being in the place less than thirty minutes, I was exchanging tongue lashes with her. Jo, the mysterious blonde, game for spitroasts with strangers and gay friends...
... point is. Guys don't have to try anymore, we don't need social skills, or money, or even a sexy grunt that promises protection while betraying a soft emotional centre. All we need to do is maintain ourselves, hold vanity in high regard... and accept all comers. Of course though, trying to gain the of some attention because you know love is in the air. I wouldn't know anything about that. If I thought I could love somebody, she wouldn't be forward enough to offer a spitroast to me and a random fag. And if I thought I could love her, I'd be too afraid to impress her, for fear of actually falling in love. Meh.
by Ex Crimson Guard NCO at April 5, 2006 3:00 PM
I really should turn off music when I come here and type something, I think I type lyrics while I'm listening, that might explain the random and missing words. I'm sure they'd be easier to understand for you. But eh, screw it.
Spitroast anyone?
by Ex Crimson Guard NCO at April 5, 2006 3:06 PM
Spitroast sounds vaguely pornographic.
But I agree, it doesn't take much. I often wonder if it ever did.
by annna at April 6, 2006 8:00 AM
Did you ever shove say a banana up your ass(colon) and pull it out and it was shit covered?
by Lockheed at April 6, 2006 12:53 PM
Who are you asking Lock? I haven't, if you're asking me. Meh.
Heh... why did you add (colon) to the question? ... I don't think folk'd get confused if you'd just left it at ass.
You're a certified nutter, man. Heh heh heh.
by Ex Crimson Guard NCO at April 6, 2006 1:14 PM
A banana would crumble at the fortitude of my exit-only ass (colon.)
by anna at April 7, 2006 7:44 AM
I always wash out my ass(colon) before I stick anything up there.
That way it comes out clean enough to eat.
Is spitroasting someething like snowballing?
by Long Time Lurker at April 7, 2006 12:56 PM
If you think about it, you could go deep and heavy with a Un-Rape, I mean Un-Ripe Banana, and then simply peel the well, peels, and eat an untouched virgin banana... cut it up, put it in your cereal... and then throw the shit blood and cum peels for the rats to eat.
we got rats on the west side, bedbugs downtown...
by Lockheed at April 7, 2006 1:52 PM
Christ.
by Ex Crimson Guard NCO at April 7, 2006 11:45 PM
Let me tell you something, pendejo. You pull any of your crazy shit with us, you flash a piece out on the lanes, I'll take it away from you, stick it up your ass and pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes "click."
Jesus.
You said it, man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus.
by Long Timer Lurker at April 8, 2006 4:47 AM
Anna, I'm totally ashamed to say it, but it was. He only lasted about 5 dates, don't worry. There is a student now who has a little promise, but I think he'd be offended if I didn't try to have a relationship with him, and I don't think I want to. Now that's an unusual one, isn't it? :)
Philosophy students will talk philosophy to you to get in your pants. Unfortunately I kind of like that! Geeks talk number theory and I like that too. That's kind of what got me in trouble with the most recent guy. Like Crimson mentioned, I think the L word hangs over us so much we can't get along.
Lockheed, things like that always get dirty. There are many infections you can get.
Crimson, do you think you'll see Jo again? I want to hear the gossip! :)
by jean at April 9, 2006 12:17 AM
What a mess. This town's in tatters.
by anna at April 9, 2006 9:07 AM
Shattered.
by Lockheed at April 9, 2006 10:50 PM
"...it doesn't take much. I often wonder if it ever did."
It must take something. Or else I've either had very bad luck, or there is something terribly wrong with me.
A spit roast...translation for us yanks, that must mean something like one for the mouth and one down below? Or some other configuration of dual impalement?
by Chris at April 10, 2006 2:47 AM
Indeed, sah, that is correct. It forced a sneer from me when she said it. It was all said jokingly, but to my mind she was just checking my reaction, which was to be honest... completely game. Like a kid staring at kids TV, with an open maw and wide eyes... a wistful expression of, "What are we sitting around drinking for? Let's go." A nice reaction led fairly quickly to a name exchange and then CPR.
Jean, I wasn't the only guy getting attention from her. I believe she spent a lot of time sucking earlobes, s'a fairly loud place, and instead of simply talking close to your ear, she would all but completely devour it. So, her arm around your back, and her hand gripping your hair, pulling it, generally messing it up... as she talked utter crap and pretty much teased you into an uncomfortable stance as you rapidly developed an erection.
Gossip. The story ends there... had the other guy at that table been straight, I might have been a little more eager to follow the spitroast conversation to a productive conclusion. As it was, s'not happening. I was overly cautious anyway, especially with my drinks. It seemed everybody but me was finding energy in speed, ecstasy, and cocaine. Every drink I bought I held onto with my thumb covering the opening. I was about ready to die by about four in the morning, everybody else looked like they'd all just arrived there and were yet to start drinking. Was like being the only human in a room of machines or something.
by Ex Crimson Guard NCO at April 10, 2006 4:33 PM