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Monthly Archives: April 2012

This happened approximately 15 minutes prior to the time this was posted.  I can’t make this shit up.

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“I know I have a low average in this class, but I really need a high grade on the final.”

I sit behind my desk, gazing over my reading glasses at the young, ponytailed co-ed seated across from me.  She looks awkward, excessively inflated in her faux-down pink North Face coat, with a head too tiny for her exaggerated torso.  That’s why I hate those “puffy” jackets–they remove all shape from the female form.  Hers looks particularly ridiculous coupled to her black yoga pants and puffy pink overboots, and the lack of a feminine physique renders her otherwise average appearance slightly more unattractive than she likely deserves.  It’s the very definition of trying too hard to fit in.

I look down at the grade sheet I printed for her.  It’s a sea of C’s and D’s, with more missing grades than letters.  She’s obviously not put any effort into this course, and has waited until the end of the semester to actually give a damn about it.  She has no hope, but I have to be political.

“Well,” I tentatively begin, “I’m seeing a lot of missing grades here.  Is there any reason you missed so many of these?”

“Honestly?  I was drinking a lot this semester.”  She puts on her most self-deprecating smile.  “You know how it is, right?”

“Not really,” I answer flatly.  “Well, it’s not looking very promising.  Your average is just too low right now.  Have you considered retaking the class next semester?”

“Oh I can’t!” she says, clearly dismayed.  “This is my last semester, and I’m applying to medical school!”

Sure wouldn’t want you operating on me, I want to say.  Instead, I say, “Well, I’m afraid it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to do that.  Your grades just aren’t high enough to get a passing final grade in this class, short of earning a perfect score on the final exam.  I know how badly you want to graduate, but maybe you should consider giving this one more semester?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then she says quietly, “Please.”  She leans forward, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “I will do anything to pass this class.”

The finality of that statement hangs in the air around us.  She keeps looking into my eyes.  I know precisely what she means.  But I can’t believe what she’s offering.

More importantly, I can’t believe I’m considering it.  But my erection doesn’t discriminate based on student status.

After a moment, I sigh and rub my temple with my thumb.  “Look, I’m sure you would be willing to do all the extra credit possible, and I’m sure you would redo the assignments you missed, if I asked.  But there’s just not enough time for you to do them all.”

“No, I’m telling you I will do any–”

“And I’m telling you,” I interject forcefully, “that there is absolutely nothing more I can do, or would be willing to do, to help you in this matter.”  I stand up, move to my office door, and open it wide.  “I encourage you to study hard for the exam and hope for that 100%.  Otherwise, spend some time thinking about your future, what you want from it, and what you can reasonably achieve.”

She stares at me in surprise for a moment, then hastily collects her bag from the floor beside her chair.  She ducks past me with a whispered, “Thank you for your time,” and walks briskly down the hall.  I watch her go.  The yoga pants really do look nice on her.

My phone rings suddenly.  I check the screen–Ashley.  I smile and slide to answer.  “Hey honey.  You’re never gonna believe what just happened.”

“Hey, are you REDACTED?”

I’m surprised by the suddenness of the question, spoken by an unseen and unrecognized voice behind me.  “Yes I am,” I say as I turn to face the speaker, trying not to look startled.  “Can I help y–”

I don’t even see the punch coming.

Normally, our bodies react to a coming hit instinctively, by moving with the blow and tightening the muscles to minimize vibration and energy transfer.  However, that I had no idea what was about to happen limits my natural response, and I take the blow full on the cheek, just to the side of my lip.  My head snaps to the side painfully.  I see stars, and I immediately taste blood.  I stagger backward a few steps and fall to one knee.

“Well, that was uncalled for,” I mumble through the blood that’s quickly pouring from the wound in my mouth.  Fortunately, my capacity for sarcasm is unaffected by sucker punches.

“Actually, it was completely called for,” my aggressor yells, the anger clear in his voice.  There’s also a hint of satisfaction that barely registers through the ringing in my ears.  I give my head a quick shake and look toward the voice.  He’s a squat fellow, broad at the waist and balding, with black-rimmed glasses perched on a rounded nose.  His face is sparsely dotted with acne, and reddened as though he’d been climbing a flight of stairs.  Not a pointedly ugly guy, but closer thereto than I’m sure he would like.

I’m more interested, however, in the woman standing a few feet behind him and to his left, ducking her chocolate brown eyes, trying desperately not to look at me.  Her name is Shannon, my coworker, a friend of Kelly’s from before our break-up.  Also one of my lovers, the only one that I was seeing consistently, my current “affair”.  Or rather, she had been, until I had broken it off due to her inappropriately amorous public behavior.  Given her current behavior, and baldie’s steadily darkening face, I can only assume that he is her husband, and terminating our relationship had somehow resulted in her confessing her recent indiscretions.

Come to think of it, he does resemble an older, less well maintained version of the man I’d seen on her Facebook profile.  How people let themselves go like that, I will never know.

I stand up slowly, craning my neck to the side.  “Guessing you’re Shannon’s husband?”

“I have a name,” he spits angrily.

“Frankly, I never bothered to learn your name.  Care to refresh me?”

“Randy.”

“‘Kay Randy,” I say casually.  I rub my neck, which actually hurts worse than my cheek.  “Tell you what.  I’m gonna give you that one for free.  You wanna talk, fine, but the next one’s gonna cost you.”

His lips curl in an angry snarl.  “Don’t you fucking threaten me!”

“I don’t make threats.”  I rub my cheek with my tongue, feeling the flayed skin.  I make a show of biting off a loose chunk of flesh, and spit it onto the pavement.  It lands with a sickeningly wet flop in a pool of red.  I see Shannon’s eyes widen in horror, and Randy’s face grows slightly less red.  I smile through the blood on my lips.  “Now, you had something you wanted to say to me?”

His voice raises, punctuating his next statement: “Yeah, you fucked my wife!”

“Obviously,” I answer coolly.  “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.  So?”

I eye him casually, and can see Randy deflate a little.  He didn’t expect me to admit it, to not argue with him.  This isn’t going as he’d planned.  He stammers, “So… stay the fuck away from her!”

“I’m not the one you need to worry about, hoss.”  I indicate Shannon with a nod of my head.  She’s trying her hardest to be invisible.  “She’s the lovey-dovey one.”

My reference to her seems to rekindle Randy’s anger.  He takes a step toward me and points at me, as though poking a jello mold.  “Don’t you ever fucking touch her again.”

I shrug and smile.  “Can’t make any promises.”

I see the punch coming long before it connects.  He has an obvious tell, shared by most untrained fighters, the drawing back of the shoulder, instinctively gaining power by twisting the torso.  He also purses his lips, holding his breath–another common tell.  I know he has likely never been in a fight, at least not one with someone who actually knows how to do it.  It would be a simple matter to step to the outside and land a punch to his exposed kidneys, but I recognize that, from his perspective, I deserve it.  Hell, I probably do.  But I already gave him the sucker punch, which probably emboldened him to take another swing at me, and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of hitting me again.  So instead, I grab his arm, pivot into his hips, and neatly throw him around my body onto the pavement.  I hear the air leave his lungs in a cough of shock.  A quick jerk of his arm rolls him onto his stomach, and I pin his arm under my knee against the small of his back, braced by my left leg against his elbow.  I hold the back of his neck with my right hand and grab a handful of what little hair remains on his head with my left.  I pull sharply with my left as I push with my right, yanking his head up and away from the pavement.  He grunts in pain, and Shannon yells something, an unhappy, frightened sound.

I lean down as far as I can, given the awkward pin I’m holding him in, and say calmly, “Listen Randy.  You wanna be pissed at me, fine.  I don’t give a damn about you, so I can take it.  But ask yourself why she fucked me to begin with.”  I let him go and stand up quickly, putting a few feet of space between us.  He staggers to his feet and turns to face me, raising his hands threateningly, but he makes no move to advance.  He just glares at me, and wipes the blood from his scraped chin.  His glasses sit crooked on his bleeding nose.

“You wanna keep your wife happy?” I ask.  “Then get your ass on a treadmill.  Go to the gym.  Do something with yourself.  She fucked me because she’s unhappy.  Do something about it.”

I turn to Shannon.  “Do yourself a favor and stay the fuck away from me, ’cause the next time your hubby feels like picking a fight with me, I’m gonna put him down hard.”

Her eyes are wide, clearly terrified, shocked at what has transpired, but she nods slightly, enough that I know she won’t speak to me again.  I return the nod and turn my back to them both, moving calmly toward my car, my neck and cheek throbbing.  I spit another mouthful of blood for good measure.

I sometimes wonder if I’m really happy in my marriage.

Obviously, Ashley and I have issues.  Every married couple does.  If you’re married, and you don’t have issues, then I posit that you’re merely turning a blind eye to something that will, one day, bite you in the ass.  Every marriage is a constant game of give and take, compromise and negotiation, a miniature U.N. Security Council meeting wherein you know SOMEone is going to veto your idea.  (Probably the U.S.  It’s what we do.)

Our issues, however, seem to be less obvious than other marriages I’ve known.  For instance, most people constantly bicker about this or that.  Who’s going to do the dishes, or the laundry.  Whose turn is it to cook dinner?  Why am I the only person who does any housework around here?!  That sort of crap.  It always seems to revolve around a sense of being disrespected by your partner.

And that’s really not the case for Ashley and me.  On the surface, we are what most people consider to be the perfect couple.  People regularly comment about how jealous they are of our relationship.  We laugh substantially more than we bicker.  When we do bicker, it’s something minor–you went to the gym without me, and I had to go alone, so I’m a little miffed.  That sort of thing.  We play video games together, watch movies, go jogging, do yoga… whatever.  We cuddle in public, still hold hands and walk with our arms around each others’ waists.  We are each other’s best friend.  And it’s great spending your life with your best friend, someone with whom you can do and talk about almost anything, who gets you.

However, that level of happiness is… kind of boring, actually.

I think fighting brings people closer.  Not those ridiculous fights, born of jealousy or resentment or just pure spite, but true disagreements about things.  Verbally sparring from time to time with your cohabitating partner keeps you on your toes.  It’s a necessary component of an engaging relationship.  Not having that is just, somehow, unfulfilling.

Maybe that’s what it is.  I’m not unhappy.  I’m just fucking bored.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m easily distracted, and I quickly become disinterested in most things.  This is why I engage in so many activities, why I’m at least passably proficient in numerous different skills.  I need to be challenged, physically and intellectually.  I need someone to stand up to me and say, “LOOK HERE, MOTHERFUCKER,” then lay down their version of the law.  I need Ashley to disagree with me.  But she doesn’t, because we each agree on just about everything.

Perhaps that kind of peaceful relationship is ideal to most people.  Maybe that’s what they’re looking for, and what they’re so disappointed that they can’t find.  But as idyllic as that may sound to you, dear readers, I promise you, it becomes old.  Stale.  Stagnant.  Nothing changes.  Every day is the same, hour after mind-numbingly similar hour.  You fall into a routine.  All spontaneity is lost to the machinations of comfort and harmony.  Then the monotony begins to creep into other aspects of your life, until you realize that you have become a machine, operating on a regular clock, waking up without the alarm, eating the same boring bran flakes for breakfast, trudging to work, trudging home, trudging through everything you do because it’s all that you know anymore.  You forget what it means to be alive, to explore, to experience, to connect with other people and the world around you.

I don’t want blissful happiness.  Therein lies entropy, atrophy.  I need something more dynamic.  That need feeds my urge to dry hump everything I see into submission.  Ashley’s returning disinterest in physical intimacy agitates this thing that lives in the back of my brain, that threatens to drive me insane if I don’t feed it.  It reminds me that fucking someone else gives me the change I’m looking for, that element of risk, of discord.  It gives me something to focus on so that the monotony of my daily life doesn’t consume me.

Now I sound like a husband in a television drama.  The mid-lifer who desperately searches for something new.  Kevin Spacey and his fish-faced teenage lover in American Beauty.

That’s precisely what I do not want to be.  A trudger, playing at dynamism, testing the waters like a five year old contemplating the deep end, skirting the edges of danger while telling myself that I could do that, if I wanted.  That’s not who I am, who I have ever been.

And I feel like, maybe, that’s who I run the risk of becoming.

Has it become obvious to anyone else that I’ve struggled lately with things to write about?

I have a strict format I follow when I’m engaging in creative writing.  The first step of this method is the creation of a one-word sentence that can sum up the entire thing.  You might think of this as a “thesis statement”, if you’re a classically trained grammar nazi, but I think of it more as a seed, the point from which every other word develops.  A few that I’ve been recently considering include,

  • Having sex in a crowded theater is less exciting than it sounds.
  • Sometimes I can’t believe I’m a published author.
  • Regular people are just sexual deviants waiting for a proper shove down the bell curve.
  • Unless the giver is exceptionally skilled, road head is more distracting than pleasurable.
  • If you’re going to ask me to lick your ass, please wash it first.
  • Spontaneous orgies are more enjoyable when the door is locked.
  • Cumming on a girl’s shaved head looks an awful lot like a white-and-cream Pollock painting.
  • Fortunately, fucking has no language barrier.
  • How am I the only guy not getting blown tonight?
  • I’ve never bought a plane ticket just to fuck a woman I’ve never met, but damn is it tempting.
  • “Umm, I use that to shave my taint.”
  • I hope God has a sense of humor, otherwise I’m going straight to Hell for this one.
  • “You’re the first white guy I’ve ever met who’s hung like a black man and works it like a Mexican.”
  • A pumice stone is a necessary addition to the arsenal of sexual preparatory materials.
  • “I’m fairly certain this falls outside the manufacturer’s intended use of the playground equipment.”

I’m not sure what it is that I look for in a good post, but these all seem viable to me.  And that’s the problem, I think.  I have so much to say, to share, that singling out any one thing becomes exceedingly difficult.  I feel like anyone can write about sex.  I’d rather write something meaningful, or at least interesting to my regular readers.  After all, you guys set the bar pretty damned high.

But I also feel that too much of my writing has changed from its original intent.  I still find that catharsis when I write, but going back over my recent entries, I feel that the emphasis has changed in the months since challenging myself to commit my thoughts to paper, and becoming a member of this community.  I take great satisfaction in knowing that most of the people who read this blog enjoy my writing and find pleasure, even sexual arousal, in the stories I choose to share.  But I wonder if that satisfaction is becoming, or has already become, my reason for sharing.  Rather than to discuss my sexual addiction, or my general weakness in regard to physical pleasure, I wonder if I now write to tantalize, to intrigue, to entertain.

If so, does that mean I have developed as a writer?  Have I found an outlet for my creative and sexual energies?  Has meeting so many people with my same weaknesses, my same desires, made me more comfortable with my indiscretions?  Have I simply given up on using this blog as a means of improving myself, and has the quality of my writing diminished because of it?

These are some weighty thoughts running around my noggin.  Too weighty for a beautiful Tuesday afternoon, methinks.

I would be interested in knowing what my regular readers think.  Also, if any of those topics I put up top seem particularly interesting, feel free to say so.  It’ll be nice to have someone else tell me what to write for a change.

In the meantime, I’m going to commit these weighty thoughts to the depths of my yoga mat and see what it tells me.

It’s been a long time since I publically responded to the e-mails and unapproved comments I receive about this blog.  I think it’s high time I did so again.  Here are a few of the questions and comments I’ve received over the past few weeks, in no particular order.  Names and potentially identifying information have been removed.

Question:  Why do you refuse to approve the comments I post on your blog?

The thing is, I don’t like bigots and judgmental assholes.  As far as I’m concerned, I’m the only person on this blog who gets to be a bigoted, self-righteous, judgemental prick, and I do that job well enough for ten people.  Why would I want your comments on here mucking up my dick-fu?

Question:  Are all of your stories true?

Yes, but only to an extent.  The nice thing about memory is, it tends to paint you in a better light the further from the event you go.  I can’t say with 100% certainty that everything I write is absolutely, perfectly accurate.  What I try to get across are the main points, the things that stick out.  The smell of a woman’s hair (Shelley’s shampoo).  The sounds of the surrounding area (the coffee shop in Asia).  The specific phrases that stand out to me (“You’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met, but I’m no one’s plaything”).  The parts in between those elements have to be recreated to the best of my recollection, but I never purposely alter a story to make it more interesting, or to make myself out as a hero, or a victim.  Each story is a memory, and is told as honestly as I can.

Comment:  No one is that good at that many things.  You must be a liar.

I happen to be an excellent liar.  But not here.  (Who the hell would I want to impress on an anonymous blog?)  And frankly, I’m only quite good at a couple of things, but my career and education choices have forced me to develop at least a working proficiency in a number of fields.  Fortunately, I’m a very fast learner.

Oh, and fuck you.

Question:  Some of your stories sound awfully familiar.  Did you fuck my wife?

Seriously, why the hell do you want to even speculate on this?  I may have fucked a lot of women, but that number is a drop in a drop in a drop in the bucket of the total number of women in the places I’ve lived.  As much as I admire women and want to pursue intimacy with every one of them, the likelihood that I fucked your wife or girlfriend or sister or whatever is astronomically small.

Question:  Do you want to?

That, on the other hand, is entirely plausible.  [Author’s Note:  Yes, I actually had a man ask if I would consider sleeping with his rather lovely wife.  What an interesting and magical place the Internet has become.]

Question:  Why do you not post more frequently?  (Or, why do you not respond to my e-mails faster?)

Because I am remarkably busy.  I’m amazed I find the time to write the two weekly entries to which I’ve committed myself.  Please don’t interpret my silence as disinterest.  There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything I’d like.

Comment:  If you really loved Ashley, you wouldn’t cheat on her and then write about it here.

You have no idea how much I struggle with this.  I write about it because it makes me feel less horrid.  I imagine it’s the same sensation Catholics feel after confession.  Not that I think anything I write here qualifies as a confession, at least in the religious sense, but it evokes a similarly cathartic response for me.

I believe I love Ashley.  My heart tells me I do.  My mind tells me I shouldn’t.  And that’s all I want to say about it right now.

Comment:  Only cowards hide behind pseudonyms.

You may be right.  I’ve never claimed to be brave, and I certainly don’t consider myself to be so.

Question:  Why did you misspell the word “tendencies” in your username?  Was it on purpose, or are you stupid?

Fuck you.  That’s why.

Question:  Are you using this blog as a means of meeting women online to fuck?

I don’t use this blog to further my sexual agenda.  Frankly, I don’t need it for that purpose–I am more than capable of picking up women on my own, thank you very much.  (However, I confess that there are certain amongst my regular readers whom I find more than slightly beguiling.)

Question:  Are you currently seeing anyone behind Ashley’s back?

Yes, I am: a woman who works at my university, and a younger woman from the yoga class I help out with.  I’m sleeping with neither at the moment, but the temptation to do so is fairly overwhelming.

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Think that’s enough for now, especially given that this is an extra third post for my week!  If you have any other questions or comments, feel free to leave ’em below.

I am thirty years old.

Obviously, turning 30 isn’t that big a deal.  At least, it shouldn’t be.  A day before the event, I was 29 years old.  A day later, I was 30.  It’s really a meaningless distinction, made viable only by the human tendency to sort and categorize everything we see, including ourselves.  When you really think about it, age is only useful in a legal sense, and after the major youth milestones of 16 (driving), 18 (voting/military eligibility), and 21 (drinkingWOOHOO), everything else pretty much becomes pointless.

Turning 30 means nothing at all.

And yet, it means everything in the world.

I am thirty years old.

The events surrounding my 30th birthday were… eventful.  That’s putting it mildly, rest assured, but the full gritty details are unimportant.  In summary, I partied my ass off, harder than I have in years.  I drank half a bottle of tequila, a bottle of SoCo, a bottle of Bailey’s (with my coffee), and six or seven Coronas; smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes; played pool with a bunch of random strangers; discussed philosophy, biology, history, and art in three different languages; fucked a Polish woman in the parking lot of an unknown apartment complex; and watched the sunrise on my 10,958th day of life.

It was, as I said, eventful.

But the knowledge that I am now 30 was constantly hanging over my head.  I was dreading it, until the day of, when I had something of an epiphany.

It’s common knowledge that we, as humans, have a poor conception of time.  We always think we’re going to live forever.  Even when we finally realize that we, us, me, you, are going to someday end, we can’t fathom 30 years in the future.  Not even 10.  So we always think we have more time.  Until, suddenly, as though magically, we don’t.  You always hear people talk about what they want to do with their lives, from people in their 30s, or 40s, or 50s.  Then you hear about what they’re going to do with their retirement.  Then… all they want to talk about are the things they didn’t do.

My epiphany was, that person is going to be me someday.

Not anytime soon, mind you.  But statistically speaking, I’m approaching the halfway point of my life.  I don’t say this bitterly, or with anything resembling sadness.  I accept it as mathematical truth.

But that doesn’t mean I have to take it lying down.

On my birthday, as I sat on a concrete bench in front of a friend’s condo, reeking of cigarettes and ethanol and Polish infidelity, watching my 10,958th sunrise, I decided that I want to experience another 10,958 sunrises, through the best eyes and body I am capable of producing.

To that end, I have begun something of an experiment.  I’m already fairly particular about the things I put in my mouth (*giggle*), but I confess to drinking and smoking more than I should, and my exercise regimen has diminished since I became a career scientist and educator.  I’m still lean, but I’ve become more broad than I was in most of the memories I’ve shared here, and I’m sure my body could use a break from the punishment I dish out on a regular basis.

So, for the next 60 days, I have decided to engage in “clean living”.

I have completely cut smoking, and I gave away every bit of booze in my house to friends and neighbors.  My pantry is now stocked with almost no pre-packaged foods, save for a few cans of tuna and multigrain WheatThins (for my grown-up lunchables!).  I eat five times a day, 300 to 400 calories per meal, and consume no more than 1800 calories per day, at a calories-from ratio of 20% fat, 30% carbs, and 50% protein.  And no matter how exhausted I may be at the end of my day, by God, I go to the gym, for hot ashtanga or vinyasa yoga, martial arts, and running.  Or I go in the wee hours of the morning and perform my Sun Salutations to the actual sun.

Week one of this new resolution is drawing to a close, and I must confess that I already feel better.  The lack of empty calories from beer is surprisingly rewarding, in a whole-body manner, and just a few days without cigarettes makes a big difference for my yoga.  Not to mention that doing yoga every day, instead of once or twice a week, leaves me feeling more invigorated and energized.

Finally, I’m sure some of you are wondering, what about the other things you need to change.  The elephant in the room.  The point of this blog.  I’m sad to report that Ashley has relapsed into asexuality, and my urges, which had been somewhat lessened by her increased attentions, have intensified.  I’ve been good.  Well, not good, but I’ve managed to exert greater self-control than usual.  Unfortunately, Ashley’s return to form has left me feeling empty, and the girl at my yoga class is so incredibly flexible….

Yeah, anyway.

Afraid I don’t have much more time to write at the moment.  I have an evening class to attend with the aforementioned yoga girl.  I hope this finds you all happy, healthy, and well, dear readers.  Expect more from me in the near future.

Regards,
BimodalTendancies

Oh lord, am I ever happy you only turn 30 once.  I celebrated this in the most debauched manner possible.  (I didn’t know my body was still capable of processing that much ethanol in one sitting.)  Fortunately, I survived, with a few more battle scars, and another notch on the ol’ bedpost.  Maybe I’ll share in the near future.  But, for now, here is the conclusion to my most recent memory.  Enjoy.

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I lift my head and place two fingers under Jenny’s chin, turning her face toward mine.  Her eyes are closed, but she opens them as I place my hand against the side of her neck.  We look at each other, and I practically count the seconds as they tick by, waiting for the right moment.  But Jenny surprises me by lifting her lips to mine quickly, and with more eagerness than I had anticipated.  Her tongue grazes my lips, and I hear a faint sound of longing emanate from her throat as we kiss on the front porch swing.

She may not be skilled at flirting, but Jenny is a remarkably talented kisser.

She wraps one arm around my shoulders, and her other hand rests comfortably against my sternum.  Whatever hesitance had previously possessed her has gone; she begins squeezing my shoulders, my upper arms, my chest, almost as though exploring, testing the consistency, the “give” of my body under her fingers.  As her hands discover new places to examine, her kisses increase in intensity, the occasional lash against my lip developing into a full dance between our tongues, moving from my mouth to hears, with an occasional break when she ducks her head just enough to permit her to bite my lip, tugging it insistently, pulling me closer to her, maneuvering me with her mouth against mine.  Before I realize it, she’s pulled me to the middle of the swing and has vaulted onto my lap, straddling my waist.

She breaks the kiss and looks down at me, eyes glassy, lips parted as she pants softly for breath.  I place my hands on her hips and pull her down against me, knowing that her skirt has left only her undergarments between her skin and my jeans.  She rocks back and forth along my zipper, and the hardness beneath, and her glassy eyes almost roll back into her head, which falls back as she groans softly.  She grips my neck, bracing herself as she moves along with the motion I’ve established, and lifts her head to look at me again.

“We need a place to go,” she whispers between thrusts.  “Right now.”

I contemplate this, as deeply as my one-track mind will permit.  “Well… the bedroom is being used by the potheads, so that’s out…”  I glance toward the parking lot.  “We could take my truck someplace, if you wanted, but it will be cramped…”

“UGH.  FUCK that.”  She leans back and begins grappling with my belt.  It only takes me a moment to catch up to her train of thought, and I practically slap her hands away to more quickly free myself.  Jenny reaches under her skirt, and I feel her hand wrapping around my shaft.  Sensitive skin rubs against cotton, then against her own bare flesh, hot and incredibly moist.  She positions herself against me, adjusts the lay of her skirt to more fully cover us, grips the sides of my neck again, and relaxes her legs.  Gravity forces her down, slides my cock into her until I can feel her cervix pressing against me.  Her expression is somewhat pained at first, but as she begins to rock, her face gradually relaxes.  I try to match her movements, but the sway of the porch swing under us prevents me from from discovering a comfortable rhythm.  She is seemingly unbothered by the swaying, using it to keep herself moving with minimal effort, and is too caught up in the moment to notice my difficulty.  Instead, I slide my hands along her stomach beneath the tank top, enjoying the feel of baby fat beneath my hands, the softness diminishing as I move further up along her torso, her breasts small but quite firm beneath my touch.  I explore her body as she explored mine, testing the softness of her skin, the tension of her muscles as she rocks against me, as she finds her release, and I find mine.

Jenny catches her breath and slides off of my lap, groaning in the process.  She adjusts her clothing again as she sits beside me on the swing, then puts her head on my shoulder with a long, satisfied sigh.  “That was truly enjoyable,” she comments.

I sigh and give my own grunt of affirmation.  I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her in closer to my side.  “Enjoyable, and thoroughly appreciated,” I answer.

Jenny gets situated against me, her head back in the follow below my collar.  I hear her say, almost timidly, “That was a one-time deal, wasn’t it?”

I look down at her.  “That depends,” I say, the concern obvious in my voice.  “If you mean, was that the beginning of an unexpected relationship… I’m afraid the answer is no.  But if you’re asking whether we can do this whenever we want… well, I suppose that’s up to you.”

“You have a girlfriend,” she says matter of factly.

“Which is why this isn’t a relationship.  Well, not yet, anyway.  I don’t know about the future.  I just try to bask in the present.”  I kiss the top of her head.  “And presently, I am thoroughly enjoying your company, and would have whether this happened or not.”

Jenny says nothing for a few moments, then she says, almost defeatedly, “That’s what I was afraid of.”  She turns her head and kisses my chest.  “For what it’s worth, you’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met.  But I’m no one’s plaything.”

“I understand,” I answer honestly.

Jenny quietly rises from the swing, picks up her melted drink, and goes back inside.  I retrieve my scotch, also thoroughly melted, flick the june bug off the rim, and take a long, hard pull.

I slide a bit to the left and pat the space beside me.  ”By all means.  History teaches us that it’s the victor’s responsibility to help the defeated recover.”

“Funny,” Jenny assures me.  She adjusts the long folds of her skirt before sitting beside me.  We immediately begin rocking the swing gently.  ”You’re the first person to beat me at Risk in a long time.”

“Ehh, just got lucky,” I respond.  “Game could have gone either way if the dice hadn’t rolled for me.”

“No, seriously, how’d you get so good?”

Ice rings against glass as I sip my scotch somberly.

“Pfft.  Fine, don’t tell me, then.”  She plucks the cigarette out of my hand and takes a long drag, exhaling as she puts her head on my shoulder.  We’d cuddled on numerous occasions, but always in a strictly friendly manner, so I don’t read too much into it.  We sit in silence, the only sounds those of the creak of the swing, ice against glass, and the occasional drone of a june bug kamikaze-ing past our heads.  It’s a comfortable thing, really.

“You’re an interesting guy,” Jenny remarks from my shoulder.

I quirk an eyebrow and glance down at her.  ”Beg pardon?”

I feel more than see her shrug.  ”You’re not the type to play games, that’s all.”

I pause.  ”Meaning…?”

“Meaning, smart guys who play games aren’t supposed to look like you and Hank.”  Normally I would laugh and point out the ridiculousness of her assertion that I am anything but average compared to Hank, but I detect a hint of a slur toward the end of the s-heavy sentence.  I immediately wonder how many of those cola concoctions she’s consumed in the couple of hours since our game ended.  Presumably, the answer is “many”.

“Hank’s really not that smart,” I say wryly.  She punches my thigh, and I grab her hand, not forcefully, but with enough persistence to communicate my intentions.  She wrestles against my grip briefly, then catches on, and slowly laces her fingers with mine.  She turns her head and kisses my shoulder, awkwardly so, enough that I can tell she’s nervous, and likely somewhat inexperienced at flirtation.  I put my arm around her shoulders encouragingly.

Jenny nestles into my side and sighs comfortably.  She rests her cheek in the hollow just beneath my collar.  ”This is nice,” she murmurs.

“It is.”  I run my hand along the bare flesh of her upper arm shoulder, tracing the thin outline of the tank top, and tilt my cheek into her hair.  She smells of tea tree oil and rum.  Not a bad combination.

“Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because then it wouldn’t be special,” I answer immediately, as I lean my head back against the top of the bench swing.  “As things stand, these moments wherein it’s just you and me, sitting together, with nothing else to worry about, are wonderfully enjoyable.  Do it too often, and your fondness for these moments will fade.”

I feel her head lift a little, as though considering this.  “You think so?”

“Yep.  You have to do these things sparingly to maintain their significance.  Otherwise it becomes rote.  Or you have to up the ante.”

She moves a bit more, sitting up straighter, but still pressed against my torso.  “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, we will always remember these moments fondly, so long as they don’t happen all the time, or if something else happens to make one night particularly stand out in memory.”

Jenny is silent for a few moments, then she whispers, “Like what?”  Her voice is hesitant, but I can hear tension mixed with excitement.

The devil on my shoulder smiles approvingly.

———————————————————————————-

And that, unfortunately, is where I must leave this story for now.  I’ve written more, but this is such a natural stopping point that I just can’t bring myself to post more of this story here.  Never fear, there will be a concluding third part.

For those interested parties, the reason I have to leave this memory unfinished for the time being is because… and I am loath to say this… I must attend my 30th birthday party.

That’s right, folks.  Bimodal is turning 30 tomorrow, and is none too happy about it.  Don’t be surprised if you see a post about me vs. aging in the near future.

In the meantime, I am going to go defile my body.  I’m talkin’ things that would make Hieronymus Bosch shit his britches.

I have a confession to make.

I am a nerd.

Not just any old nerd.  I’m a super nerd capable of giving the fellas on The Big Bang Theory a run for their money.   I own every video game system that’s been released in the U.S. since the original NES, and my collection of games is truly impressive.  I even have a special chair for retro gaming–a big, comfy papasan that I can burrow into while playing Final Fantasy VI.  I spend thousands of dollars on custom computer gaming rigs just to make sure I can run the latest titles at maximum resolution and settings.  I am a connoisseur of classic and modern board games, from chess and backgammon to Carcassonne and Ghost Stories.  I’ve not only played Dungeons and Dragons for almost fifteen years; I’ve been a DM for seven.  I can (and will) argue that video games are a valid art form, as are comic books.  I watch cartoons, and science fiction television, with unapologetic passion (The Highlander, Invader Zim, Dragon Ball Z, and Death Note are some of my favorite television series ever).  I read Jim Butcher (my favorite modern author), R.A. Salvatore, and Simon R. Green.   The random contraptions I’ve built would bring a tear to the eye of the most avid MythBuster.  And finally, I do science, not because it pays well (it doesn’t), but because I genuinely think it’s cool.

Fortunately, I’m just as passionate about physical fitness as I am recreational gaming and reading.

I say this to give you a bit more information about me, and to provide a bit of background for the following.  It’s my first multi-part post in a long while, because I just don’t have the time to keep writing tonight.  Enjoy.

————————————————————————————

My fingers are laced together, obscuring my mouth from view as I contemplate the scenario before me.  The relative probabilities of success surge through my mind in binomial equations and density curves.  I see multiple avenues of approach, but nothing that comes without a hefty risk.  But the potential rewards…

Beside me, Hank grumbles, “Dude, you’re taking forever.”

“World conquest isn’t something one pursues hastily,” I answer.

I survey the board, assessing troop placement, reinforcements per turn, and relative army strengths in what is the most intense game of Risk I have ever played.  Today is–Lord, this is hard to admit–day three of the game.  What started as a friendly six person Thursday afternoon game has gradually become a cut-throat battle between me and the person across the table: Jenny.

I glance up at her, a lovely specimen of gamer chick, with her fit, pear-shaped frame.  She is observing the board as intently as I am, lips pursed, blonde-and-chocolate highlights framing a slender, almost angular face and blue eyes that flit to and fro in concentration.  I see her focus on Australia.  I’ve been amassing forces there for the better part of two days, preparing for a major siege of Asia.  She knows it’s coming, and she’s been fortifying her territories there.

Hank grumbles again, “Dude, seriously, are you ever going to go?”

I click my tongue and shake my head.  “Patience, padawan.”  I casually reinforce Australia, and drop another few on Greenland and Alaska for good measure.  A quick skirmish from Alaska.  Fortify Alaska.  Then Jenny moves.  As expected, she fortifies Siam, India, and China, ready at a moment’s notice.

But it’s all a ruse.  In Chapter XX of The Prince, Machiavelli wrote that the problem with a fortress is that it draws attention, which is precisely what I wanted.  While she’s been focused on my upcoming Australian attack, she’s left Africa relatively unguarded, poorly enough that I can sweep through from Brazil.  By simultaneously attacking from Australia to keep her from moving her forces, I can control Africa in no more than two turns, then it’s a simple matter of pushing through Europe from Greenland and North Africa while keeping her Asian forces occupied from Alaska and Australia.

My turn.  Drop every reinforcement on Brazil.  Full attack from Australia, Greenland, and Alaska.  Fortify Brazil from Venezuela.  I hear Jenny whisper, “Oh fucking hell,” and I smile.  She sees it coming, but it’s too late.  On my next turn, I unleash plastic figurine hell.  The game is over in 20 minutes.  Hank and Jenny stare at the board, now dominated by my blue armies.  “Dude, fucking really?  I didn’t see that shit coming.”

“I’m the Keyser Söze of Risk,” I answer with a smile.

Jenny busts out laughing.  “Seriously, you had me so freaked out about Australia and Alaska that I never imagined you’d try from South America.  You just brain fucked me.”

“The greatest trick the Devil ever played,” I say as I start cleaning up the board.  Jenny chucks a six-sided die at me.  I let it hit my chest.

Following clean-up, I grab a glass of scotch and excuse myself to the front porch.  The sun has long since set, and Hank has resumed drinking heavily and chatting up the few remaining girls from a party in which I’d taken no part.  I’m mentally exhausted from the three day long battle, and I have no desire to deal with loud music and drunk women.  Instead, I light a cigarette and sit on the porch swing, watching the fireflies dance through the yard, basking in the warmth of the summer night.  I recap the game in my mind, piecing through my errors and considering what to do in similar situations in the future.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying your victory.”  Jenny’s voice yanks me from my reverie.  I look toward the door and see her leaning against the door frame, arms folded as though judging me, but she’s smiling quite genuinely.  She holds up her own glass, a dark soda-based concoction, and asks, “Mind if I join you?”