Originally Posted on April 4, 2012 at 12:08 PM as a gift to you by Professor Mentu
I got a text last night from a girl I haven’t heard from in over two years. All it said was “do you like olives?”
The text came though while I was sitting on the couch eating leftover Korean food and watching season 1 of East Bound & Down on DVD. I just sat there for a moment with a mouth full of half-chewed kimchi, wondering how I should respond.
One fine Saturday two years ago in Mesquite, a city known as the armpit of the DFW Metroplex, I walked in to a bar with three of my buddies after a long day at the pool. My shorts weren’t even completely dry yet, my hair smelled like charcoal from the grill, and I looked like a bag full of smashed up assholes.
I swear to god she looks just like a young Veronica Lake
We sat in the booth for what seemed like forever, so my buddy and I decided to walk over to the bar and get a drink order started. As we approached, I saw a sexy little blonde sitting alone. She was a classic beauty unlike anything I had ever seen before, yet she was covered in tattoos – something that is normally a turnoff for me. Her naturally wavy locks spiraled down past her shoulders gently framing her feminine face like the work of art it was, while her deep green eyes seemed both distant and inviting at the same time. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She looked like a young Veronica Lake had stepped off a 1940′s motion picture advertisement and straight into a tattoo shop.
Game aborted. No approach. I decided to admire this one from afar.
A few minutes after my buddy and I leaned up to the bar to order, she said “Do you like olives?” I looked over at her – woefully aware and embarrassed of my tousled appearance – and said “yeah.”
“Yeah.” I swear to god that’s all I could come up with.
She pulled the long plastic sword out of her drink that had two olives on it and held it up to my mouth.
“Help a lady out?”
She fed me the olives, then used the plastic sword to put her hair up. She didn’t even use both hands; she simply flipped her hair around and pushed the plastic sword down in there to keep her golden strands pushed back. She smiled and coyly said “my hero.”
In a catatonic state of beta proportion, I responded with the only thing that came to mind.
“Yeah.”
I walked away, leaving her at the bar. I sat down with my friends and we started working on our beers. The one buddy who went up to the bar with me started giving me a hard time: “What’s wrong, player? Big man who gets all the ladies buckled under pressure?”
I deserved the verbal assault. I chickened out, plain and simple.
After a full 30 minutes of getting made fun of by my friends – all of whom were too chickenshit to talk to this girl – I decided to go back over and unleash my game. As I approached her, I noticed she was paying her tab and getting up to leave. I walked up to the bartender and said “Sir, put two of her olives on my tab please.”
The bartender looked at me like I was a fucking idiot.
She laughed and said “You know I could hear you and your friends talking about me right?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“Yeah. I mean no…”
She laughed. “You have mad skills.”
Three days later, I found myself on Emily’s couch playing with her dogs while she cooked dinner. She said “how do you want your steak cooked?” and I said “In the nude please.”
“Let the dogs out in the back yard please so we can eat dinner in peace.”
When I came back in the house, Emily was cooking wearing nothing but a pair of red heels.
“Is this nude enough, or should I take the heels off too?”
I sat there staring at her perfect body. Among other body art, she had a serpent tattoo that wrapped completely around her body; the tail pointing at her vagina, and the head wrapped around her shoulder with a mouth open as if it wast going to bite her right breast.
I said “let’s start with dessert.”
We left the food on the stove, and went to her bedroom. I was intimidated, because I knew this girl was a tough broad. I have no doubt she had been pounded senseless hundreds of times by the baddest bad boys in Dallas. I later found out she was a stripper, which made sense.
I pushed through the intimidation and decided to bring my A game. I proceeded with crushing her like I was a porn star trying to get nominated for the “most disgusting scene ever” award. I gave it my all with no regard for her pleasure. I treated her like a paid hooker – a role she played like a pro with tons of experience. I had a feeling that not only had she been around the block a few times, but the block was probably named after her.
Two weeks later, being rather pleased with myself and having more than earned back the respect I lost from my buddies at the bar, I was continuing to crush Emily’s ass like I owned it. I was feeling like an Alpha male of the highest order. The girl was a sex fiend, and never said no to anything I threw at her. My buddies were visibly jealous, and I had earned a place in their world as the King of players. I had found a classic beauty nymph tattooed bad girl, made her my whore, and she kept coming back for more.
One day after giving her yet another Alpha male porn star thrashing, she came out of the bathroom and cuddled up to me on the couch. As I sat there – my balls swelling with pride – she said something that stripped away every ounce of Alpha male confidence I had collected since birth.
“I like what we have together, but we don’t always have to make love. We should just fuck tonight for a change.”
Ouch.
I never slept with her again. I was too embarrassed, ashamed, and I couldn’t bear the thoughts of subjecting myself to her bedroom scrutiny. I honestly don’t know what more I could have done to this girl without a midget, 10 feet of nylon rope, and a farm animal. To this day I have no idea how raw-dog ass-to-mouth translates into “making love” but I’m afraid to ask. I think what pained me the most was that she was in no way trying to be a bitch; she really thought she was inviting me to take it to the next level, and had no idea that I was already functioning at a level I never dreamed I was capable of.
I somehow managed to keep calm and hide my shattered ego, but from that day forward, I started neglecting her texts and wouldn’t answer when she called. Being the pro that she is, she got the hint rather quickly and faded away.
Last night I finished up my leftover bim bim bop with thoughts of Emily running through my head. I picked up my phone, deleted her text, and went to bed much earlier than usual.
Wherever you are tonight Emily, yeah, I do like olives. But this time I think I’ll pass.
Good story, reinforces my ideas that being good at sex isn’t most important, Respect and admiration rank higher for men…would you agree?
Getting sex is what men care about. Some men care about being good at it but most men care only about getting it.
Funny, this is a great blog post to read tonight, as I am watching LA confidential
Ah, but this story shows that to be untrue because sex was just a text message away for him but he refused because she lacked admiration of him. Admiration was more important than sex.
@ Sis
I think it depends on the man and his needs. Personally, I can’t imagine having sex with someone that didn’t respect me as a man. But there are plenty of men that dumpster dive. I can’t imagine the women that sleep with men dumpster diving can really respect them – my belief is that those women look at the men and the sex with them as more of a jewel to be won or that they’re entitled to.
But again, personally, that’s not for me. I’ll bail on any encounter I’m not getting respect. I’ll just ghost on them. I don’t put up with it, I don’t explain my expectations. I tell the women what I expect out of them and when they break it, they’re out of my life. End of story
Speaking of which, its time to go have my dog wake up the previously tipsy woman that wasn’t respecting me and yet still decided she was too tipsy to drive and wanted to sleep in my bed, but then had a coat on and wouldn’t let go of a bear hug on a blanket and pillow. She’s had her time to sober up, now she’s getting out. Though she might get a few dog kisses on the way
“I like what we have together, but we don’t always have to make love. We should just fuck tonight for a change.”
Hah! You got me. Definitely not what I was expecting the soul-crushing statement to be.
IME, when a woman says, “I just want to fuck”, what she’s actually saying is, “Don’t worry about me, just stick it in, have an orgasm and roll over.” For a woman with dominance fantasies, nothing feeds her spank bank better than being “used”. It’s the romance novel paradigm: nothing is sexier than being around a man who is so aroused by you that his desires are more important to him than her needs. To that type of woman, three minutes of neck nibbling missionary (then telling her to get a beer) is “fucking”, while 30+ minutes of tied wrists/bite marks on breasts/piledriver fucking in pussy, switching to anal midstroke/rolling her onto her stomach and smacking her ass/grabbing her throat when you come equals “making love”. It’s a conceit of time, not actions. It’s the reason why the easiest way for an (alpha enough) man to get into his wife’s favour is the two-minute, bent over before work quickie, not the bed covered in rose petals. It’s the reason why Skittles Man and Bring The Movies Guy get good marks, while diamonds for any occasion besides a 25th anniversary or the birth of a child gets low marks. It’s the reason why a happy wife or girlfriend will brag about her SO’s chili-making or grilling skills, but a woman married to a head chef will whine about not having “regular meals”. Women. Need. Excitement. Quick spark to quick flame to quick extinguishing, not slow buildup.
@Sis, if he’s ashamed and embarrassed around her, he’s not going to be able to get it up, much less have sex with her. I think MaMu1977′s response above is pretty damn good.
Emotional connections trump all. I’ve seen women that respond better to each of your different descriptions – it’s really about calibration and how it’s presented. If the 3 minutes ended with a “sorry” instead of “get me a beer” its completely different, as does the 30 minutes if it’s to get her off rather than for your own pleasure.
Same thing for the day to day, non-sex stuff. Follow your mission, your goals, and make sure she’s just there as a passenger – not a driver or navigator.
It’s amusing that Sis would even have the audacity to weigh in with such a comment, considering she does not even respect her husband. She considers him to be a sinner and a screw up who doesn’t get much right. She just has such an excess of respect for God that she is willing to give her husband a little out of charity.
I haven’t formed an opinion on that yet… What I’ve read of hers on the matter seems as if it’s bypassing respect for the husband for God, as you say, but then I also believe he cheated on her and hasn’t given her that much to respect. But since it’s hard to tell because it’s only her side of it we see…
Again, no concrete opinion yet.
Ouch, you’re right Dr. Illusion, I need to do better.
Curious sis, was it this comment that led to your current post on respect for your husband?
I may have come across as overly harsh with my earlier comment, Sis, but I was just repeating what you said in a comment over at Stingray’s a while back that I found rather offensive. Seeing you talk about the importance of respect here, after what you said over there, rubbed me the wrong way.
Maybe
Like I said, I’m a work in progress
Anyone else think she was just fucking with his head?
Clearly he was doing his best to go gonzo on her, I think this was her way to shit test him, an ‘is that all you got’ verbal slap… just a thought!
Possibly. But that’s a nuclear shit test, and even if I passed it I’d be done with her after the night.
No woman is worth that level of bitchy.
God no. And she’s a stripper, so even less reason to give a shit…
When I read over the original comments, a few thought the same thing you are. That or that slow, sensual love making is so different from what she got on a regular basis that she was messed up enough to switch ‘making love’ and ‘fucking’ in her head