The Cosmic Bitch Slap

OK, fine...I'll admit it. Behind this carefully constructed veneer of indifference and coldly calculating pimp mackery, my heart still stings from romance gone sour. Dare I say it here in this of all places, but as the days become weeks, and the weeks stretch out into months, I find myself still longing for HER. She invades my dreams like a phantom succubus, echoes of her laughter catching me off guard at times, and the lovely stink of her musk wafts in and out when I lay my head down to sleep. To be perfectly honest, it's quite disheartening, especially when I'm out trolling the bars for a random whore to spray my cock shaft with her quim for the night. This kind of longing makes that kind of thing sort of disheartening. Hence my penchant for actual prostitutes.

I've always prided myself on being able to distance myself both emotionally and physically from past "conquests", for lack of a better term. Women before and, regrettably, after HER, have always bored me; mere pleasures of the flesh offering me no emotional growth. More oft then not, they've amounted to long-term escorts, like prostitutes on lease with the option to buy...i.e. marriage. So I quickly learned to play the Game. Say the right things. Offer a cold hand under the guise of a comforting touch. I was never bothered when we would part ways, the majority of the time on my own insistance. And when I was the being dumped...well, I've never been dumped. I always chalked it up as the great proverbial "It's her, not me," mantra we repeat so often in the face of rejection. Show me one man who hasn't repeated to himself, "Fuck, that bitch was KER-RAZY! Thank god she's out of my life now. Well, time to hit the titty bar!" and I'll show you a virgin. Or a fag. So why must this one continue to haunt me so?

We met under the strangest circumstances. She, a young gypsy hitchhiking her way across the states, unable to be chained down and fiending for her next fix of any kind of experience. Me, the anti-social deviant you've all come to know and love. A chance meeting at a bar, the offer to sit down and drink, and maybe it was overwhelming indifference to her blatant flirting, but by the time the bartender made Last Call...she was mine. We drunkenly rampaged through Walmart at 3 in the morning, looking for a box of Trojans to pilfer. We ran down the aisles singing Irish drinking melodies that I didn't really know the words to and screaming obscenities at the underpaid worker zombies stocking the aisles, finally getting escorted out of the store because they witnessed the most horrible sight they could possible imagine...me chasing her down the toy aisle with my cock out, armed with a Super Soaker. We groped each other in my car while downing warm beer, even as the police pulled me over for running a red light, drunk off my ass and still getting away with just a warning. And we fucked. A savage, filthy, animalistic first fuck. Punk fucking rock, by God, and that's really the only way to describe it. Two drunken tattooed anarchists fucking to the sounds of the Clockwork Orange soundtrack. I never once so reveled in the fact that I was sticking my dick in a dirty gutter punk, but by the beard of Odin...it felt damned good.

The next morning, amidst the soiled sheets, empty Steel Reserve cans, bloody lower lips, and scratchmarks gouged into both of our backs like tantric war-paint, we talked about whatever interesting subject our post-coital minds could conceive. Our pasts, our presents, our futures, fears, wishes, wants, and desires, and for the first time, I never had to feign interest. Life at that moment was so blissful, that when she told me she would be moving on in the next couple days, I just sort of accepted it by flipping her over on her belly and fucking the day away. Those days were gone in the blink of my cock stroke, and when it came time for her to leave, there was nothing I could do to stop her. She just looked back at me as I dropped her off at the bus station, and I saw in her eyes that this was just old hat to her. She had played me like I had done to so many before her. Like a Dianic devotee stalking the fields of Elysium, she was the eternal wanderer, hunting down her next prey in the form of a warm bed, leaving ME here, with you rotten people, wanting more.

Perhaps it's a lesson for me to learn, or maybe, just maybe, it was a punishment for all the times I so callously did the same to the women before her. I don't know, after all, I am just a man.

A man with a gigantic cock, but a man nonetheless.