EPILOG - THE END OF BAT GIRL, THE BEGINNING OF THE SECOND HUNDRED
I know this was my fault. I shouldn’t have been looking, and perhaps if I hadn’t, I would today be happily, blissfully married to Bat Girl.
But something malfunctioned with Bat Girl. To this day, I’m not sure what it was. Bat Girl was an awesome specimen – tall, platinum blonde, green eyed, slender, with perfect Playboy bunny D-size tits, and who gave an incredible blowjob. I swear, I used to come in her throat three times a day. I never could get anything but a finger up that tight ass of hers, but even without anal, she was cool.
We argued good-naturedly about my wanting to try threesomes. Not the usual threesomes, for some reason my fantasy has always been to be with my woman while she’s doing a gang bang, a cock in every hole, boyfriend gets his choice. She insisted that I was much too jealous to watch her suck another guy’s cock or get fucked by another man. To prove it, she took me to a local bar where there were younger guys and she flirted with two of them while I watched in growing anger. She didn’t tell me it was an experiment until after the evening was over, and then I felt like a complete idiot. It’s different, I said. If they were just guest penises, there to drill you at my orders, it wouldn’t feel like you were romantically attracted to them. Chatting and smiling at a man in a bar is a romantic attraction.
Oh, she said. So you’re okay with my lips wrapped around another man’s cock but not using them to make a smile at a guy in a bar?
Well, yes, correct, I said.
Later, I would find out what it meant to watch the woman I loved bend over and take it up the ass from another man while I watched, but not with Bat Girl.
My memory does not show these little arguments being bitter or heated, just playful and teasing. But maybe it bothered her. One thing I like in bed is the woman telling me a story or me telling her a story. Mine, while I fucked beautiful Bat Girl, her body under mine, her legs pulling me into her, would be that I come home and find her getting double fucked, and for a while I just stand there and watch as the UPS guy thrusts into her pussy from one end and the FEDEX guy face fucks her on the other. She seemed to enjoy the verbal fantasy too, I thought, since she’d moan and not object. But maybe one day I took it too far. I fantasized out loud that she was blowing college boys when I walked into the room. I think the mom lobe of the brain came suddenly online and shorted out the slut lobe. In any case, things started changing.
The changes began when she decided to go to Atlantic City for a weekend with her ex-boyfriend. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – a weekend with an ex lover? Dump her ass. It wasn’t like that. Their relationship had cooled to the point of friendship. He’d occasionally call, complain about whomever he was dating, tell her about his poker games (he was a pro poker player) and promise to come by sometime. I wasn’t concerned. I mean, come on. A professional gambler? How long can that pay the rent before it starts consuming the rent?
The idea, though, of her zooming down to meet some guy in Atlantic City on a weekend I had my daughter had me steaming. She kept trying to calm me down. We’re not together anymore. The weekend was arranged before we were a couple. He’s a geek. So what, I said, I’m a geek. She showed me his picture. See, she said, he’s not nearly as handsome as you. I stared at the picture. He was much better looking than I am. I glared at her. What is this about, I said. What the fuck are you doing?
We’re staying in separate rooms, she said. It’s no big deal. He’s a platonic friend. You’ve got your daughter all weekend. As soon as I come home, I’ll see you and you’ll know I wasn’t with him.
This was about the time that texting had become mainstream. I took my daughter to our favorite diner and was texting Bat Girl as the evening went on. She said that she and Poker Boy were going to dinner. She texted me as her dinner ended. And then, there was a text blackout. I sent a text that went unanswered, then two, then five.
It was 8 at night. I hadn’t heard from her for a half hour. As the clock ticked away the night, I grew more restless and more upset, until finally I sent her a text in all capital letters saying it was over and I was ending it.
For two hours she was out of communication. I was steamed and feeling like a cuckolded fool. When she came back, she tried to float a silly excuse that she ran out of battery power. Right. I texted her that it was over.
She returned from Atlantic City the next day. I was supposed to help her turn in her rental car. I expected to let her figure the logistics of it out by herself, but somehow leaving her without a ride seemed petty. I showed up to help her with the car, but I wouldn’t look her in the eye and I wouldn’t speak to her. My attitude reduced her to tears, and she swore she hadn’t cheated on me. This was a woman who used to freak out about the very idea of having to tell a while lie to a girlfriend. She wasn’t a liar, I was convinced of it. But it was possible that she’d set out to have a platonic weekend and had either been convinced or coerced into sex with Poker Boy. Which would make him Poke-Her Boy. Shit.
She stood in a parking lot, all nearly six feet of her, and started to cry. She wiped her eyes, her head in her hands and trembled while she cried that she’d never cheated on me. At the time, I believed her. In retrospect, after Girls 118 and 162, it became apparent that women are much more able to lie to me than I’d ever given them credit, and a female cheats as easily as a male. Perhaps it was that argument that Bat Girl and I had before we were even together, about fidelity, in which I said it had to be earned every day and she said she’d never cheat because she was not that kind of girl. Sadly, maybe that night she’d become that kind of girl.
At the time, though, I forgave her four or five hour text outage and chose to believe her that she didn’t fuck Poke-Her Boy. I don’t believe it now, but I did then.
We resumed relationship operations and everything was fine, except she became tense over the Christmas holidays and on New Year’s Eve 2005, I almost left her house to go home to my own when she was just becoming an unmanageable bitch. I have a memory of her grabbing my arm on the staircase, trying to keep me from leaving, and my pulling her hand off me. I didn’t leave. We went out to dinner at the Pluckemin Inn and ate in sullen silence.
I suppose the thing in Atlantic City left me with a kernel of resentment. I may not have been able to get away from it. It made me weaken when Girl 96, Feminazi Girl, begged me to see her and allow her to suck my cock.
I’m not making this up, I swear. Being aloof to a woman makes a female crazed. Women are used to being ogled by men and it creeps them out sometimes, but take away male attention suddenly, as when they turn fifty, and women freak out and mourn the wolf whistles of the men they hated. Perhaps this was the same thing. Girl 97 had been pawed at for years, and it annoyed her, but she was nuts about me, and she knew I was with Bat Girl and in love with Bat Girl. She also knew I was completely fucked out by Bat Girl, constantly. Bat Girl was one of those wonderful women who needed to be fucked at least twice a day and never said no.
But Feminazi wanted what she couldn’t have, and she wanted me. I never knew why. I didn’t have chemistry for her. She was okay for most people but something about her warned me off her. My pulling away just made her that much more crazed with lust. The female wants what she can’t have. My cock was just that pair of shoes that her budget couldn’t accommodate.
I have a very few regrets in my life. Most of them center around Girl 118 and the things I did wrong with her. Errors of omission. Failure to commit. But this is a regret too. When a sexual and sexy woman demands to suck you off, and promises that’s all she wants, and continues to plead to just allow you to let her suck, something short circuits in the male brain – which was what she counted on, I’m sure. But the fact is, all I could see was the years of being lonely and horny in my youth, with no female coming anywhere near me despite my burning desire. I kept thinking, if my 47 year old self suddenly had to share an elevator with my 17 year old self, the latter would kick my ass. A hot, sexy woman begs you to let her suck your cock, and you say no???
The answer should have been “that’s correct, weasel, because Bat Girl sucks it great.”
The thing is, I’ve always had trouble coming. My entire life it’s been like this with women. My high school girlfriend, who would only go as far as handjobs, used to spend a half hour trying to bring me off each time. Later on, even with sucking and fucking, no one could make me cum. When I was in my twenties, I used to say to myself that the woman would could make me cum would be the wife. And then I met her, this ordinary woman who was really into me, but was nothing to look at, but who snake charmed me every time. I used to come like a fountain with her. Yeah. I married her. Turns out a marriage needs more than that.
When that marriage hit the skids, none of the girlfriends could make me cum either, with the exception of a cute call girl who liked me as more than a john and made me explode deep in her throat. Until I met The First Blonde, who snake charmed me just like the first wife did, and who proceeded to get pregnant and sue me for child support and haul me into court 17 more times for increases in the support level. The First Blonde’s legal case was a big part of the destruction of my second marriage.
After The First Blonde, I couldn’t cum with a female at all. My trust in women was at an all-time low. Girl Zero made me cum on date two, but then I went over a year with nothing, dry as dust. It wasn’t until we were engaged for a year that I could cum with her again. And I married her, and that turned into the second marital disaster.
After the divorce, and throughout the entire Hundred Girls Project, I only came inside a woman once, and that was Girl 6, the magical and immortal Alayna, and I spurted into her ass, to her delight. She complained constantly about my not coming inside her. After that one time, I never did again.
Girl 51, the Fabulous Corvette Girl, brought me back a little bit. She was able, on one or two occasions, to make me cum in her mouth. Which was great because she was the only woman I’ve ever known who could cum herself from the taste of male cum in her mouth. No kidding, if a guy came in her mouth, it made her cum. Once she fingered my ass while I jacked off and when I came on my stomach, she herself came – I said, I thought only cum in your mouth would make you cum. She smiled archly and said that watching me cum and the smell of it evidently also made her cum. I should never have let Girl 51 go, and believe me, many were the times I tried to get her back.
After Girl 51, no one could make me cum until Bat Girl, and I never came inside Bat Girl, just in her mouth. Somehow Bat Girl’s oral technique did it for me. Did it to me. Every time that women went to work, me on my back, her on her stomach, she’d make me climax in her mouth and throat and it was amazing. I recalled her complaining that her method was destroying her shoulder, which was constantly sore and grew to hurt so much from the repetitive motion that she had to stop blowing me for a few weeks.
It was then that I weakened. Bat Girl’s temporary moratorium on sucking cock coincided with Faminazi’s impassioned pleas to let me let her blow me.
How long can YOU hold out when a sexy woman BEGS you to let her suck your cock?
Yeah, not long. Me neither.
So fine, I took Feminazi out for a cheeseburger, parked the fingernail polish red Mustang Saleen GT in her driveway and pulled down my pants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman snorkel down on a cock with that much enthusiasm and lust. That woman sucked my cock like it was her own.
Guess what…I couldn’t cum.
After all that, she huffed and she puffed and she couldn’t blow my house down.
I suppose another man would just have forgotten about the episode. Blown it off, so to speak. But it bothered me. I, a crusader against infidelity, had cheated on Bat Girl. No amount of justification could make it better, and the guilt took hold of me and began to corrode my soul. Whether my guilt was detected by Bat Girl, I didn’t know, but probably led to her despair and withdrawal into an old addiction of hers.
January 2005, having begun badly for us on New Year’s Eve, continued to degrade. Bat Girl was spending weekends in Atlantic City gambling. Her new job began to give her jitters. She was a forensic accountant and interviewed for work and loved her boss and loved her job, but male authority figures freaked her out. When she was five, her alcoholic father blasted into the house with an ax and chopped the dining room table to splinters right in front of little Bat Girl, and her relationship with him remained awful decades later. The more she worked, the more agitated she became, and the more agitated she became, the more she split to Atlantic City to gamble all weekend.
She’d book herself into one of the older hotels, bundle up her son with her adopted sister and head down for three nights of slot machines. I went with her on three separate weekends, but each one got progressively more strange.
On the first, her singleminded catatonic stare at the slot machine gave me chills, so I spent the evening in the hotel room waiting for her, soaking in a ridiculously ornate marble tub with gold faucets.
The second was somewhat the same, though there was no sex since for some reason we’d both brought our sons with us – they were in a different room, but somehow it put Bat Girl off her sex drive. When we left that weekend, she told me she planned to get married to her gay friend for the sake of the medical benefits. When I reacted poorly, she claimed she’d been kidding. I just stared at her.
The third weekend has faded into one odd image, of Bat Girl wearing white cotton underpants while lying face down crying on a mattress stripped of sheets and bedcovers and mattress pad.
It was obvious the relationship had died. It was also obvious that I wasn’t sure why it had died. Does it matter why you’re car’s totaled? Dead is dead.
So, as the relationship died, I found myself on the world famous dating site. I told myself I wasn’t looking for women. I was just servicing my Hundred Girls Project blog. I never use photos of the real females when I write. I simply find women who look like them. Everyone has a double. But it is not just physical features I look for – I want to find a photo of a woman whose spirit emerges from her just like that of the female I’m blogging about. So I was on the dating site seeking photos when I saw her.
I set eyes on Adrian 707 and my heart stopped. It was funny because she wasn’t my usual attraction. Bat Girl was my type – slender, tall as I was, with huge boobs, round ass, light eyes and platinum blonde hair. But Adrian 707 was short, slender, with smaller breasts, hair black as a raven’s wing, black eyes and dark olive skin. She was Mediterranean – Italian, perhaps, although her profile listed her as Jewish, so she may have had Israeli roots.
Adrian 707 became the proof that it is possible to fall in love – at first sight – with a dating site profile.
I’ve often contemptuously accused women of using the monkeybar trick in changing out husbands and lovers – that is, holding onto the old one until the new is firmly in her grasp, only then letting go of the old. But, as if a detached observer, I watched myself do the same thing. Unsure of what was going on with Bat Girl, I held onto her, hoping that she would recover from her strange gambling addiction while knowing that there were bigger troubles afoot, while electronically courting Adrian707.
At first, I rejoined the famous dating site just to be able to communicate with Adrian, and when I did, I simply called her name, as if I were Rocky Balboa himself: “Yo, Adrian!!!!” She didn’t write back, but for some unusual reason I was undeterred. After all, I still technically had Bat Girl. I wrote her a few more times until she finally wrote back, and I unloaded the complete arsenal of humor, wit and seductive intelligence on her. Intrigued, she wrote back, and finally I obtained her number. I wasted no time in reaching out, and when I did, I used my most baritone, husky voice and courted her as hard as I could imagine.
Still, as Adrian grew closer and Bat Girl further away, I wondered at my strange movement away from the Playboy bunny platinum blonde with the haunting green eyes and absolutely perfect tall, tanned, toned, fake-boobed body toward this swarthy, diminutive Israeli with her black hair and eyes, and I reminded myself, just as I did during the encounter with Girl 94, Israeli Air Force Girl, that her dark hair and eyes were reminiscent of the ill-fated Girl Zero, the second wife. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself. All I knew was that Adrian 707 had this unworldly pull on my heart. I wanted her and I wanted her bad.
Our first date was remarkable only because she was in it. I met her at a trendy little bar in New Brunswick, near where she worked. She looked exactly like her pictures, which was a good thing, and had this voice that would melt an iceberg. She was a rock star in this crowded watering hole, and everyone knew her – she was the assistant of a high-ranking state muckety-muck, so everyone there was kissing her ass, and I got the distinct vibe they’d like to do that to her literally as well as figuratively. The second date was better. She invited me over to her house to see her life. Her home was beautiful. She owned a Porsche. She had sons going into college. She cooked for me.
I know what you’re thinking. Operation Monkeybar: mission accomplished. But not so fast. Despite her awesome looks, the wonderful way she smelled and tasted and kissed and cooked, the calm and restful squared-away life she had, her world of loving friends, her unobtrusive sons and that silky gorgeous voice of hers, something was bothering me. I have no idea what was wrong with me – we had the date I’d always dreamed about, being snowed in. An afternoon of shoveling thigh-high snow, then hot chocolate by her roaring fire while playing strip poker and having the final winning hand, then taking her to her bedroom and fucking her as if we’d invented sex. There was just something not quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I swear I wasn’t pushing her away when I broached the idea of group sex. I told her about my continuing fantasy to have sex with her while another man had sex with her. I wanted to see her double-penetrated. While she wouldn’t allow anal sex, surprisingly she admitted that doing a second guy at the same time was a fantasy of hers. She was really, really into being submissive, and her fantasy was having her guy be rough with her and bringing another guy to the room and making her fuck us both at the same time.
I was astonished at her answer. I didn’t see that coming. And having seen it, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I should have smiled and said, full speed ahead, I’ll put out a message on Craig’s List and we can get the party fucking started. But instead, I found something to be unhappy about, and it took a while.
There’s this thing I like in bed when I’m in a relationship. It’s too embarrassing to say out loud what it is (it involves a sort of domination by the female upon the male, but I’m not saying any more about it – Google it if you want to know more…). So I trotted out THAT fantasy, somehow knowing how she’d react.
Her expression was the same as if her dog had pissed on the kitchen floor. She raised one corner of her mouth in mild disgust and said, “I’m a submissive. I’m way too submissive to dominate you like that.”
I let it go for a week or so, but it began to bother me. I knew she loved the way I gave her oral. What if one day I said, I’m way too non-oral to give you oral sex…she’d be pissed. She’d feel like I had become sexually stingy. Lack of sexual generosity is a termination offense.
So I did the logical thing. In the middle of sex, with her on the bottom and me on top, her ankles behind her ears as I thrusted into her, I dismounted, put my clothes on, grabbed my bag and left without a word.
I got into the Saleen and burned rubber as I left her house.
She email was on my machine when I got home. Something like, what was that about?
I wondered myself. Step one, find perfect female. Step two, cheat on her. Step three, find second perfect female. Step four, push her away for imagined offenses.
What the fuck would step five be?
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I know this was my fault. I shouldn’t have been looking, and perhaps if I hadn’t, I would today be happily, blissfully married to Bat Girl.
But something malfunctioned with Bat Girl. To this day, I’m not sure what it was. Bat Girl was an awesome specimen – tall, platinum blonde, green eyed, slender, with perfect Playboy bunny D-size tits, and who gave an incredible blowjob. I swear, I used to come in her throat three times a day. I never could get anything but a finger up that tight ass of hers, but even without anal, she was cool.
We argued good-naturedly about my wanting to try threesomes. Not the usual threesomes, for some reason my fantasy has always been to be with my woman while she’s doing a gang bang, a cock in every hole, boyfriend gets his choice. She insisted that I was much too jealous to watch her suck another guy’s cock or get fucked by another man. To prove it, she took me to a local bar where there were younger guys and she flirted with two of them while I watched in growing anger. She didn’t tell me it was an experiment until after the evening was over, and then I felt like a complete idiot. It’s different, I said. If they were just guest penises, there to drill you at my orders, it wouldn’t feel like you were romantically attracted to them. Chatting and smiling at a man in a bar is a romantic attraction.
Oh, she said. So you’re okay with my lips wrapped around another man’s cock but not using them to make a smile at a guy in a bar?
Well, yes, correct, I said.
Later, I would find out what it meant to watch the woman I loved bend over and take it up the ass from another man while I watched, but not with Bat Girl.
My memory does not show these little arguments being bitter or heated, just playful and teasing. But maybe it bothered her. One thing I like in bed is the woman telling me a story or me telling her a story. Mine, while I fucked beautiful Bat Girl, her body under mine, her legs pulling me into her, would be that I come home and find her getting double fucked, and for a while I just stand there and watch as the UPS guy thrusts into her pussy from one end and the FEDEX guy face fucks her on the other. She seemed to enjoy the verbal fantasy too, I thought, since she’d moan and not object. But maybe one day I took it too far. I fantasized out loud that she was blowing college boys when I walked into the room. I think the mom lobe of the brain came suddenly online and shorted out the slut lobe. In any case, things started changing.
The changes began when she decided to go to Atlantic City for a weekend with her ex-boyfriend. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – a weekend with an ex lover? Dump her ass. It wasn’t like that. Their relationship had cooled to the point of friendship. He’d occasionally call, complain about whomever he was dating, tell her about his poker games (he was a pro poker player) and promise to come by sometime. I wasn’t concerned. I mean, come on. A professional gambler? How long can that pay the rent before it starts consuming the rent?
The idea, though, of her zooming down to meet some guy in Atlantic City on a weekend I had my daughter had me steaming. She kept trying to calm me down. We’re not together anymore. The weekend was arranged before we were a couple. He’s a geek. So what, I said, I’m a geek. She showed me his picture. See, she said, he’s not nearly as handsome as you. I stared at the picture. He was much better looking than I am. I glared at her. What is this about, I said. What the fuck are you doing?
We’re staying in separate rooms, she said. It’s no big deal. He’s a platonic friend. You’ve got your daughter all weekend. As soon as I come home, I’ll see you and you’ll know I wasn’t with him.
This was about the time that texting had become mainstream. I took my daughter to our favorite diner and was texting Bat Girl as the evening went on. She said that she and Poker Boy were going to dinner. She texted me as her dinner ended. And then, there was a text blackout. I sent a text that went unanswered, then two, then five.
It was 8 at night. I hadn’t heard from her for a half hour. As the clock ticked away the night, I grew more restless and more upset, until finally I sent her a text in all capital letters saying it was over and I was ending it.
For two hours she was out of communication. I was steamed and feeling like a cuckolded fool. When she came back, she tried to float a silly excuse that she ran out of battery power. Right. I texted her that it was over.
She returned from Atlantic City the next day. I was supposed to help her turn in her rental car. I expected to let her figure the logistics of it out by herself, but somehow leaving her without a ride seemed petty. I showed up to help her with the car, but I wouldn’t look her in the eye and I wouldn’t speak to her. My attitude reduced her to tears, and she swore she hadn’t cheated on me. This was a woman who used to freak out about the very idea of having to tell a while lie to a girlfriend. She wasn’t a liar, I was convinced of it. But it was possible that she’d set out to have a platonic weekend and had either been convinced or coerced into sex with Poker Boy. Which would make him Poke-Her Boy. Shit.
She stood in a parking lot, all nearly six feet of her, and started to cry. She wiped her eyes, her head in her hands and trembled while she cried that she’d never cheated on me. At the time, I believed her. In retrospect, after Girls 118 and 162, it became apparent that women are much more able to lie to me than I’d ever given them credit, and a female cheats as easily as a male. Perhaps it was that argument that Bat Girl and I had before we were even together, about fidelity, in which I said it had to be earned every day and she said she’d never cheat because she was not that kind of girl. Sadly, maybe that night she’d become that kind of girl.
At the time, though, I forgave her four or five hour text outage and chose to believe her that she didn’t fuck Poke-Her Boy. I don’t believe it now, but I did then.
We resumed relationship operations and everything was fine, except she became tense over the Christmas holidays and on New Year’s Eve 2005, I almost left her house to go home to my own when she was just becoming an unmanageable bitch. I have a memory of her grabbing my arm on the staircase, trying to keep me from leaving, and my pulling her hand off me. I didn’t leave. We went out to dinner at the Pluckemin Inn and ate in sullen silence.
I suppose the thing in Atlantic City left me with a kernel of resentment. I may not have been able to get away from it. It made me weaken when Girl 96, Feminazi Girl, begged me to see her and allow her to suck my cock.
I’m not making this up, I swear. Being aloof to a woman makes a female crazed. Women are used to being ogled by men and it creeps them out sometimes, but take away male attention suddenly, as when they turn fifty, and women freak out and mourn the wolf whistles of the men they hated. Perhaps this was the same thing. Girl 97 had been pawed at for years, and it annoyed her, but she was nuts about me, and she knew I was with Bat Girl and in love with Bat Girl. She also knew I was completely fucked out by Bat Girl, constantly. Bat Girl was one of those wonderful women who needed to be fucked at least twice a day and never said no.
But Feminazi wanted what she couldn’t have, and she wanted me. I never knew why. I didn’t have chemistry for her. She was okay for most people but something about her warned me off her. My pulling away just made her that much more crazed with lust. The female wants what she can’t have. My cock was just that pair of shoes that her budget couldn’t accommodate.
I have a very few regrets in my life. Most of them center around Girl 118 and the things I did wrong with her. Errors of omission. Failure to commit. But this is a regret too. When a sexual and sexy woman demands to suck you off, and promises that’s all she wants, and continues to plead to just allow you to let her suck, something short circuits in the male brain – which was what she counted on, I’m sure. But the fact is, all I could see was the years of being lonely and horny in my youth, with no female coming anywhere near me despite my burning desire. I kept thinking, if my 47 year old self suddenly had to share an elevator with my 17 year old self, the latter would kick my ass. A hot, sexy woman begs you to let her suck your cock, and you say no???
The answer should have been “that’s correct, weasel, because Bat Girl sucks it great.”
The thing is, I’ve always had trouble coming. My entire life it’s been like this with women. My high school girlfriend, who would only go as far as handjobs, used to spend a half hour trying to bring me off each time. Later on, even with sucking and fucking, no one could make me cum. When I was in my twenties, I used to say to myself that the woman would could make me cum would be the wife. And then I met her, this ordinary woman who was really into me, but was nothing to look at, but who snake charmed me every time. I used to come like a fountain with her. Yeah. I married her. Turns out a marriage needs more than that.
When that marriage hit the skids, none of the girlfriends could make me cum either, with the exception of a cute call girl who liked me as more than a john and made me explode deep in her throat. Until I met The First Blonde, who snake charmed me just like the first wife did, and who proceeded to get pregnant and sue me for child support and haul me into court 17 more times for increases in the support level. The First Blonde’s legal case was a big part of the destruction of my second marriage.
After The First Blonde, I couldn’t cum with a female at all. My trust in women was at an all-time low. Girl Zero made me cum on date two, but then I went over a year with nothing, dry as dust. It wasn’t until we were engaged for a year that I could cum with her again. And I married her, and that turned into the second marital disaster.
After the divorce, and throughout the entire Hundred Girls Project, I only came inside a woman once, and that was Girl 6, the magical and immortal Alayna, and I spurted into her ass, to her delight. She complained constantly about my not coming inside her. After that one time, I never did again.
Girl 51, the Fabulous Corvette Girl, brought me back a little bit. She was able, on one or two occasions, to make me cum in her mouth. Which was great because she was the only woman I’ve ever known who could cum herself from the taste of male cum in her mouth. No kidding, if a guy came in her mouth, it made her cum. Once she fingered my ass while I jacked off and when I came on my stomach, she herself came – I said, I thought only cum in your mouth would make you cum. She smiled archly and said that watching me cum and the smell of it evidently also made her cum. I should never have let Girl 51 go, and believe me, many were the times I tried to get her back.
After Girl 51, no one could make me cum until Bat Girl, and I never came inside Bat Girl, just in her mouth. Somehow Bat Girl’s oral technique did it for me. Did it to me. Every time that women went to work, me on my back, her on her stomach, she’d make me climax in her mouth and throat and it was amazing. I recalled her complaining that her method was destroying her shoulder, which was constantly sore and grew to hurt so much from the repetitive motion that she had to stop blowing me for a few weeks.
It was then that I weakened. Bat Girl’s temporary moratorium on sucking cock coincided with Faminazi’s impassioned pleas to let me let her blow me.
How long can YOU hold out when a sexy woman BEGS you to let her suck your cock?
Yeah, not long. Me neither.
So fine, I took Feminazi out for a cheeseburger, parked the fingernail polish red Mustang Saleen GT in her driveway and pulled down my pants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman snorkel down on a cock with that much enthusiasm and lust. That woman sucked my cock like it was her own.
Guess what…I couldn’t cum.
After all that, she huffed and she puffed and she couldn’t blow my house down.
I suppose another man would just have forgotten about the episode. Blown it off, so to speak. But it bothered me. I, a crusader against infidelity, had cheated on Bat Girl. No amount of justification could make it better, and the guilt took hold of me and began to corrode my soul. Whether my guilt was detected by Bat Girl, I didn’t know, but probably led to her despair and withdrawal into an old addiction of hers.
January 2005, having begun badly for us on New Year’s Eve, continued to degrade. Bat Girl was spending weekends in Atlantic City gambling. Her new job began to give her jitters. She was a forensic accountant and interviewed for work and loved her boss and loved her job, but male authority figures freaked her out. When she was five, her alcoholic father blasted into the house with an ax and chopped the dining room table to splinters right in front of little Bat Girl, and her relationship with him remained awful decades later. The more she worked, the more agitated she became, and the more agitated she became, the more she split to Atlantic City to gamble all weekend.
She’d book herself into one of the older hotels, bundle up her son with her adopted sister and head down for three nights of slot machines. I went with her on three separate weekends, but each one got progressively more strange.
On the first, her singleminded catatonic stare at the slot machine gave me chills, so I spent the evening in the hotel room waiting for her, soaking in a ridiculously ornate marble tub with gold faucets.
The second was somewhat the same, though there was no sex since for some reason we’d both brought our sons with us – they were in a different room, but somehow it put Bat Girl off her sex drive. When we left that weekend, she told me she planned to get married to her gay friend for the sake of the medical benefits. When I reacted poorly, she claimed she’d been kidding. I just stared at her.
The third weekend has faded into one odd image, of Bat Girl wearing white cotton underpants while lying face down crying on a mattress stripped of sheets and bedcovers and mattress pad.
It was obvious the relationship had died. It was also obvious that I wasn’t sure why it had died. Does it matter why you’re car’s totaled? Dead is dead.
So, as the relationship died, I found myself on the world famous dating site. I told myself I wasn’t looking for women. I was just servicing my Hundred Girls Project blog. I never use photos of the real females when I write. I simply find women who look like them. Everyone has a double. But it is not just physical features I look for – I want to find a photo of a woman whose spirit emerges from her just like that of the female I’m blogging about. So I was on the dating site seeking photos when I saw her.
I set eyes on Adrian 707 and my heart stopped. It was funny because she wasn’t my usual attraction. Bat Girl was my type – slender, tall as I was, with huge boobs, round ass, light eyes and platinum blonde hair. But Adrian 707 was short, slender, with smaller breasts, hair black as a raven’s wing, black eyes and dark olive skin. She was Mediterranean – Italian, perhaps, although her profile listed her as Jewish, so she may have had Israeli roots.
Adrian 707 became the proof that it is possible to fall in love – at first sight – with a dating site profile.
I’ve often contemptuously accused women of using the monkeybar trick in changing out husbands and lovers – that is, holding onto the old one until the new is firmly in her grasp, only then letting go of the old. But, as if a detached observer, I watched myself do the same thing. Unsure of what was going on with Bat Girl, I held onto her, hoping that she would recover from her strange gambling addiction while knowing that there were bigger troubles afoot, while electronically courting Adrian707.
At first, I rejoined the famous dating site just to be able to communicate with Adrian, and when I did, I simply called her name, as if I were Rocky Balboa himself: “Yo, Adrian!!!!” She didn’t write back, but for some unusual reason I was undeterred. After all, I still technically had Bat Girl. I wrote her a few more times until she finally wrote back, and I unloaded the complete arsenal of humor, wit and seductive intelligence on her. Intrigued, she wrote back, and finally I obtained her number. I wasted no time in reaching out, and when I did, I used my most baritone, husky voice and courted her as hard as I could imagine.
Still, as Adrian grew closer and Bat Girl further away, I wondered at my strange movement away from the Playboy bunny platinum blonde with the haunting green eyes and absolutely perfect tall, tanned, toned, fake-boobed body toward this swarthy, diminutive Israeli with her black hair and eyes, and I reminded myself, just as I did during the encounter with Girl 94, Israeli Air Force Girl, that her dark hair and eyes were reminiscent of the ill-fated Girl Zero, the second wife. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself. All I knew was that Adrian 707 had this unworldly pull on my heart. I wanted her and I wanted her bad.
Our first date was remarkable only because she was in it. I met her at a trendy little bar in New Brunswick, near where she worked. She looked exactly like her pictures, which was a good thing, and had this voice that would melt an iceberg. She was a rock star in this crowded watering hole, and everyone knew her – she was the assistant of a high-ranking state muckety-muck, so everyone there was kissing her ass, and I got the distinct vibe they’d like to do that to her literally as well as figuratively. The second date was better. She invited me over to her house to see her life. Her home was beautiful. She owned a Porsche. She had sons going into college. She cooked for me.
I know what you’re thinking. Operation Monkeybar: mission accomplished. But not so fast. Despite her awesome looks, the wonderful way she smelled and tasted and kissed and cooked, the calm and restful squared-away life she had, her world of loving friends, her unobtrusive sons and that silky gorgeous voice of hers, something was bothering me. I have no idea what was wrong with me – we had the date I’d always dreamed about, being snowed in. An afternoon of shoveling thigh-high snow, then hot chocolate by her roaring fire while playing strip poker and having the final winning hand, then taking her to her bedroom and fucking her as if we’d invented sex. There was just something not quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I swear I wasn’t pushing her away when I broached the idea of group sex. I told her about my continuing fantasy to have sex with her while another man had sex with her. I wanted to see her double-penetrated. While she wouldn’t allow anal sex, surprisingly she admitted that doing a second guy at the same time was a fantasy of hers. She was really, really into being submissive, and her fantasy was having her guy be rough with her and bringing another guy to the room and making her fuck us both at the same time.
I was astonished at her answer. I didn’t see that coming. And having seen it, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I should have smiled and said, full speed ahead, I’ll put out a message on Craig’s List and we can get the party fucking started. But instead, I found something to be unhappy about, and it took a while.
There’s this thing I like in bed when I’m in a relationship. It’s too embarrassing to say out loud what it is (it involves a sort of domination by the female upon the male, but I’m not saying any more about it – Google it if you want to know more…). So I trotted out THAT fantasy, somehow knowing how she’d react.
Her expression was the same as if her dog had pissed on the kitchen floor. She raised one corner of her mouth in mild disgust and said, “I’m a submissive. I’m way too submissive to dominate you like that.”
I let it go for a week or so, but it began to bother me. I knew she loved the way I gave her oral. What if one day I said, I’m way too non-oral to give you oral sex…she’d be pissed. She’d feel like I had become sexually stingy. Lack of sexual generosity is a termination offense.
So I did the logical thing. In the middle of sex, with her on the bottom and me on top, her ankles behind her ears as I thrusted into her, I dismounted, put my clothes on, grabbed my bag and left without a word.
I got into the Saleen and burned rubber as I left her house.
She email was on my machine when I got home. Something like, what was that about?
I wondered myself. Step one, find perfect female. Step two, cheat on her. Step three, find second perfect female. Step four, push her away for imagined offenses.
What the fuck would step five be?
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