She winked at me. Now, the thing is, women who contact men are an entirely different animal than females who respond to a man. The winkers are already sold on the guy. No need to write her and tell her what a great dude you are. The respondents reply for a thousand reasons, only one being romantic desire. A woman who responds to a man’s Match email may only be bored, or sarcastic, or annoyed, or even furious. One woman was a week into an email exchange with me before she read my slutty profile, and then she wrote back, "um, I just read your, like, profile? And, um, like, you’re a slut? And, um, like, I can’t go out with you? Cuz I’m, like, a really moral woman? Like, you know?" Hey, moron, consider reading up on me before wasting my time for a week. Okay, that’s a bad example, because the woman initially didn’t respond at all until I wrote her a long poem (works every time). But a girl who seeks the man out, that’s a woman who is ready for him.
Unfortunately, since men respond almost 100% to the contact of a female (men think they can fuck anyone who contacts them, or at least have a hell of a fighting chance…), women are arrogant about it. Because silence is the international symbol of rejection, I never responded to females who weren’t as hot as someone I would pick out. After all, I’m no player. I’m not in this just to throw dick around. I wanted a girlfriend. Or at least, that’s the lie I kept telling myself over and over again, hoping that it would come true. But after being ripped open by Girl 29, and still in the middle of grieving for Girl 6, I needed more meaningless pussy, not less.
I tell myself that isn’t the reason I responded to the pictureless, vague profile of the girl who wrote me and said I was hot. I replied and asked which she was – a CIA agent, a buffalo, or a married woman. She replied with a picture of herself. She was black. That was interesting, I thought, scanning my memories for experiences with black females. There was that black massage parlor girl in San Diego when I was nineteen, what an experience that had been. I’d wanted a blowjob, and oh my God did I get one, and I came so much I blew the girl's cheeks out. I think she was spitting for a week. She’d looked at me and asked, "when was your last woman?" and I’d smiled and said, um, there was no last woman. It had my first experience with a woman who sucked the cock with gusto. High school and college freshman girlfriends back then didn’t exactly satisfy. I grinned for a week over that.
Then there was Cha Cha, the black stripper who I’d kissy-faced with in Fort Lauderdale when my submarine had pulled into port. I was supposed to drive the ship back to the Atlantic the next morning, and my fellow officers had to pull me out of her car, to her protests that "I just want to take him home and love him!" The next morning, after starting the reactor, I arrived for officers’ call and caused an uproar, because I looked like a clown – my face from my nose to my chin was covered with bright red lipstick from Cha Cha’s sloppy wet kisses. The enlisted "nukes" hadn’t said a word about it, their idea of a practical joke. When the captain arrived on the bridge to supervise me driving the submarine to sea, he didn’t even smile as he erupted into a soprano voiced expression of, "I just want to take him home and loooooove him!"
Other than that, my experience had been all white meat. If you ask me, I have two "types." Okay, maybe three. Thin blondes. Thin black-haired brunettes. Then there’s the extremely rare copper-auburn haired females. That hair color is impossible to fake. I stopped a twenty-something woman in Target the other day. She had copper auburn locks and looked just like my grad school girlfriend, who had deep blue eyes – my first experience outside of the usual brown eyed female -- and I could never look at her without getting a raging hardon. I must have worn that girl’s pussy out. Interestingly, one woman I'd been fucking had the Katherine Zeta Jones look, all raven-black long straight hair and eyes so brown they were nearly black, and I’d fallen so hard for her that I used to drink her looks in every time I saw her. She used to get furious with me about blondes. "You can walk nonchalantly by a thousand beautiful, sexy brunettes," she’d bitterly complain, "but one average blonde goes by and you break your NECK staring at her! You look like the girl in the Exorcist when you spin your head around to see a damned blonde! Your type is blonde, just admit it!" No way, I’d say. You’re my type, I’d insist. The one time I told her I have two types she’d detonated. There was no room in her belief system for a man with two types.
When you have two physical types, when one hurts you, you find a girl from the other type. But a black chick? This could be VERY interesting.
I wrote her back and admitted that she obviously wasn’t a buffalo, so did her mysterious profile mean she was CIA or married? She was sheepish when she replied that she was married.
A married girl. Well, now, wasn’t that the ultimate in female players? And how did I feel about that? The sanctity of marriage wasn’t what bothered me – obviously it wasn’t bothering her. What got to me was the living of a life that wasn’t honest. I allowed for the fact that I had spent decades doing that, but I knew how it twisted the human soul. I didn’t want that to happen to anyone else. The other thing that gets me is when one human being takes advantage of another. This woman was taking from her husband and giving nothing back. How would he feel if he knew?
I asked her that. I wondered, what was her husband like? He sounded like a nice enough guy, but had withdrawn into his own life while Black Boutique Girl ran her dress shop. It was a chicken-egg effect. Had he first disappeared, causing the rift, or had Black Boutique Girl’s coldness to him caused his withdrawal? Girl 6, one of the most sexual females I’d ever had, had shut down her husband for two years before their separation. Imagine, I thought, sleeping next to lovely, sexy Girl 6 for seven hundred nights without fucking her. What a waste. Is that perhaps the worst indictment of marriage one can make? And if marriage can do that to people, could I really blame Black Boutique Girl for wanting cock on the side?
I spent the next week of the email exchange chewing her out. Be more honest, I said. Be more real. I was a veritable Dr. Phuckin’ Phil. Take charge of your life. Stop lying to yourself and your husband, and he still is your husband and the father of your children. And a human being. One of my rants is included on the other blog site (MEMO TO A MARRIED FEMALE PLAYER). But her reply was always the same – yeah, yeah, yeah, just meet me for a drink and then fuck the shit out of me. Eventually my moral self caved in. How long can a single, available, red-blooded male listen to a gorgeous female say the words, "please fuck me" and stay away? About a week, as it turns out. First dry spell that came, and they always do, I called her up. We met for that drink, and after two hours of more ass-chewings I assumed we’d return to the Snake Ranch for that promised no-strings-attached fuck. But she kissed me on the cheek and walked away.
What? So, I’m not as hot as you thought? She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide. No, she said, you’re even hotter. I felt like I had been cast in her personal chick flick when I held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. So, why aren’t you going to fuck me? I’m afraid, she said. Let me convince you, I said. In her car we kissed, her shirt unbuttoned, those perfect chocolate breasts in my mouth, my hand under her miniskirt, her thong pushed aside, two fingers three knuckles into her melted-down vagina, my ring finger thrusting deeply in her warm, convulsing asshole. She came twice, bit my lip, and said through half-shut eyes, I have to go home.
I was furious. It felt like every date I’d had in high school. All sizzle and no steak. I slammed her door and drove home, alone.
For two weeks I refused to speak to her, assuming she’d disappear. What the hell had I been thinking?
But one night she knocked on my door. What are you doing here? By this time I was romancing – or trying to – Karate Girl. I need you, she’d said. Did something happen? I wondered if she’d been beaten or threatened. But it was simply that she wanted me.
How do your fantasy fucks start? Female’s clothes melting off, her fingers unclasping my belt, my pants pulled down to my ankles as she squats, my boxers slowly pulled down, my raging hardon springing out as if reaching out to the girl, and her moist red lips parting as she licks the tip, shuts her eyes and then swallows the entire cock all the way to the balls. Sometimes reality imitates fantasy. I looked down and all I could see was the top of her head. So often, women think they’re great at giving oral, but all their work is on the tip. Some think they take in all of two inches of the cock and can please the man. It’s been very few women who can suck this thing properly, but then, it requires the complete suspension of the gag reflex. Here was Black Boutique Girl, with her perfect body, her bee-stung lips, her gorgeous nipples tickling the skin of my thighs as she sword-swallowed all of my cock, all of it. She pulled back slowly until he became visible again, and he was grinning ear-to-ear. She went all the way back down on him and my eyeballs rolled back in my head. At some point, it is all the male can do to remain standing, so she helped me to the bedroom. I could barely walk, where she finished what she started.
Then it was my turn. There’s no doubt, black female body chemistry is completely different than white girls. Everything. The way her skin smells and tastes. The taste of the nipple is different. The smell of the vulva completely different. They say that females are all pink on the inside. But this one was so different, so outside my experience, and the differences excited me. It was good, it was really good. The first three times I fucked her, I thought I’d ridden an escalator to heaven.
But something happened. I suspect that her refusal to agree with me about the idea of dismantling her broken marriage may have discouraged me. Or perhaps it was that I was through playing with the player girls. The final time I was with her, I was so awful that I wouldn’t have blamed her for slapping my face.
Eventually we just became friends. She was sweet to me. She once said I reminded her of James Bond and that she had been glad to have been one of the "Bond Girls." She had no idea how I walked on air for a week over that compliment.
I wondered what her purpose had been in my life. I wondered what purpose I’d had in hers. I hadn’t budged her from the opinions she’d held on the day she winked at me. And when she was over, I went back to the search for blondes and black-haired white women. If a ship passes by at bare steerageway, I suppose it leaves no wake.
Or does it? Was this another one of the supreme being’s deeply planted seeds? Were my words to Black Boutique Girl something he just wanted her to remember much later? When he’d put something else in her life? Had I merely laid the foundation for him while laying her?
I think about the supreme being, reclining in my desk chair sipping Jack Daniels after Girl 14, Piano Girl, had taken me to the depths of despair, and I remember the mysterious, mischievous smile he wore. He was always planning something, I thought. And I’d volunteered to be his pawn.
I wondered, did I want off the merry-go-round? No, I thought. Black Boutique Girl was the thirtieth woman I’d dated since I started this crazy project. Perhaps there would be a hundred before I found "The Girl." It was the first time I thought that this would turn into a hundred woman search. So be it, I told the supreme being. You want me for another 70, I’m still in.
It never occurred to me what it would mean to me if this search went beyond a hundred. I was convinced I’d find my soul mate by the time I reached Girl 100.