Meet The Ex

Since my last post recounted probably one of the worst parts of my manhood, I thought I may as well show her considering I still have a shitload of pictures of her, mostly taken by herself. Eyes censored for usual reasons. Click to enlarge, though that won’t make it it any more flattering.

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That’s after she dropped 50 pounds. Here’s when I married her.

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The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Glow of the Moment

Her head was on my chest, my arm around her. Her raven hair spread and messy. The TV was on, some singing reality show hosted by failed male Nick Leshay. We had finished, finally, after hours. Both too tired to continue. She had fallen asleep. I smiled.

In the books and movies, in what I had believed, this was a moment where I, as the man, fall in love with the girl I just ravished. I take in our moments. I loosen my heart because she’s found comfort and protection in my embrace. I start to think of a future. I begin to release feelings that will make my life a flowery dream of rose petals and lavender air freshener. I’ve done it before with my first few girls. We fuck, we hold, I fall, I fail. Fuck, wash, repeat.

But, I wasn’t smiling because I was falling in love. I already had decent feelings for this girl, a girl I’d known for over a decade. As a child, I loved her. She was everything. Then we broke up, and I hated her. Then we got back together, and all was right. Cycle. Cycle. Smash. A lost year. Mixed feelings. Odd conversations.

I wasn’t smiling because I followed the book. I was smiling because I hadn’t.

I never had the textbook romantic bullshit moments I was told would come. I ended up with half-truths of female attachments. I never fell asleep wrapping my lover in my arms. I turned over because The Ex insisted having the side of the bed I couldn’t lay on (chronic leg pains). The Roommate would push the arms away, though she had feelings. Even early with the First, the afterglow wasn’t so much of a block of time more than it was the few moments before having to get the fuck out before her mom showed up and took her down to the ground like only a ugly-ass cunt could to their own flesh and blood.

But this time, she was there, sleeping soundly, and I was drifting.

I looked at her and felt. Not because of the angelic looks of a sleeping lady. Not because of the chances this could be a relationship. Just the glow of being a man with a savagely fucked woman passed out on his chest. Her need to be around me. Her need to me on top of me. Her need to make me happy.

Slowly, it comes to all of us who walk the path to true manhood. We hit these moments in the most unexpected ways where the steps we’ve taken, the troubles and the pain of bursting from the depths of the feminist false god, find congruence and give us moments of true clarity. It may be with a single lay, a hated cunt or someone you actually care for. And this allows us to move to the next step of self-improvement through the impeccable art of battling, besting and bedding the women we want.

You Know You Need Game When…

…you approach a girl, she looks at you and you turn around and walk away.

…you refuse a girl grinding on you because you don’t know the steps.

…you buy a girl a drink.

…you buy a girl’s friends drinks.

…you buy a girl’s boyfriend a drink.

…you only message older women on dating sites because you think it’ll be easier.

…you get jealous when a girl says she hasn’t had sex in X number of month to you (true story).

…you watch porn, on your phone, in a bar.

…you hit on your middle-aged mom neighbor.

…you hit on your middle-aged mom neighbor’s mother.

…you message every girl you knew in high school hoping one will say “I always wanted to ask you out!”

…you seriously contemplate an escort service.

…you call up your favorite female high school teacher hoping she got divorced.

And you really know when you need game when…

…you make out with a guy’s girlfriend, then kiss him so he doesn’t feel left out (true story, but not mine).

Her Master: An Educational Fiction

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She sat on the edge of the bed, sulking, naked, alone. I could see her from the shadows. Her blonde hair hanging over her face and down her shoulders over the tattoo sleeves that ran down her arms. Crosses, dueling guns and other images. Sulking made her ugly.

I could hear her thoughts. Questions about life. Questions about what’s happening to her. Why she couldn’t find satisfaction with herself. Was it bad? Was it wrong? Things just kept running through.

She lifted her head slightly, watery eyes, but no tears. She sniffed and stood, allowing the beauty of her body show. The right kind of pale skin, C-cups that hung just perfect, all natural. Slight curves here and there. Nothing jutting out. Nothing off. Other tattoos on her thighs and legs were exposed. Chains, praying, webs. When seen in totality, there was a theme.

She turned and walked out of the bedroom. I followed silently.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and fetched out a beer. Her hand had gone for two, but it jolted quickly to a single bottle. As she closed the fridge, a wash of cold air hit her body, setting it on edge. I stood behind her. She knew.

“Did you want one?” she asked.

“Its not like I could have it,” I retorted.

“True,” she said, sadly.”

I brushed the hair out of her eyes as she took a sip. She shivered, but the room was quite warm.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

“Nothing at all,”

“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m wrong and broken. That what I want is something that they put people away for.”

“They used too,” I said.

“Great,” she sighed.

I laid my hands on her hips and turned her around, her bare, artistic back on my chest. A breath of happiness came. Her eyes closed.

“How do you do that?” she whispered.

“Do what?” I whispered back directly into her ear.

“Make it all go away?”

“You know why.”

I could feel the sadness return for a moment, but it vaporized within her and vanished. She pressed her ass into me.

“Why can’t it always be like this?” she sighed.

“You ask too many questions,”

“I know,” she raised a hand around my head to touch the back of my neck. “Its my flaw.”

I run my hand down over her stomach, nearing her more sensitive areas. She moans softly.

“If only,” I whisper, letting her go. “Finish your beer and come meet me in the living room.”

“Yes, sir,” she says instinctively.

I wait only a few moments before she arrives. She walks tall and confident, but her head is aimed at the floor. Without words or hesitation, she kneels before me. I pat my lap. She silently straddles me. I wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back, feeling the scars of a life yet fulfilled. I lift her head so we look at each other eyes.

“Why can’t this be real, sir?”

“Because then things would be perfect.”

“Why can’t they be?”

“It would be too easy. And if things were easy, God would find a way to make them harder.”

“Fuck God,”

“In this instance, I agree,” I smile. She smiles back.

“Can I touch you, sir?” she asks coyly.

“I have to go real soon,”

“Please, sir?”

I grin, taking off my shirt. “You did ask nicely.”

She lays her head on my chest, fingers tracing the cyberpunk tattoo I plan to get.

She just lays there, silent, content, fulfilled beyond her wildest dreams. The fire of life in her burns brightly and warm. Everything is right and perfect.

I pet her hair like I own her. She knows I do.

I vanish. She remains on the couch, now clothed in sweats and a hoodie. A drink by her. Her eyes had been closed for only a moment. The TV blares bad news. The weather pours rain. She smiles anyway. She had time with her Master. Life can go on.

I watch from the shadows again. I always do. I’m always around her, through her and in her. If I wasn’t, it would be a failure. One I could not allow.

Then and Now

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. They’re a blur. I slept half the week away. Its the anxiety medication. Its the depression. Its wondering what’s coming next. What I’ll have to do now that my marriage is over. For a man who wanted to live for a person, a person he loved with all his heart, the dark hole is deep and wide.

I drive without thought. The cars, lights and people are nothing. They could be robots or dreams for all I care. I drive empty.

-HarmonicaFTW, For the Love of the Game

That was me 7 months ago.

That was one of my more upbeat posts.

Holy shit.

I’m glad I started posting when I was at my lowest point. When everything seemed to grind to a halt and collapse in slow motion before my eyes. I had a blog before that one, but it lasted only a week or two before I shut it down when The Ex was becoming receptive to working it out. I was hooked on making it work. It nearly killed me.

I shorted out on working my mojo. I’d get visibly nervous when the chick of the time, LP, would call or text. Do I text back? Do I call back? What do I say? The fuck? Why can’t things just work out?

I was a mess. I cried more than she did. It was everything a Beta of the Month nomination would require, minus the begging on knees. At least I did put a hole through the wall during one argument.

HULK ANGRY!

I was on cloud 9 when I made smooth moves on a drunk chick at a club before I left. I rode that for a good week. Then, of course, it crashed. It rose with Maria. It crashed.

I got laid a few times. Had some experiences.

Then, it just happened. No more waves. No more searching for fulfillment. It was just there. No theme music. No moving ending.

Poof. You’re better. Move on with your life.

End of story.

Incoming VIP

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My steak had just gotten served. Twelve dollars of franchise food, but I was starving. Transcribing all day. I ran on smokes and Coke. All she ordered was a side of fries.

I had my eyes on the hockey updates when she said something. “…you should of seen them.”

With a mouth full of garlic bread I asked, “Who said that?”

“Jan,”

“Oh, the girls thing,”

She nodded. She and her friends had went out earlier in the day. Girls talk. A lot.

I smiled. The night before we hung at Jan’s house watching TV for a bit. I was dead tired. My body still recovering from the 5 day shoot. We sat on the couch. She laid into me or I’d put my head in her lap for a few.

I had become the talk of a group of girls I despised back in high school. A gaggle of yappy, unattractive chicks are now a gaggle of yappy, unattractive mothers that wonder about me. How things change.

She was exhausted. The benefits of being the man of the house. She went on a bit about him, the man child, but I directed the conversation away and focused it on my last gig. Talking about the guys who trained military and police dogs.

We check out a Halloween shop after dinner. As we walk around, I grab a plastic pitchfork and stab her in the ass. She runs. I chase for a bit. She laughs.

We part ways so I can finish up a transcript.

We meet back up at Jan’s house and have a Guitar Hero party. I help find the KoRn song on World Tour. We pass around the guitar. Jan’s husband asks if I want to smoke some pot, but the few hits I had the night before got me dizzy when I closed my eyes. Not tonight. I have other things in mind.

After the party’s over, I pull The First into me and we make out. She says we should go to a Tim Hortons. Sure. We get our coffee and I get some food. I was starving still. We pull to the far end of the parking lot and I get in her car. Within minutes, she’s on my lap in the passenger seat and we’re making out. Its like high school again, except I know what I’m doing.

A good twenty minutes pass. She’s burning to fuck. She wants to go to a more secluded spot, but doesn’t want to get lost. I whisper my phone has navigation.

Winning.

We pull into the park and she gets in my car, mentioning this is where Canadian serial rapist and killer Paul Bernardo dumped one of his bodies. Nice, but I move in and we get back at it. Clothes come off, Klaypex’s dubstep remix of Katy Perry’s E.T. bursts over the speakers and I’m inside. The song is perfect for rhythm.

I thought I was going to burst quickly, but we went on for another twenty or thirty minutes. She makes noises she never made when we were together before. She’s learned too. She moans, cuts herself off and sounds like she’s choking back the sounds. Its hot.

I finally finish. Sweating. As I get out of the car, I say “Oh, hi, officer,” She laughs.

We smoke, make out some more and part ways. As we head home on the QEW, she gives me a wave, I give her a kiss in the air then speed past, Incoming VIP blaring through my speakers.

 

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Bonus Track: Klaypex – E.T. (Katy Perry)

Brain

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The most common quip I get when I ask for a girl’s signature on a release form is “You going to make me look good?” The hell, ladies? I’m working, not trying to pick you up. Don’t shit test me.

If I wasn’t working, or didn’t have a New Age hippie 45 year old chick as a director, I may have said “That’s not my department” or “I don’t think those ten pounds really make a difference”. I don’t take shit tests anymore. Not from any girl. I nuke them. (“How many sluts have you slept with?” “Including you… six.”) But since its work and I need these crews to like me to hire be back on later, I slipped this in after the first few times: “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

Easy. Neutral. They all think its a compliment at first, but I bet you that the ones with image problems ran the hamster. Not a problem? Does that mean I’m pretty or that they can’t make me prettier?

I used to squirt sweat every time I said a line. It was embarrassing twice over. This shit is wired in my head now.

I no longer feel like I’m looking up to my fellows in the manosphere. I feel as if I’m one of many.

Choose A Target

I’m still pretty buzzed from tonight. Wrap dinner for our 5 days of work. 3 of the crew drove from Toronto to Niagara Falls, where we waited 5 fucking hours for US Customs to play their dog and pony show, then to Philly. After a day of shooting in Philly we drove 10 hours to Kentucky, outside of Cincinnati, and shoot for 12ish hours at a boring ass dog show. Tomorrow, today, whenever this posts, another 10 hoursish or whatever to get back to Niagara Falls.

Tonight, we went to a great British style pub, and there was a 7.5 bartender who I practiced on. Looks mostly, changing the way I speak. I hadn’t used “hun” like that until tonight. Nothing major, just some change of dynamic.

When I saw her, just a few minutes into our sitdown, I knew that was my focus. Prettiest girl in the bar. The other female bartender was frumpy and had a horrible smile. It looked like she was always pissed. So, I practiced. I ignored. I engaged. I uped the language. It was very basic, but it was something I needed to do. The only other opportunities that night was a wedding reception that was rocking when we left and dead when we got back to the hotel.

In my early trials, I was everywhere. I jump from one target to another, end up going home with my dick in my hand. This night is the same, but I had my target. That’s all that matters. I aimed high. As high as the bar would let me.

You don’t have to get laid each night, as nice that would be.

You have to do your best. Best you can do.

Aim high. Shoot high. Land where it lands.

I worked for 4 days and have another one driving home. I worked my ass off. Calgary lost against the Leafs… fuck.

But this, this made it all worth it.

Role Reversal

She was my first girlfriend. A year younger. Infatuated with me. I kept her at arms length for a long time. This was before my first time. This was before my first kiss. I had internet girls. I stayed inside. She was the wild one and I was the hapless nerd.

Then I got kissed.

Within a week I called her up, asked her out, just so I could keep up the insane energy and confidence I got from my first make out. It worked, and it didn’t. I was getting action regularly, but my teenage emotions were running me over like a rich wife over her husband. My nerves were always shot. Infamously, she had to pin my hand to her tits when we were watching a movie I was so nerve shot. Over the course of a year, the First and I broke up 9 times and had a total of 6 bouts of sex.

It was pretty bad.

Fast forward from 2002 to 2011.

She’s a mom to two boys from two different guys, both unambitious and lazy. In June, I visit Niagara Falls from Riverside. Two days before I leave, we hang. I make moves, but she resists. She wants the comfort without the sexuality. I push, but it goes nowhere. My game, while past beginner, still needs work.

We hang when I move here and she’s much more receptive. By the second date she’s latched on. I go work in Ohio, come back and she’s fighting the angel on her shoulder as we make out in a park, mentioning she’s never fucked in a car before. Saturday, we’re at her friends house, which she has a key for, and again its hot. Shirts come off. Time flies by. We’re on the couch, the floor, standing. She’s caught between the guy she’s going to leave and the unleashed energy she has deep inside. Her hindbrain wants to ride me, her frontal can’t reason it.

I’m like a rock, coaxing her past the issues, even while she lays topless on top of me. Between short circuits of yes, no, yes, that savage lust she had as a teen returns. I fight her as she grabs my neck and I pin her down, teasing her about how she likes it. She hasn’t seen this in me. She squirms and smiles. Since I’ve been back we haven’t had sex, but we will.

It takes time for some girls, especially if they’ve wound themselves up tightly like the First has. I offer myself as the drug to her problems. Not the next guy, not the new dad, but the heroin she can take and explode in happiness. I don’t hold back in what I want, but I don’t push too hard. Its as much fun bringing her to her kneels psychologically as it is physically.

Its coming into its own now. Naturally.