A Panty Waste
It is particularly telling that I have become accustomed and even used to wound maintenance. Each wound is special to me and must be attained to according to their particular needs. The one on my finger is no different. Each morning, it whispers to me and I set aside some moments to bathe it lovingly in Hydrogen Peroxide. It, of course, demands at least three band-aids and a blanket of the finest Polysporin. At night, I cradle it to sleep, hoping that it feels nice enough to allow me to sleep as well. I've learned to type and hold things without upsetting it. My wound has a very bad temper. If I so much as even brush it, it throbs wildly and without precedent. At times, I coo to it gently, beckoning it to heal quickly so that I can get my game on.
It's true. My game is pretty much smashed now that my finger is an ugly blob of pale flesh, scabs, and unsightly stitches. I rely on mostly three key Jonisms in order to pull a girl into my bed, or myself into hers. The first two on the list are easily interchangeable. Each girl is different, so what works for one, probably does not work for another. Usually, because of circumstances at Hicktown U., the first step in the Jon-game is dancing.
I dance. That, in itself, is an understatement. I do not pretend to be humble, nor do I enjoy being humble. I'm proud of the fact that I'm a cocky, arrogant fuck. My brags are not unwarranted. If I say that I can do something, I had damn well better be able to do it. Thus, if I say I can dance, I can dance. I'm sure most of you who read this journal have seen me dance at some time. My frat brothers would probably like me to dance a little less than I do, but they cannot deny that it is quite an effective tool in getting a girl to think about getting her mack on. The dance, after all, is a visual precursor to sexual ability. If you can contort your body in rhythmic fashion, wouldn't you naturally be able to do the same in bed? That is why I do so adore women who can actually dance. It seems, though, as if every drunken sorority girl thinks all she has to do is wear skimpy clothes and buck her hips wildly. While the visual scene is quite amusing and something pleasant to look upon, it is not real dancing and should not be seen as such. Oh, find me a girl who can move in sync with the music and in sync with my body. She's mine. Back the fuck off.
The second part, which, as mentioned before, is interchangeable with dancing is smooth-talking. Every man or woman who has game has to be a smooth talker. But, the art of talking has not been classified into singular distinct parts. Everyone has his or her own way of smooth-talking a potential in to his/her bed. I prefer the witty method. That is, I play with her words. I twist them around. I make her laugh. I make her think. I make her want me. Some girls are turned on by intelligent banter. Some girls aren't. If the girl was turned on by the dance, but turned off by the banter, it's her loss. If the girl was turned on by the banter, she'll likely be turned on by the dance, and I'll likely win for playing the game well.
The third step of the Jon-game is the most important step of all. Once I've convinced a girl to make the cold walk back to my apartment and into my bed, I've got to go full on. If a girl makes an effort to leave her friends and make the walk, she should very well be rewarded. The game is still on. She can deny whatever end I want at any time, and this has happened a few times. It's quite disconcerting to come close, only to play the gentleman at the end and offer to walk her home. The walk-of-shame has a new definition when it's performed at 4am, and the single party is quite dressed and has very few features marred by the night's hard partying. But, if executed correctly, the night becomes memorable.
The third step of the Jon-game varies per girl. Sometimes, I get her to dance with me some more. Eventually a slow dance prompts a bit of kissing. I like to think I kiss well, and no one has said otherwise. The kiss, if appreciated, usually leads to other things just as enjoyable. If the girl isn't up for a dance, I use my hands on her skin. I massage, and well. My aunt is a professional, and she once taught me some pretty nifty tricks. They've served me well. I like to do my massages slow and sensuously. Sometimes there's some good music playing. Other times, I'm talking in a soft voice, constantly reassuring the girl. The combination of candles, which I always make sure are glowing, soothing sounds, and hands that are everywhere on the skin, and where they aren't are very much indented, tends to work in my favor.
The game can backfire, though, horribly. Girls, and guys for that matter, force themselves into the game. I'm not sure about those girls. They seem almost too desperate, as if they're so focused on getting ass that they don't enjoy the steps it takes to get ass. I had a girl like that once. She just followed me home one evening and literally tried to pass out on my bed. I engaged her in conversation. She kept asking me if I wanted to do anything to her. I very much told her that if she wanted anything, she would have to take initiative because I was so turned off by the entire event that I didn't really care. Luckily, she fell asleep.
The worst game is the non-existent one, especially one trashed by a stupid fucking injury caused by a stupid fucking moment, brought on by the stupid fucking game. Sure, I can dance and smooth-talk to my hearts content, but if I can't very well make her flesh sing under my fingers, I'm fucked, and not in the way I would prefer. Then again, I suppose I could get pity sex. But, it just isn't the same. I like the feeling that I've earned my ass, even if I land it on the same night I meet its giver. I still had to work to get her in my bed, or myself in hers. Then, after all is done, I can sit back with a slight smile and think to myself, "damn!"
Two weeks without game won't hurt, right? Right?
-----------
I usually don't tack on appendums to 1000+ word blog entries, but I wanted to share two more things before I concluded this particularly shallow entry.
M. and I were sitting outside Colby. M. had just spent a few hours at my place with M2 and I, watching me dance and watching M2 slowly become too inebriated to do anything but fumble through his game. Eventually, M. decided that sleep was more important than listening to very, very good music. I can't blame her. If booty was guaranteed the next morning, I'd get up early too. M. wanted to walk home. M2 and I wouldn't let her. I borrowed M2's car and we hightailed it back to Colby and the beginning of this moment.
It was quite cold out. I'm not sure on which standards I should peg that claim, but it was cold enough that I had to scrape ice from M2's car. That was amusing. I did it left handed, as my wounded hand was cradled in my pocket, hidden from the cold. The could did not daunt two people. They weren't smoking. They were staring at each other. One was tall, gaunt, and with chin-pubes that were at least three inches long. The other was short, pale, and with brown eyes and hair that screamed normalcy.
M. and I watched them. They kissed. We looked at each other. They kissed again. Then, as if over-whelmed by the sheer majesty of their kisses, they sat down and fumbled through a cold cuddle. I turned to M. and indicated that I felt strangely uncomfortable, as if I were witnessing another holy moment not meant for my eyes. I probably was, you know. But, sometimes, holy moments exist so that we acknowledge their existence. Isn't that a contradiction in terms?
-------
I read some Snyder today. There's nothing special about that. I just wanted to share one of his poems.
After Work
The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog
I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
the wood
we'll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
drinking wine.
-
Isn't that blissful?
It's true. My game is pretty much smashed now that my finger is an ugly blob of pale flesh, scabs, and unsightly stitches. I rely on mostly three key Jonisms in order to pull a girl into my bed, or myself into hers. The first two on the list are easily interchangeable. Each girl is different, so what works for one, probably does not work for another. Usually, because of circumstances at Hicktown U., the first step in the Jon-game is dancing.
I dance. That, in itself, is an understatement. I do not pretend to be humble, nor do I enjoy being humble. I'm proud of the fact that I'm a cocky, arrogant fuck. My brags are not unwarranted. If I say that I can do something, I had damn well better be able to do it. Thus, if I say I can dance, I can dance. I'm sure most of you who read this journal have seen me dance at some time. My frat brothers would probably like me to dance a little less than I do, but they cannot deny that it is quite an effective tool in getting a girl to think about getting her mack on. The dance, after all, is a visual precursor to sexual ability. If you can contort your body in rhythmic fashion, wouldn't you naturally be able to do the same in bed? That is why I do so adore women who can actually dance. It seems, though, as if every drunken sorority girl thinks all she has to do is wear skimpy clothes and buck her hips wildly. While the visual scene is quite amusing and something pleasant to look upon, it is not real dancing and should not be seen as such. Oh, find me a girl who can move in sync with the music and in sync with my body. She's mine. Back the fuck off.
The second part, which, as mentioned before, is interchangeable with dancing is smooth-talking. Every man or woman who has game has to be a smooth talker. But, the art of talking has not been classified into singular distinct parts. Everyone has his or her own way of smooth-talking a potential in to his/her bed. I prefer the witty method. That is, I play with her words. I twist them around. I make her laugh. I make her think. I make her want me. Some girls are turned on by intelligent banter. Some girls aren't. If the girl was turned on by the dance, but turned off by the banter, it's her loss. If the girl was turned on by the banter, she'll likely be turned on by the dance, and I'll likely win for playing the game well.
The third step of the Jon-game is the most important step of all. Once I've convinced a girl to make the cold walk back to my apartment and into my bed, I've got to go full on. If a girl makes an effort to leave her friends and make the walk, she should very well be rewarded. The game is still on. She can deny whatever end I want at any time, and this has happened a few times. It's quite disconcerting to come close, only to play the gentleman at the end and offer to walk her home. The walk-of-shame has a new definition when it's performed at 4am, and the single party is quite dressed and has very few features marred by the night's hard partying. But, if executed correctly, the night becomes memorable.
The third step of the Jon-game varies per girl. Sometimes, I get her to dance with me some more. Eventually a slow dance prompts a bit of kissing. I like to think I kiss well, and no one has said otherwise. The kiss, if appreciated, usually leads to other things just as enjoyable. If the girl isn't up for a dance, I use my hands on her skin. I massage, and well. My aunt is a professional, and she once taught me some pretty nifty tricks. They've served me well. I like to do my massages slow and sensuously. Sometimes there's some good music playing. Other times, I'm talking in a soft voice, constantly reassuring the girl. The combination of candles, which I always make sure are glowing, soothing sounds, and hands that are everywhere on the skin, and where they aren't are very much indented, tends to work in my favor.
The game can backfire, though, horribly. Girls, and guys for that matter, force themselves into the game. I'm not sure about those girls. They seem almost too desperate, as if they're so focused on getting ass that they don't enjoy the steps it takes to get ass. I had a girl like that once. She just followed me home one evening and literally tried to pass out on my bed. I engaged her in conversation. She kept asking me if I wanted to do anything to her. I very much told her that if she wanted anything, she would have to take initiative because I was so turned off by the entire event that I didn't really care. Luckily, she fell asleep.
The worst game is the non-existent one, especially one trashed by a stupid fucking injury caused by a stupid fucking moment, brought on by the stupid fucking game. Sure, I can dance and smooth-talk to my hearts content, but if I can't very well make her flesh sing under my fingers, I'm fucked, and not in the way I would prefer. Then again, I suppose I could get pity sex. But, it just isn't the same. I like the feeling that I've earned my ass, even if I land it on the same night I meet its giver. I still had to work to get her in my bed, or myself in hers. Then, after all is done, I can sit back with a slight smile and think to myself, "damn!"
Two weeks without game won't hurt, right? Right?
-----------
I usually don't tack on appendums to 1000+ word blog entries, but I wanted to share two more things before I concluded this particularly shallow entry.
M. and I were sitting outside Colby. M. had just spent a few hours at my place with M2 and I, watching me dance and watching M2 slowly become too inebriated to do anything but fumble through his game. Eventually, M. decided that sleep was more important than listening to very, very good music. I can't blame her. If booty was guaranteed the next morning, I'd get up early too. M. wanted to walk home. M2 and I wouldn't let her. I borrowed M2's car and we hightailed it back to Colby and the beginning of this moment.
It was quite cold out. I'm not sure on which standards I should peg that claim, but it was cold enough that I had to scrape ice from M2's car. That was amusing. I did it left handed, as my wounded hand was cradled in my pocket, hidden from the cold. The could did not daunt two people. They weren't smoking. They were staring at each other. One was tall, gaunt, and with chin-pubes that were at least three inches long. The other was short, pale, and with brown eyes and hair that screamed normalcy.
M. and I watched them. They kissed. We looked at each other. They kissed again. Then, as if over-whelmed by the sheer majesty of their kisses, they sat down and fumbled through a cold cuddle. I turned to M. and indicated that I felt strangely uncomfortable, as if I were witnessing another holy moment not meant for my eyes. I probably was, you know. But, sometimes, holy moments exist so that we acknowledge their existence. Isn't that a contradiction in terms?
-------
I read some Snyder today. There's nothing special about that. I just wanted to share one of his poems.
After Work
The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog
I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
the wood
we'll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
drinking wine.
-
Isn't that blissful?
posted by Jon at 7:27 PM
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