The Walk Of Triumph

Seeing a passion project through to the end. Excelling at a personal pursuit. Mastering a hobby or skill. Closing a big deal. Earning accolades from respected peers. And, yes, seducing and fucking a cute girl on the same night you meet her. These are a few of every man’s favorite things. The world-bestriding emotions each induces in a man are incomparable. In sone ways, these feelings are better than sex because they are longer-lasting, nourishing soul as well as ego and gonads.

But the greatest feeling of them all is something that only men can experience without regret or an asterisk. You bang a girl to a dizzying state of euphoria and full body exhaustion throughout the night and then again in the morning, delivering a limb-wrapped flaparoscopy so thoroughly destructive of bounds of propriety that you lose sense of where your body ends and hers begins, and you pause just long enough for breakfast before resuming a time-lapsed reenactment of every Discovery Channel rutting caught on film. Her body is a plunderland and you’ve just left her gash ashes to scatter to the winds. She can barely muster the strength to sit up for the goodbye kiss as a long smooth leg flops languidly over the side of the bed. Admiring your ransacked treasure one more time, you grin the grin of champions and strut out her door into the painfully bright sunshine.

Outside, you feel the warm sun reflecting off the sweat and juices that have adhered to every pore. You walk with a sluggish lope, as if in slo-mo, legs more akimbo than usual because a pleasant throbbing ache pulses through your crotch and demands room to breathe and heal. Happily, you acquiesce and every step seems like you are following along on a leash attached to your rolling rollicking reverberating balls. You are a Viking Berserker, carving a swath through the world with your two-handed broadcock.

Every girl you pass on your short journey home you greet with a devious smile and perhaps a finger gun and wink. They can’t help themselves as your conqueror’s testosterone wafts like VajslayerX nerve gas and stiffens their drop-mouthed gaze in your direction. One girl at a cafe table conspicuously uncrosses her legs at the moment you glide menacingly, tail up, through the savannah grass of her placid urbanite existence. Breathe deep the masculine fumes, watch shiny babes splooge their looms.

This is the greatest feeling in the world for a man, to ride in on a storm surge of your validated sexual energy and crest with froth and fury over the mundane lives of women. They can smell it on you and see it coming a block away, and you feel it, and it feels good man, for you know in that moment you could have any one of those girls if you chose to grace them with your attention.

There is no walk of shame for men like there is for women. There is only the Walk of Triumph.